I remember lying in that crib
we called our home
the sweat of youth
and the disconcern
of those around
the swift buildings
in our souls
and the cars
crossed the causeway
and the wind held our
heads
and the salt
grabbed at our souls
until it was
time to leave
I remember you coming to me
through a window
I remember cursing
star filled skies
the elope of our damage
would never recover us
and the chance to runaway
never came up
I lost my trials against
the stone
and soon to come
was my eloquent death
I would go through those
pictures
after we were separated
from those we loved
and the chain reaction
of each other’s sight
I would sometimes feel you
beneath me, giving yourself, the unchild
I have grieved for Thee
even as recent
as today
I’ll never leave that place
I made for you
The sonnets are left above the sky
and that love was a hell
unconceived, a damp passion
through an adolescent enigma
one day I may love…
each time I come back
it rules that shelf I bent
it’s a merciless sham
that penetrates
even my darkest showers
even the sun gives its rest
I pace the evening
and die again
like a man who’s never seen
It’s a causal holocaust between these words
it’s a damaged grunt aloud
because it was too shameless
because I know it never lied
not wrought or written bitter
it’s a mutilated baby in space
not craving or needing
because blood was not a cost
nor a fee
it was the brutal warmth
that doesn’t break
like a dark scar
or placid like the epitome
of my breath on the sand
or the way your eyes turned away
as I watched your body stand against
the shutterless shadow you gave
I will one day
lose my mind
for the focus of faith
that grew in groves
to be given to all others
but each other
had you ever left that world
had I given with fear
I would have never needed
to act
or leave my home
instead I’ll install that closet
to the past moment
a frequent trauma
a deluge in quarry
it is as much to ignore
as to quiver with
ШАМРО
selected from The Greatest Cowboy That Was Ever Sad
© 1990 Private Stock Poetry
The Tender Mercy Insignia*
January 23, 1990
from: Manfred (Act I, Scene II)
A lower Valley in the Alps. – A Cataract.
If I had never lived, that which I love
Had still been living; had I never loved,
That which I love would still be beautiful
Happy and giving happiness. What is she?
What is she now? – a sufferer for my sins –
A thing I dare not think upon – or nothing.
Within a few hours I shall not call in vain—
Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare:
Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze
On spirit, good or evil – now I tremble,
And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart.
But I can act even what I most abhor,
And champion human fears.—the night approaches.
LORD BYRON
b. January 22, 1788
(1816-1817)
If I had never lived, that which I love
Had still been living; had I never loved,
That which I love would still be beautiful
Happy and giving happiness. What is she?
What is she now? – a sufferer for my sins –
A thing I dare not think upon – or nothing.
Within a few hours I shall not call in vain—
Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare:
Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze
On spirit, good or evil – now I tremble,
And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart.
But I can act even what I most abhor,
And champion human fears.—the night approaches.
LORD BYRON
b. January 22, 1788
(1816-1817)
from: ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE
The triumph, and the vanity,
The rapture of the strife—
The earthquake voice of Victory,
To thee the breath of life;
The sword, the scepter, and that sway
Which man seem’d made but to obey,
Wherewith renown was rife –
All quell’d – Dark Spirit! what must
be
The madness of thy memory!
LORD BYRON
April 10, 1814
The rapture of the strife—
The earthquake voice of Victory,
To thee the breath of life;
The sword, the scepter, and that sway
Which man seem’d made but to obey,
Wherewith renown was rife –
All quell’d – Dark Spirit! what must
be
The madness of thy memory!
