The Road to Damascus

Death Valley by Montinovich

Reposted from Dec 30, 2017

The Sunday morning streets are quiet
except for the sound of the cold pavement. ~a pilgrimage

they say there’s a place in the
Sahara where you can buy Jeeps
ride into the desert all the way to
Casablanca

electronic billboards replace neon
fountains decorate Souqs
vendors entice you with the
spoils of early morning
devil’s horns
roast goat heads
fly covered dung heaps
and kefir washed Shish Barak

north past the palm circled Camelots
taxis weave in and out of traffic under the
towers of Babel through the
maddened crowds

enterprising Sumerian chariot drivers
scribble their fares on clay tablets
1,000 dinar will take you
to the Northern regions
of Damascus

ghettos
urban sprawl and
the smell of industry
where concrete underpasses
open to a long silver ribbon between
snow-capped vistas and the
mountain passes of
the Moab

virgins bathe in that river
beneath the canyons
wave and say
Come!

you who travel the road to Salvation
the road to the land of the Saints
the road to the Sun where
Saint George once slew
the dragons of Zion
God now sleeps
Come!

These American Boulevards

http://samentha.deviantart.com/art/Sunset-Boulevard-168739589

Sunset Boulevard by Samentha


Originally posted December 2016


firing up
quantum rockets
listen to the step step
of cracks in cosmic emptiness
the divisions in the tarmac
of life along Route 66
Paradise and Sunset
these Boulevards
—a New Revival
of the Old West

cream green
on white
chrome
and big rubber
whitewalls padding
on asphalt radio juke
box doo wop bop

arrhythmia
the heartfelt attacks
of teenage angst and aplomb
no change just brighter louder brassy
happy children must see god in the details
to wake from a tomorrow that will never come

transistors pop and fizz
an electronic dance on motherboard
bounce off radiator headlights and mud flaps
pinwheel tassels fly in the wind honk honk and smear
of bug on windshield’s tinted glass

beep beep!
sandals to the pedal
roaring with the swells
of mambo rhythms
noisy DJ babble
rock and Roll
and news

whistle of wind
squealing rubber
pounding pounding
bass and Gretsch on vinyl

one eye
peering at the
traffic light camera
waiting on the Rainbows
the Cimarrons and Buffaloes
of these American Boulevards

The Love Bomb of J. Prufrock

wp-1461117604594.jpg

Evolution by AandG


Reposted from Dec 6, 2016

vapors wander
under the door sill
smoke drifting insolently
from Magdalene’s cigarettes
in the hallway like a teenager at school
lacking Self-Awareness

the Terracotta Princess holds her head
in her hands and complains of migraines
in Winter stuck indoors and camphor smell
of wooden chests from Indonesia carved
with birds elephants tropical palms
hold our memories

we read our thumbnails like tea leaves
across the picture window wall of the sitting room
desperately brushing at the webs
that encapsulate sterile
lives once breathed
now only suffocate
in stillness scrolling
the Ether mesmerized
by the Ether swallowed
by the Ether

lost in addresses unknown
our unexplored paths rerouted to
numerical errors multiplied in chaos
as we count our digits and laugh at the irony

the Dominion knocks at the door
and lets himself in shivering from the cold
outside and shakes his wet raincoat on the living
room rug with the abandon of an overzealous Dane

circles the dining room table
weary from journeys taken unsolicited
but lucrative just the same if you’re a lost
soul and he’s certainly a lost soul lacking
Self-Awareness

come in
make yourself at home
I ready a cup of fresh ground
Moka from the stainless steel pot
and sweeten it to taste and offer it along with
the finest French creme pastry you can buy
in a cellophane wrapper

it isn’t much and may not
go well with the Sumatran
but it’s all we’ve got our
last pennies gone
to the offering

god is pleased
but we are not
—the Terracotta
Princess rolls her eyes
and I in my uncertainty query
the Oracle to make sure Shakespeare
agrees and the script is canon

for I am,
what I am, Or
am I?

That Sort of Freedom


My first attempt at Haibun. 

The commuter train’s cars heave along dilapidated rust covered tracks. They wrangle past summer cottages, bungalows and the soot covered buildings of Poughkeepsie, to end their journey in a final sway of creaking springs and tortured steel, at Grand Central Station.

From my apartment it’s a short walk—close enough to afford a private view just outside the grounds of the retreats cropped along the Hudson—to touch the banks of that other river, the iron river—its flow caressing the heart of this huge land, lining it with the silver steel of a new adventure waiting just down the track.

