lori b's net - roots and branches

The following poems are copyrighted and can only be copied or reproduced by express permission of the authors...

Cathleen A. McCarthy, What I Want Is What I Fear
Paul Tumolo, Seven Years
Hope Frazier, DADDY IN THE SHOP
Riccardo Morrison, foot
melanie rae voland, HOW SHE LEARNED TO FLY...
Chuck Fadel, Worth it (for Beatrice)

A.J. Noble, This Dance
Riccardo Morrison, Maybe
melanie rae voland, Poem For Melting Love
Chuck G. Fadel, Brian
Hope Frazier, MOTHERING
Ricardo Santana, untitled
Madeline Sharples, Making It Hard

Hope Frazier, MARIGOLD GIRL
Ricardo Santana, Celtic Yuletide
melanie rae voland, ...FROM A FRACTURED GLASS
Chuck Fadel, Texaco New Mexico
mimi baczewska, untitled

ginni clemmens, And now I AM
marg herder, untitled
Bradley Wester, First Day Uncle (for Blake)
melanie rae voland, THE PASSENGER WIFE
Chuck G Fadel, Buddhist Junkyard
mimi baczewska, untitled
Ricardo Santana, wolf-star
Barb Toomey/Silver Lady, *Ribbons of Lavender-blue*
Peter Whitehead, HARK (THE WRONG TREE)

What I want is what I fear.

Ships aren't built to sit in the harbor,
they're made to wrestle with the deep, dark ocean,
and turn and face the storm,
the wind, and you and I
must eventually
leave harbor. Get off the telephone
and live
in the mouth of mother nature.

And when she bites down hard
like the wolf she is,
we can see what it is
to bet,
to win, to lose,
to live.

We all lose our illusions
when we lose our childish ways,
and we realize that nobody gives a damn
and we all die anyway
and we ease off the fighting stance
in the heat of the calm
and say,
"I've changed. This is not what
I once believed."

And in the kernel of our being
we call our soul,
you let go,
and then in the ocean,
lost, alone,
you learn to hang onto the vast nothing,
that makes us small,
yet beautiful,
and than gone.

- by CATHLEEN A. McCARTHY

SEVEN YEARS

Oh seven years!

Seven years that like a barren desert
stretch on endlessly,
grains of sand blown without direction
hurrying here, there mindlessly.

Scorched by those seven years,
my life is the desert sand,
nourishing not a fertile seed
nor offering support for stems t' stand.

You are gone, fading in the dark,
across the sand, lost behind some dune.
Ah, but then, the desert was a park
and in the back seat, flowers were in bloom.

- by Paul Tumolo (1974)

DADDY IN THE SHOP

Dad burn, the dad burn

his frustrations, heartfelt

and fierce, broadcast from his workplace,

his soul place, his world unto him.

I hear him and it sounds

bad to a little girl unwelcome.

I could get in his way,

in this place he goes without me

to make sounds that rise up.

When he is gone I go in,

into his sharp odors, of oiliness.

Calm in here for now, and dim.

My chest fills with heart-pounding.

I don't say dad burn.

I don't make pipes and parts clang.

No bold echos.

I do jangle low box-trays of little metal things.

Their grease grit holds onto my fingerprints.

This big long high serious place

hard from block walls, ice-smooth from concrete floors,

fluorescent glare on the raw wood bones

of this giant beast.

A mammoth table too big for a dining room,

the work surface hacked rough and splintered,

a skyline of tools at eye-level, from tiptoes.

Do his angry flying dad burns scatter this stuff so?

No chairs at this table.

I cannot sit and wait to find out.

A vise hangs off on end.

It grabs my left thumb

as my right hand winds its smooth turner.

If I can't get loose in time, will he notice me?