LORD BYRON
April 10, 1814
yugao (evening sky)
yugao
is dancing
the shelter
of the summer
moss
battledresses
gazers
sometimes
she is content
with her
thoughts
and other times
freedom
is the jealousy
of the sun
sweetly resting
with pomes
forming
the evening
sky
©2007 woundedlordliterature
is dancing
the shelter
of the summer
moss
battledresses
gazers
sometimes
she is content
with her
thoughts
and other times
freedom
is the jealousy
of the sun
sweetly resting
with pomes
forming
the evening
sky
©2007 woundedlordliterature
Ode To Ophelia Rainmaker
the youngsters play visceral latitude
her moonship has left the running
over cracked and slighted sidewalks
for empty mailboxes and dimes
having sensed mortalities finding
Jonah and a wicked pen
fell deep into the belly
to search the cold cut end
to feel destiny crying
along the steps of a Tahitian band
oh break your love
and sing those kisses
given salty with remorse
take out the heart
and be it true
for your honor does it trust
to rest that coif of surely plumb
with the lips of reconciliation
the wall to fall to pangs forgotten
the take of essence prow
that name that takes the tongue
in that pleasure, in that fear,
is it the one that holds you dear
is it one who kept you so
the long wind would escape this mor n
which leaves the fate of coffee and sunrise
come likewise with that limping champion
child, hold out your hands
for didn’t this love ever forsake you
likewise come for did it defile you
as the keeper of that vile
in simple hands
her moonship has left the running
over cracked and slighted sidewalks
for empty mailboxes and dimes
having sensed mortalities finding
Jonah and a wicked pen
fell deep into the belly
to search the cold cut end
to feel destiny crying
along the steps of a Tahitian band
oh break your love
and sing those kisses
given salty with remorse
take out the heart
and be it true
for your honor does it trust
to rest that coif of surely plumb
with the lips of reconciliation
the wall to fall to pangs forgotten
the take of essence prow
that name that takes the tongue
in that pleasure, in that fear,
is it the one that holds you dear
is it one who kept you so
the long wind would escape this mor n
which leaves the fate of coffee and sunrise
come likewise with that limping champion
child, hold out your hands
for didn’t this love ever forsake you
likewise come for did it defile you
as the keeper of that vile
in simple hands
© 1998 private stock poetry
Rusalka
when I was young
I was able to be
with you,
more than
I was inclined
to be with any other
do you
wonder if I
miss you
I have not
been back
in so long
in the trails
and by the old cars
and down by the slant
and over by the crossing
and under the bridge
and in the tunnel
you tempted me
with deeds and love
and promised a mixture of
ambrosia and sapphires
I too would swim
and become a raindrop
those days when we were
just romping around in
the park we found
a nest under the willow
we ran with it to the falls,
where we let it go
as the nest sailed into infinity
I turned to say something
you giggled and I thought
you kissed my cheek
as the millenniums
stole you back
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО
I was able to be
with you,
more than
I was inclined
to be with any other
do you
wonder if I
miss you
I have not
been back
in so long
in the trails
and by the old cars
and down by the slant
and over by the crossing
and under the bridge
and in the tunnel
you tempted me
with deeds and love
and promised a mixture of
ambrosia and sapphires
I too would swim
and become a raindrop
those days when we were
just romping around in
the park we found
a nest under the willow
we ran with it to the falls,
where we let it go
as the nest sailed into infinity
I turned to say something
you giggled and I thought
you kissed my cheek
as the millenniums
stole you back
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО
the sun boat
trampled under by the rain
the sun boat
invented the sand
it was easy
because they collect rocks
from everywhere they go
sometimes I understand
the sadness and
sometimes I know its my fault
I don’t know when
or why; but somehow
I lost access to the kingdom
and everyday is like the tide coming in
and I am buried up to my neck
in sand
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
the sun boat
invented the sand
it was easy
because they collect rocks
from everywhere they go
sometimes I understand
the sadness and
sometimes I know its my fault
I don’t know when
or why; but somehow
I lost access to the kingdom
and everyday is like the tide coming in
and I am buried up to my neck
in sand
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
Xxx Xxxxxxxxx Xxxxxx
Prelude
Changing me to visit him
I put out my last hopeful choice
I began the lines with ideas
of me
yet now I’m lost
and found in-doubt; placed inside
my gaze
collecting what I want to know
feeling funny and smiling at fancy clay
modesty fools even the arrogant minion
gives him a chance to give
possibly taking his heart away
but letting it beat on truer;
unlike me.