I’ve walked those rails. I’d sit and meditate, or smoke, or just sing out-loud to myself, making up songs that I imagined could one day become part of the canon of American songs. Or, not. Either way, it didn’t matter. What I liked was the way the sun, warm on my back, reflected off the shiny rails, shimmering, as I tried to match my steps to the awkward spacing of the railroad ties.

The crunch of the granite stones under my feet, the heat rising off the rust and gravel between the tracks gave me a good feeling, as if stepping on the iron of those rails somehow could put me in touch with another existence, a reality detached from this world’s assault on the Stream of consciousness. Lost in the ozone, simplicit, without a care; a wandering will o’ the wisp dharma bum, content with the euphoric splendor of a Saturday afternoon all lazy-like and sunlit, replete with a breeze from the river swirling the leaves of the trees in a happy dance, I quietly contemplated the empty completeness of the earth and its Spirit, the life that flows in the leaves and dark dirt and pine needles underfoot; frogs whomping, breathing their own life into the Cosmic eternity of my being. Walking on these rails has always made me feel that way.

the simplicit fool
knocks sprockets with the universe
calls it freedom

He Saw How

little buddha by bestarns

little buddha by bestarns


the deep dark night
and the passing moon
saw Buddha’s vision

He saw how—life fits
into the circle of an embrace
encompassed in the hand

—let passing thoughts
chase cars in your headspace—

whispers Puddicombe

in the awakened moment
illumination is equal
to enlightenment


Suggested by Jack Kerouac’s Wake Up! A Life of the Buddha

Satori

http://theflickerees.deviantart.com/art/The-Playground-called-Life-210657370

the playground called life by theflickerees


Do not question why we are here,
only answer it.

i

time
shares
all wisdom
(every secret)
unlocked will open
the most stubborn door

nothing is fast
in real-time

ii

we admire
Matisse’ opulence
Van Gogh’s pain
taste eternity
in their work

artists
express their lives
so we recognize ours

iii

a wind blew
and made a whisper
the house woke up to rest
the sun shone from the horizon
clouds formed
hushed

iv

you fear strange words
will escape your lips
so you quit talking

do not question
an inner motive
only to find it lacking

let the milk of life touch you
for it will only curdle into ash

v

worry
is worthless
joined with anxiety
it becomes obsolete
for it lends itself to anger
which goes the way
of worry

you discover by the limits of reason
how limitless is reason

vi

a notion
stirs within you and cannot rest
you search for sleep
and cannot find it

the fertile ground of twilight
between wakefulness and sleep
bears the children of your thoughts

dreams make
a day’s experience
fractured:
no wonder
dreams
are so easy
to believe

we listen
to the weather
plan our lives
and stay indoors
while the sun shines

vii

a newborn
opens its eye
for the first time
and looks in yours
with understanding:
she will teach you
to love the person
not the infant
you raised

we learn
from a child
the things as children
we ignored

we run into burning buildings
to save our sons and daughters
duty bound as heroes

we beg for the attentions of a father not knowing
tho’ dead our fathers are within reach

viii

past conflicts
were decisive
today’s are slow
they leave things unsettled:
many men spend their lives
in the shadow of war

the fear of death
is a motivation for war
it brings out man’s greatest passions
a sport we practice
tho’ never master

ix

do not give up the senses:
accept a garden of pleasure
as your place

no answer to sickness
except to endure:
life continues
the wretched will suffer

there is in everything
an understanding
removed of itself

Suite – Machine of Civilization

http://stayinwonderland.deviantart.com/art/Post-Apocalyptic-Ruined-City-296266421

post apocalyptic ruined city by stayinwonderland


i

it’s a big machine
this civilization
gears turn
governments
shape society’s
collapse

ii

I flashed horror
at the dance at the morgue
sacks of flesh torn and wobbled
bent lopsided smothered
by the ancient “ahor”
I swallowed my screams
and recited Wolfe’s mantras
while clown pranksters
told incoherent jokes
by the light of
acid washed
campfires

iii

the conjured
reality of Harari’s
Sapiens made fire
invented the wheel
sought shelter
in the rocks
invoked God
found Buddha
sitting under
a tree

iv

south
west
central
a white glow
of feathery stars
darken a swirling
van Gogh sky
a coyote dances
teasing scorpions
spins dust trails
nips and snarls
teeth bared
in dog
play

v

artifacts
in deserted dwellings
of pueblos at Four Corners
the Inca in Machu Picchu
Khmer of Angkor Wat
and Easter Island
Moai suffered
climate change

vi

industrial
revolution’s
infinite orgy of energy
gasoline weed trimmers
coal fired suburban
steam punk
technology
force
survivors
to migrate
dwell in mud huts
watch African sunsets
under thatched roofs
row Polynesian
longboats
on opal
seas

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