The Rorschach Language (for Gregory)

The band width rehabilitation:
a hand with palm leaves left the grapes
heaving. The grave egg
felt the sighing wasteland
bereaved. The landscape
is filled with goats
eating away soil-preserving
vegetation; get away at a space station;
this total recall never stops
like bad aspirin on convenience store shelves,
or in gas stations.

Feel the hand
of invisible vitaes, humours of the yet vitreous sand
settling down the bristle highway;
hustle the gristle off a chicken bone
in a vice, bursts forth, the marrow, a whistling
is heard, a train beckoning forth movement, the music
of regular repetitions; travel, the whip-poor-will's wail
makes the will flag, flap, brazen
over the sublime curve of lizards head,
tasting the air,
one-stop shopping for oxygen; the bar
that didn't take off; the ticket
that never exploded hampered our progress:
pilgrims bearing grim tidings and pilfered
plates, leaving no crumb of the milk and cookies
unturned, an unearned dollar is time wasted,
the representatives of submersion wield an
ace-in-the-hole; they fire the ancient
coercion, stoke the chimney.
No key to need a door above desire
hovering, the numina of unwarranted silence.

The Rorschach Language (for Gregory)

The absent-minded pen wreckons
shenanigans past due when a rainbow stretches
across the meadow,
a cross, a gaul, gothic enclosure, an apse that's a trap.

By traipsing, I meant positively the end of bored, part
of enigmatic processes of transformation
on your finger-tips, but now reach for your tongue,
to speak the punching fist
gut-punchers playing whist
lining up, about to embark on Red Rover
renovated on a darned onco-mice hair welcome
mat, come well, tame the impulse;
across meadows a porcine thing squeals into hollow
nooks and crannies, appearing to expand beyond every
possible comprehension, a damper dew of
consequences, bound to daub paint on horse-hair.

The doggeral in its lair wrests meaning out of your mind.

If my foot fell asleep while I wrote this poem,
would there be enough of you in it to claim it as your own?

Let's paint images of each other on the inside of each other's
eyelids. Not much for chums and romance, a ton of humungous
cameros throttling the mustard gas memorandom, as buzzardly
as random victims carry on victorious, we will sail away.

Before lewd layaways, laissez-faire time cushions,
we forgot how to fashion mitres, for mights, weights, and what-have-you?
a scepter of suspicion. conscience: If I were to put all of humanitee
on a pedestle, they would all fall under my pestle,
and I would grind their love out, some way, some day,
and even judgement shall be suspended
as the charms take effect. Arms will stand out of harm's way.
A medallion of home whispers the demos
to remonstrate on piers about the departure of monstrocities
and friends yet unattained,
they sing a hymn to you, back in the world of reference,
I'm having a good time. I strive for the good, or everyone thinks they do.
Things that are. The do that is. The is that does.
But my good, trespass as it will on its own disavowed lawn,
will dispense with showy lustre.

It will strive towards you, where two faces meet,
a vase holds a white and pink rose.

The you that knows, and that won the snow.

The Entropic Sublime

Metamorpho-sisterhood

Blog Thank Yous.

The Invisible Truth was featured on this website: http://www.publicbroadcasting.ca/archive/2007_07_01_archive.html

where you can learn more about arts, politics, and policy in Canada.

Thank you as well to my readers in Reston, Virginia. Don't think I haven't noticed your loyalty.

Bubbles

Windows to the Soul
After William Carlos Williams

To stay put
and let the world
travel through you;

to grieve the loss of love
as if life itself slipped
like sand
through your fingertips
during a grave silence;

to smell the burning leaves aching
into the sky;

to feel the sea creeping
through tickled toes;

to taste the freshly baked bread
rising from chimneys
of the corner bakery;

to watch sand, thrown
in ovens red hot and congealing,
spindled around pokers,
into blown glass;

to hear sparrows calling
each other through tree
skeletons;

to see the world
through
multicoloured
kaleidoscope glasses;

this is what it
must be like
to watch the sun rise
from the highest
landlocked point in your
hometown.

by Trevor Cunnington

Electric Current "C"

Photo by Trevor Cunnington

Dusk's Numb Perimeter

A dove feather's will.

She sits in her own world, alone on the brink,

held aloft by a dove feather, will.

Satin wraps a form that bellies inner strength.

For being alone demands unimaginable skill.

Her passion's unadmired, leaving dust in the air,

If only for a moment, there was someone else there.

Her beauty deserves more than darkness' kiss;

An unfettered heart laid bare.

Born in Fountain Inn, SC on Sept. 29, 1965, Frank
Blakely started artistic endeavors at the age of 4
when his mom made him draw a rose. He has been a
photographer, painter, author and poet; baker,
police officer,waiter and marketing director.
He lives now in Dallas, Tx, looking for the
love of his life.