Xxx Xxxxxxxx Xxxxxx
It was an invention that none of us knew about
but sadly enough we noticed
my almost finished appetite let me know that
through out the acres of my modesty
there was one lacking ingredient
but over in the corner of the dust ball of heaven
is a mistake that gave man deceivability
- my friend, thru ember and ambers
thru darkness thick and thin we are what
we always think we’re not and the
Changeful Childe, he is what he always dream’d not
through rural afternoon he sat and waited for the
trains to stop and to wave at the men in the caboose
feeling like a blind date, he cuffed his pants and
danced through the doorstep;
thinking that one nose is just like another
but how different chins are
partly sacramental and industrialized he pardon’d the
townsfolk for laughing
he always thought men and boys were different
in parts
life was a puzzle and he had all the pieces
like a new tire has tread
but I had always took corners too fast
The night comes slowly
and still waiting for the trains
my bloody heart remembers
the first pangs of love
half beaten, batter’d and skull’d
when a marvelous attitude arose
to discuss the moving children in the street and
how after the rain, the road seems to ride
better
and after the sun sets, the trees seem to
talk out-loud
I’m not one to judge but this made me worry
for how often a man such as this comes along and decides
to breathe romantic breaths
throughout tiring days and felt out nights the
ladies begin to bore
even the nostalgic teenager feels a little bit of the
pressure of life
True; but the Changeful Childe will adjust – not think
It is me who thinks
Everything still appear’d the same
the bookshelf was still dirty and the TV was clean
I hadn’t yet thought to peek into the bathroom
my motives have good intentions… or so I thought
the TV has grown a mustache from watching so
much football
and has scars from the poker games
Elliot has just left and the parties now over
the mostly eaten hotdog is still on the rug…
its now we’ll sit and complain about life
but the presidents good and so is the state
and if Marilyn Monroe was still alive she’d still
be beautiful
and we could elect James Dean for president
“I only know as much as the next guy
but he always gets all the fun I only
sit and pretend to understand
I never talk so what’s the problem
arguments lose their meanings if you have to prove them
what’s the point anyway… once its over it’s
only one more thing to argue about”
now, I’m sitting here nursing my wounds of complacency
drawing sighs of approach he now just waves at
the cars, no longer the trains…
eating a breadstick and thinking of a Beethoven
song
his leg begins to get dirty thinking of his high school
why never believe a martyr unless he bites your
sandwich, then of course he is a beggar
and the other man was a martyr
… but in the end who is more reputable
after all everything is capitalistic
search, seize and destroy
nothing rides off honor even the judge knows that.
“Alas but ‘til then I’d cry
for how often it is that we must be fools
to such a whim!
for after all why do we do for ourselves
and expect so much from others!”
day after day
the Changeful Childe hardly knows
anymore
what it is that pulls his faith
from beneath the proverbial hat
looking afterwards at his loneliness
he only notices himself
still alone and waiver’d for some
new Broadway show
he leaves nothing to be done
and almost forgets himself in the wash
how often can a man take a walk
until he knows all the street signs by name?
looking around, even I can feel his hesitation
is anxiety such a feelings as love?
“I’ve combed my hair five times today
don’t you think that is enough?
My God, look around and seek the snow
it rains ten times a month!
Have you ever asked yourself
what it is you’re doing or do you just
do it day after day…”
I watched him sleep once,
the Changeful Childe, he is strange
he crossed his mouth and then he curs’d
almost everyone he knew
for not realizing what it was he wanted
or questioned his very right to live
he would ask and sometimes I’d answer
but is that a consolation for grief?
we are what we always think we’re not
are we not?
after all the butcher is a movie star
and the maid is a queen
I am just a jezebel
waiting for a ring
give me something that can’t be taken
leave a part of my soul up there
where peace is just another day
and the war is outside of the town
let us tell our secrets
let us pour our favorite song
open that bottle you save for breakfast
I’m curious and maybe we can
help him realize that once it begins
there is no turning back
at least not for morality’s sake you can’t
but that never stopp’d us before
“so if we did decide
to leave or just steal away
what is the quickest way to go
through the alley or a hypnotic avalanche
but I’d want some people to live
have you ever kill’d someone in your mind before
or just wish’d them back luck?
