| Swiss Poem Account Collection |
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| comments: judih@hotmail.com |
| Craig Moore |
| Pillar of Strength appearing on the crest of the sky and sand line mysterious whirl contrasting against white noise radiant and still, yet rippling like voice on deep blue crystal water as a vision, alien, ancient, strange yet also a silent source of: radio breath wafting of sea breeze fluttering like a sea gull in and out of hearing range that weird music: so familiar yet unworldly, other, muffled then snatches of distortion cries from deserted scenes drift into static then gaudy chincy belly dance calls boistrious, lalalalalla!!! mixed in with flaming scarves gypsy style, shakti flare high priestess unashamed purple veiled, then more tinny sounds sample through the thin air roller coaster screams vie and die as wisps of cheap hokey pokey organ trill, and a blast from the past: fruity little egypt tinkling toots as strains of heart break hotel suddenly blert thought the diaphanous transparency the silent form gives no sign |
| Poetry II |
| alone with it all ...there is no point where i am not... and no point where i begin and end i never began as such only at the lone presence presencing all direction no start, all end where it finally is without so if it is free within, so until totality focused I shall, shall I eye..........eye ......none...... see..........see no thing word comes from there there it goes we arrive, we take leave we drift through thought we divert, we invert, we hear the water falling in constructs from natures path, we arrive masks are made of paper thin as the universe these behold partitions between things in themselves all is artifical, all is real all is contemplation in folds narrow variations beyond great and lesser; cycles within arrangements, as in vessels or vase holding a single orchid or perhaps a feng shui placement of a profussion of energy blossems this mysterious force of night openings veils part behind whispers fingering air |
| Cities of Towers It's the doom of cities it's the fallen headlines of smoking guns it's the closing shade of shame the end game played for all known stakes it's the emptiness of fame where the absolute corrupt crime begins to float through time its the view from the top of the thousand points of light, on the illuminated hill it's the simulated bread and circuses the road to Rome that always leads back through the arch of history herself it's the temple of Isis hidden by the smokey veil the dumb abject lies we know so well and the cheap wine of miracles that the dumbfounded crowd will celebrate in the news it's the empty arena, where time stands still and remembers the blood spilled like cherry pie in some kind of biblical proportioned baloney it's the grim figure of a Nero standing on his brocaded balcony fiddling the flames as the asparagus towers blaze and dangerously aglow the unknown wraps itself in eternal heavens of our unrevealing the crucified image looped over and over rivers of blood shooting past scarce words become the story slowly opening its two pieces |
| contact the poet: nuit@adelphia.net |