- BY Hope Frazier (August 6, 1998)

foot

Off the cliff of your foot F the shoes,
round toed, A
wine colored, L
scuffed L
sense able. S

Then the socks
woven sky clouds pulleddown wrapped
around the pinnacles of your feet,
warmed on the inside
a thick extra skin.
finally, quicker than this writing,
quicker than these footprints of sounds on the page
your foot appears.
I see only one
the veins like deer antlers
as though some deer
were about to appear
from out of the mist of your foot.
then the large full toe
thumb like appears
separate from the others
the four huddled together
leaving then the
space for your balance toe

- by RICCARDO MORRISON

HOW SHE LEARNED TO FLY...

night was long, onyx and obsidian
no moon illuminated
the white fingers of the old man gleaming
like anxious knives, sharp and thrusting
the cinnamon child with copper hair
who closed her eyes, rusty with unshed tears.
and no one noticed when she became a hawk
soaring over a cobalt sea
not the aunts with tired blood
not the neighbors growing pale gardenias
not the matrons solid as buttermilk
not the husbands who shook the preacher's hand on sunday
unaware of the blades he kept hidden there
no one noticed how she learned to fly
against a night sky dark with shame
how she kept her collars buttoned to the neck
afraid of her pink flesh ripe as apricots
and the old man who climbed the stairs in shadow

Worth it (for Beatrice)

African elephants
the famous Reds of Tsavo
tinted from wallowing and rolling
in the mud of their waterholes
red clouds follow as they dry
on the trail through the green walk
to visit the bones
of the dead they do not forget
and eat all along the way
gardens and crops
huts and whole trees
babies run to keep up
trying suckle then stop
not understanding but caught
in the watery eyed vigil
over the bleaching pile.

- by Chuck Fadel 6/97

This Dance

I've painted these old walls

the color of hummingbird wings,

that your inner eye

may draw landscapes

of possibility

out of darkness.

I've burned cedar, sandalwood,

white sage,

for clarity, courage, strength.

Here is perfumed cloth

from ancient altars,

saved for this holy day

to wear into the Dreamtime,

into the world beyond words.

I've filled this golden Chalice

with Living Water

from the secret well,

our hidden source,

here, now, for the new baptism.

Leave your mudboots

and disbelief at the door.

There are no winter coats

needed for this journey

into the Forever Now.

Step barefoot into hope,

enchantment, and delight,

and the fierce hot fire

of this dance, this dance, this dance.

- by A.J. Noble

MAYBE

MAYBE IF THESE WORDS

COULD ROUND SWELL AND THICKEN

TO FILL THE SPACE inside

WHERE MY ARMS AND CHEST CURL,
LETTERING FOR YOUR ROUNDNESS, AROUND YOU.
MAYBE IF THESE VOWELS AND CONSONANTS
COULD ACTUALLY BREATHE -WHISPER 'SOFT'
SO THAT OTHER SKIN COULD READ IT
SKIN TO SEE EYES TO HEAR, HERE
MAYBE IF THESE WORDS
TOOK OFF THEIR CLOTHES
AS WHEN A LOVERS LUMINESCENCE APPEARS
AND THE SURPRISED EYES WIDEN
DARK PUPILS, OBSIDIAN MIRRORS REFLECTING
THE SHOWER OF SPARKS
THE WET SHINE OF SNAKE
MAYBE IF THESE WORDS BECAME JUMBLED
AS OUR BEDSHEETS
TUMBLED AS OUR CLOTHES IN BEDROOMS ACROSS THE EARTH
SO THAT ANYONE READING THEM
FOUND THEMSELVES IN THOSE BEDS
ON THOSE CLOTHES.
MAYBE IF THIS POEM COULD BECOME YOUR BREAST
FIT INTO MY HAND
ITS NIPPLE BECOME HARD AGAINST MY PALM
MAYBE IF THIS FLAT SURFACE (THIS PAPER)
COULD BECOME A MOUTH
TO SUCK, TO ROLL YOU AROUND IN
MAYBE THEN THIS POEM
COULD
BE A DANCE DONE, DOING, HERE, HEAR NOW

- by Riccardo Morrison

POEM FOR MELTING LOVE

she dreams of kissing her
she dreams of kissing her
and covering her with kisses
she desires her oval wet lips
yielding and full of everything
unspoken
her words caress the curve of her neck
she leaves them there quietly
(my love, my love, my beautiful woman)

she tastes her skin leading
to the heart beating place, to
dark nipple tips tasting
peaches and summer ripe berries
floating hands meet hers touching
holding womb to womb
she parts her thighs with her voice
whispering
(my love, my love, my beautiful woman)

she moves her outside of herself
she moves her with powerful hands
sliding into pink and fury
she puts her back together
with her tongue with more
with kisses as she calls Her name
she calls her name melting
into the shelter of a velvet murmur
(my love, my love, my beautiful woman)