not that I have, I’m just asking,
I’m not evil, that’s just what they say.”
the lawn is damp and full of yesterday
killing the weeds with hope
it was on a sad day that she bore
the bastard that haunts his doom
destiny left once to speak on the woes
of a higher death than this
Ormon knew but didn’t care
things by now had gone too far
so, so little change has come through here
so emptied laughs still hear
the farthest sense of holding hands
knowing that one day he’d have to let go
sad sad boy he ‘tis
never sure what it is they tow
It was his one decision that brought him here
to Common Lot we know
back to love, yes love so easy
it’s so easy to trace things to love
but mind you, we don’t know whether its
a virgin’s love or a mother’s love he seeks
no blood is on his tears, so little I know
plus I found no marks on the TV
A beer can crushed with teeth tells
me something
is more important than nothing
but never sell a short man short
he’s a world apart from thin air
the Childe has now spoken to me,
to you and almost anyone
speaking words of plastic pain
and he uses a wooden stick to walk
do you understand?
my imp is your imp nothing more imp than
that
after all, knowing what imp is one thing,
doing imp is another
I notice now he draws the trains
nothing like giving up on a dream
but he is human unlike Ormon
but who ever cared about that anyway
it’s now that things have gone to waste
nothing is sacred in war and death
a version of grief is greed you know
only it’s a little more satisfying to know
that after one’s gone they’ll be sifting you clean
and if not; they’re glad you’re dead!
I guess I’d rather be wished what I have
instead of wished what I can’t
the Changeful Childe is in that matter of fact.
I never know when to stop!
These things now lie like drapes
fallen, unmoved from yesterday’s games
no balance
nothing tries or breathes anymore
it’s all unfortunate
or that’s what the paper might read
how the Changeful Childe lost all direction
and died inside his maze
filling up on nostalgia at the gas station
looking for a lube at the cigarette counter
and trying to speak some sense to the
soda machine
he lost
so much and tried so little
he knew that liberty was gone and at that
he wanted to revolt
he was always and is one step beyond
he’s dead but goes on living
(no one’s told him yet)
a fatty piece of conscience waste
no rats or moles or fleas come this way
not even Elliot helped with this mess
confined to self doubt he still hasn’t been able
to leave the front porch to answer the door
he can’t even let himself in
what peaceless love has found home in
the mindless heart he is
a well proportioned groveling pit of aborted Lego’s
building some liaison to death
grooving a bridge to awkward thought
for elegance to walk
he hasn’t yet come home
let me mention he does at times
get motivated
at times he sees himself human
this is when he walks his shadow to meet
the mirror in the hall
he knells the reflection to speak at once
and he repeats the unethical vow
he says this is different
nothing will slow him down
he vaguely hears the others knocking
and kills the shadow there
which then is buried in his Sunday suit
for some special holiday
he coughs and follows me
to where we both sit and
wait. I think and he watches
the air move
he once told me of seeing animals
floating in colonies around him
telling him of what I do not yet know
and how much smarter he really is
he mocks life by living it quietly loud
in solitude marked by colors
my pictures are not for vision
they are painted in blue
towels burn the wet seals of concrete around
what now pulls me here
I throw out iron books with dirty pictures in them
to extinguish but they are no help
the Changeful Childe
is lost in this
he pours yellow ink on his hand and this puts
out the flame
almost a hero, almost something other than a mistake
The Changeful Childe calls my name
“… forces are not evil
time is sent to rot a mind
lurk in front and be seen my friend”
he said and then walked inside.
I tore my mouth out with words
I rang a bell of joy
and being a poet I almost cried
have I been mocking life?
by ШАМРО
August 10 – September 15, 1987
© 1987 private stock poetry
Changing me to visit him
I put out my last hopeful choice
I began the lines with ideas
of me
yet now I’m lost
and found in-doubt; placed inside
my gaze
collecting what I want to know
feeling funny and smiling at fancy clay
modesty fools even the arrogant minion
gives him a chance to give
possibly taking his heart away
but letting it beat on truer;
unlike me.
