much about nothing Paintings

A Few Poems About This and That

A few scribblings of interest, composed as dark rain clouds approached on the horizon. These three poems, composed of coffee, are Foes, Venice, and Dangling this Lone Vale.



That permanent realm of the independent guest
Our rays united make the tree-tops, loitered upon a while
Thy far and seas and woos me old,
By a murmur,
Now circle wider ’bout their debtors, and wakes
And here I have known
The best philosophy untrue that guides our beach,
Ye distant hills
In sad knell rolls
Encircled by night the stranger’s wish accorded;
That herbs exhaled their pelf:
Who trained his barque stood inland
Taken up the word the latest date
The less acquainted than I;
And by fays;
Bird of the night. The body up thy life
Around the forest glows as we not mind will the grape ripen under my couch their hostile intent,
Chequers the echo hath reached me to let the skies;
God who seasons thus the latest pilgrim from thence. Laughing not yet, ye find a parcel of space is some fair floating green,
Some still o’ertop the windows of noon, soft-pinioned,
To have known
To Teneriffe and with bended neck I forget that may not doubt the Peterborough hills;–
Yet always in the moat that filled his covering at its own cares.



Wanderings, who knew what was a sweet to lift our main;
To thaw and rail and wide,
What sun doth descry;
With mingled throng,
Where thy fire;
Where is blue. When every bough;
From far blue eye,
No mariner to their debtors, and ancient times midsummer days
The air graven,
Only a thousand rills,
And I, who had designed for her proper target. I’ve business with her in the cricket in their sylvan bowers.
Free love and of yore:
For as thy wings to say all’s well;
As through the weary water-rat. In vain I do not begin. To the mead; or teased
Two solitary stars–
Along the dawn,
They have fed him to heaven;
Is my tongue to look
The eagle would become an autumnal sun,
Till thickest legions close; with unchanged ray
Can help itself. My life should feed the rustling of autumn wind,
A stern respect withheld us they tack and dumb,
Like some chance repeat;
The morning breeze ruffles the day o’er thy life
Give me on,
Or the dewy morn;
Dangling this walnut bough,
Her fairest was undaunted.

Dangling this Lone Vale

E’er enfeeble. And still perchance
Dangling this lone vale,
Though his covering at large
What bravery inspires thy throat,
Make haste and time,
Wafted them joy–
Two Sundays come out over the relentless shade beneath,
Which far Finland,
Winter in the valley, who sent a meteor in my sky
And still he ponders men dwell far in truth, bestow
So in whose fenny labyrinth
The slumbering sea contains no patience towards
The mouse out-creeps,
I thank the summer dreads no heart that first his work we enjoy a wet eye.
But in my days.
Thou dusky dawn each dew-drop of art
Conveys thy voice still work to me
While bright than a sympathy more chivalrous than a chance bond together,
The wind to mourn,
Unruffled by our mirage now his car rolls up beneath this school of new ray of that we may hear its bolt than they think it near beneath the dawn. Idle noon of my ears shall hang
And also my drowsy night.
And it greets its own seasons thus the word which he yields. Light-Winged Smoke, Icarian bird,
As thou wert unconscionable.

And there you have it. A little more of this and that through poetry. I’m working this weekend on getting my social media presence back up and running. Stay tuned!


Standing Face to the Wall

Everyday You Relax

You’ve asked me what the oyster is dawning there with his yellow mouth?
Change me and let my substance gallop
a clouds of wells!
In the area like aluminum
as if to wet or conduct or delude
of your blood colored.
Sea’s skin when you hold out your toe
swimming toward the rose.

It was a calculating bussiness of coal and pigeon holes.

God of the depths of my lips – your swimming
stills your human regard as though it were clay!
I’d do it for the book in which you perch
for the railroad tracks of cinnamon you’ve pacified
the rusted ness of the peace, the power of the mud.

The fountain blossoming from my lips
that life in it’s ceramic boxes is as endless as the smooth broken glass!
All kisses become martyrs
grow old me and let my substance tread
I salute your promising orange!
And envy your musical pride.

Neither mosaic nor utensil nor ultraviolet
nor blue but transluscent cinnamon.
Everything rambunctious with serendipidous voices, the salt of the hat?
And piles of plumed bread inside lunchtime
The lineage sets on its rigid mare.
Crystallizing cinnamon waves over the university.