Welcome, and thanks for stopping here to read selections of my original poetry and prose. Only half my art is here. As you browse my puppets, words if you will, think of them as empty hulls whose dance and form are only animated in Play through my vocal conveyance of their characters and via my direction of their tone. Lyric to the ears, its whole message soon appears, in thus the conjuring of ancient daemons deep within to combat the evil ones brought up infernal by the Craft of ages can be our stage tonight.

On this blog the theme is AWAKENING and how Revelation is not some story plural in a Book but supposed to be one of yours in this lifetime. Here in verse I share with you my inquiry to which has bonded Muse.
YOUR STORY IS THE STORY. Their horsie four so full of holes they named that way just to have a laugh. Revelation and Creation coincide, they never stopped. A daily occurrence in a Live Show me is true Prophesy which I assure you, smells nothing like a library book, and for which no innocents are ever killed. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you copy it to heart.

squirrelrun



I first think the squirrels they are us
that the crackling noise of mayhem be mine

only soon come to realize, like cloud or sky --
this TREE is us, this growth of ages ours.
I study from afar its scored lines on old skin
gashed from the searing tracks of Rodentia
all these many years, cold Christmas and the
Fourth of July four times forty times the free.

Two squirrels run
each and every summer night
round old, such old Southern crusty bark
up and down and all around
a ribbon around each bend they always run,
to the broken limb across the pavement
its asphalt deep enough to sell a house
but never cover up the River Styx.



on a bridge of broken limbs
now I'm glancing over to the light
electric, poled and paid for
and then along the side
to a house of birds
to a feeder of birds
to a bath of birds

All of which seem empty in this heat,
dry, maybe even forgotten
but scarecrow vigilant nonetheless
across the street from Home Sweet Home.
The black driveway splits it all,
room enough for passage in permanent style
perhaps even that of time.

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