Xxx Xxxxxxxx Xxxxxx
It was an invention that none of us knew about
but sadly enough we noticed
my almost finished appetite let me know that
through out the acres of my modesty
there was one lacking ingredient
but over in the corner of the dust ball of heaven
is a mistake that gave man deceivability
- my friend, thru ember and ambers
thru darkness thick and thin we are what
we always think we’re not and the
Changeful Childe, he is what he always dream’d not
through rural afternoon he sat and waited for the
trains to stop and to wave at the men in the caboose
feeling like a blind date, he cuffed his pants and
danced through the doorstep;
thinking that one nose is just like another
but how different chins are
partly sacramental and industrialized he pardon’d the
townsfolk for laughing
he always thought men and boys were different
in parts
life was a puzzle and he had all the pieces
like a new tire has tread
but I had always took corners too fast
The night comes slowly
and still waiting for the trains
my bloody heart remembers
the first pangs of love
half beaten, batter’d and skull’d
when a marvelous attitude arose
to discuss the moving children in the street and
how after the rain, the road seems to ride
better
and after the sun sets, the trees seem to
talk out-loud
I’m not one to judge but this made me worry
for how often a man such as this comes along and decides
to breathe romantic breaths
throughout tiring days and felt out nights the
ladies begin to bore
even the nostalgic teenager feels a little bit of the
pressure of life
True; but the Changeful Childe will adjust – not think
It is me who thinks
Everything still appear’d the same
the bookshelf was still dirty and the TV was clean
I hadn’t yet thought to peek into the bathroom
my motives have good intentions… or so I thought
the TV has grown a mustache from watching so
much football
and has scars from the poker games
Elliot has just left and the parties now over
the mostly eaten hotdog is still on the rug…
its now we’ll sit and complain about life
but the presidents good and so is the state
and if Marilyn Monroe was still alive she’d still
be beautiful
and we could elect James Dean for president
“I only know as much as the next guy
but he always gets all the fun I only
sit and pretend to understand
I never talk so what’s the problem
arguments lose their meanings if you have to prove them
what’s the point anyway… once its over it’s
only one more thing to argue about”
now, I’m sitting here nursing my wounds of complacency
drawing sighs of approach he now just waves at
the cars, no longer the trains…
eating a breadstick and thinking of a Beethoven
song
his leg begins to get dirty thinking of his high school
why never believe a martyr unless he bites your
sandwich, then of course he is a beggar
and the other man was a martyr
… but in the end who is more reputable
after all everything is capitalistic
search, seize and destroy
nothing rides off honor even the judge knows that.
“Alas but ‘til then I’d cry
for how often it is that we must be fools
to such a whim!
for after all why do we do for ourselves
and expect so much from others!”
day after day
the Changeful Childe hardly knows
anymore
what it is that pulls his faith
from beneath the proverbial hat
looking afterwards at his loneliness
he only notices himself
still alone and waiver’d for some
new Broadway show
he leaves nothing to be done
and almost forgets himself in the wash
how often can a man take a walk
until he knows all the street signs by name?
looking around, even I can feel his hesitation
is anxiety such a feelings as love?
“I’ve combed my hair five times today
don’t you think that is enough?
My God, look around and seek the snow
it rains ten times a month!
Have you ever asked yourself
what it is you’re doing or do you just
do it day after day…”
I watched him sleep once,
the Changeful Childe, he is strange
he crossed his mouth and then he curs’d
almost everyone he knew
for not realizing what it was he wanted
or questioned his very right to live
he would ask and sometimes I’d answer
but is that a consolation for grief?
we are what we always think we’re not
are we not?
