The Art of White Roses in July, Death

The bloodhound white roses stricken with fright

Like the Cyclops greet the Voyaging,
beauty driven forth to die will descend.

The loss of its Light to sparkling vines, then

 Appearing comes to my Tree, a  my Mind,
rustling green Leaves undertake sentience

Quickenig breathe the ether of Timefalls

But against its decimation, it Wields

Itself as Itself and as none other,

the life of mystery the ground endures

by eternal promise it defies death.

All at once in a bloom it expresses.

What by the Listener is wanting is heard.

But back to the rose, to its contentions:

that it is what it wanted to be

a license to lose Authority frees

a dream is a song and a song a dream

The law of poetry suffices all.

The sun takes away what a stem has lost.

Both were taken to the task to UnDo.

Finish the fiction what it did not Do.


Repetition is rhythm-forsaken rhyme

Announced an eternal introduction

De-clawing itself of its vexing scratch.

--Verdant their ventricles glowed as they Breathed.

A brain is as an imagination

a rhyme is its principle offering

though it have no other purpose the Same.

--

Are these the final qualities of art

are they the afterthoughts of yesterday?

The Desert Muse

A child sells chicle at the Border.

Williams who loved Babies was Annoyed by them.

Especially if they were asking for Pennies.

We are all Poets We all get Perturbed.

School never meant much to the Absentee

Who was once just a baby himself right?

Learned to make it by dying each night

awakening to the sunlight's Beauty

As a new memory forgets the past

puts it inside of a paper envelope

Just like a Poet is likely to do

Roll the whole Universe into a Mast.

Propel it toward the Passion's Fire

Into the form of a Child's Figure