after all the butcher is a movie star
and the maid is a queen
I am just a jezebel
waiting for a ring
give me something that can’t be taken
leave a part of my soul up there
where peace is just another day
and the war is outside of the town
let us tell our secrets
let us pour our favorite song
open that bottle you save for breakfast
I’m curious and maybe we can
help him realize that once it begins
there is no turning back
at least not for morality’s sake you can’t
but that never stopp’d us before
“so if we did decide
to leave or just steal away
what is the quickest way to go
through the alley or a hypnotic avalanche
but I’d want some people to live
have you ever kill’d someone in your mind before
or just wish’d them back luck?
not that I have, I’m just asking,
I’m not evil, that’s just what they say.”
the lawn is damp and full of yesterday
killing the weeds with hope
it was on a sad day that she bore
the bastard that haunts his doom
destiny left once to speak on the woes
of a higher death than this
Ormon knew but didn’t care
things by now had gone too far
so, so little change has come through here
so emptied laughs still hear
the farthest sense of holding hands
knowing that one day he’d have to let go
sad sad boy he ‘tis
never sure what it is they tow
It was his one decision that brought him here
to Common Lot we know
back to love, yes love so easy
it’s so easy to trace things to love
but mind you, we don’t know whether its
a virgin’s love or a mother’s love he seeks
no blood is on his tears, so little I know
plus I found no marks on the TV
A beer can crushed with teeth tells
me something
is more important than nothing
but never sell a short man short
he’s a world apart from thin air
the Childe has now spoken to me,
to you and almost anyone
speaking words of plastic pain
and he uses a wooden stick to walk
do you understand?
my imp is your imp nothing more imp than
that
after all, knowing what imp is one thing,
doing imp is another
I notice now he draws the trains
nothing like giving up on a dream
but he is human unlike Ormon
but who ever cared about that anyway
it’s now that things have gone to waste
nothing is sacred in war and death
a version of grief is greed you know
only it’s a little more satisfying to know
that after one’s gone they’ll be sifting you clean
and if not; they’re glad you’re dead!
I guess I’d rather be wished what I have
instead of wished what I can’t
the Changeful Childe is in that matter of fact.
I never know when to stop!
These things now lie like drapes
fallen, unmoved from yesterday’s games
no balance
nothing tries or breathes anymore
it’s all unfortunate
or that’s what the paper might read
how the Changeful Childe lost all direction
and died inside his maze
filling up on nostalgia at the gas station
looking for a lube at the cigarette counter
and trying to speak some sense to the
soda machine
he lost
so much and tried so little
he knew that liberty was gone and at that
he wanted to revolt
he was always and is one step beyond
he’s dead but goes on living
(no one’s told him yet)
a fatty piece of conscience waste
no rats or moles or fleas come this way
not even Elliot helped with this mess
confined to self doubt he still hasn’t been able
to leave the front porch to answer the door
he can’t even let himself in
what peaceless love has found home in
the mindless heart he is
a well proportioned groveling pit of aborted Lego’s
building some liaison to death
grooving a bridge to awkward thought
for elegance to walk
he hasn’t yet come home
let me mention he does at times
get motivated
at times he sees himself human
this is when he walks his shadow to meet
the mirror in the hall
he knells the reflection to speak at once
and he repeats the unethical vow
he says this is different
nothing will slow him down
he vaguely hears the others knocking
and kills the shadow there
which then is buried in his Sunday suit
for some special holiday
he coughs and follows me
to where we both sit and
wait. I think and he watches
the air move
he once told me of seeing animals
floating in colonies around him
telling him of what I do not yet know
and how much smarter he really is
he mocks life by living it quietly loud
in solitude marked by colors
my pictures are not for vision
they are painted in blue
towels burn the wet seals of concrete around
what now pulls me here
I throw out iron books with dirty pictures in them
to extinguish but they are no help
the Changeful Childe
is lost in this
he pours yellow ink on his hand and this puts
out the flame
almost a hero, almost something other than a mistake
The Changeful Childe calls my name
“… forces are not evil
time is sent to rot a mind
lurk in front and be seen my friend”
he said and then walked inside.
I tore my mouth out with words
I rang a bell of joy
and being a poet I almost cried
have I been mocking life?
by ШАМРО
August 10 – September 15, 1987
© 1987 private stock poetry
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