Brian

The sun shot up red
to be cut off by the layer
of black cloud hanging low
and I thought of the sailors
chant Red sky at morning

I saw his body
vacant and loose
the neck broke
hair plastered down
lips blue

My boots are off to the side
filled with leaves
by the section of new guardrail
parts are scattered
some twisted beginning to rust

Families pillage their dead
the tv goes to college nephew
car to the stepfather
computer purged of porno
to the fifth grade niece

by the time the sun went down
there was nothing left
of my pictures but the things
he loaned me
Sailor take warning

- Chuck G. Fadel 1999

MOTHERING

TWO LITTLE GIRLS
PLAYING WITH DOLLS
IN THE CUBBYHOLE
THE PIANO MAKES
IN THE CORNER OF THE ROOM

WE ARE CONTENT
LITTLE MOTHERS
CHANGING DIAPERS
PUTTING ON PLAYCLOTHES
IN OUT MINATURE NURSERY

BETSY-WETSY LOOKS HUNGRY
I UNZIP MY COTTON HOUSEDRESS
AND BRING HER HARD LIPS
TO MY PENNY-FLAT NIPPLE
WITH TENDERNESS

WITHOUT WARNING
AN ANGRY GIANT
RAGES ABOVE MY BREAST
"DON'T EVER DO THAT AGAIN!"
NEVER DO I

- Hope Frazier June 2, 1999

apostle from the bronx
Judea's accent
Phonetic hard K's
you speak
and watch me closely
promises transgressed
hardlined, terse
I tense up next to you
bothered by my messy life

All the symbols I touch
movie
sex
stomach pain
you ask...
will i see you again?

is it necessary?

I enter you the way I read erotic poetry
without saying who I am to you
pulled on top while frolicking in the dirt lust
Keep the flower's pedals
purple rose scent intoxicating
as reminders of lusting hearts

Distortions of my Self
you pushed aside
In your Madonna embrace
my essence fragmented. Despair.
But still, cradled in your love.

On the 15th street SF porch steps
i'm anxious and scared
fraught with shame
you see me running
shameful
You call this phase...
a means of my enlightenment.

Graphic depiction of here and now
without a script
no story telling
in my twisted-up way
convoluted, testing and doubting
you want to hold me so much
beside your naked body

My cup is full already, I say
from tears unshed when they should
have been
can you see my drowning
in this emotional abyss?

Celtic oracles
coins tossed
tarot read
makes no mistakes
leprechauns leads to stags
now i know
no doom exists.

I don't have to find a need to be needed.
I don't have to struggle unbalanced to feel balanced.
I don't have to want salvation to have it.

My falsehood exposed by your love
your prophecy broke the curse
I lay open, wounded
spellbinding gazes of your centered faith
healing... soothing my spirit.

Broken me - like real life
No facade can be constructed
no more
the fair exchange of life's blessings
from moment to moment
the current runs it's course
readjusting our life's destiny

You know the missing pieces of me,
the transformative piece
that is your psyche intervention.

You weren't ready for me to leave, now
You read so much from the presence of Self
You talk to it within me... when I don't know how...
I coveted for this true nature was well.

You guide me there
apostle from the bronx
san francisco poetic mystic
where you seduced on that arching
pier above calm bay waters
city lights and warm sea air

When I saw you through your window of
sorrow last christmas
I had wished to hold you
close to my chest
I had wished to love
you with all my passion
I had wished for your body and spirit
the figure of your womanness
to bring me closer
to divine consciousness and here we are
in the mists of our tears and fears
a year later
intoxicated beyond our senses
it is your passion that grips me to remain.

And, I find you sleeping
naked and warm next to me
under covers, transcended
from Bear dreams.

In the early day light
I hold you weeping
the anguish of humanity
sorrowful and confused
you guide the psyche's angst through
the labyrinth's liberating path
but at a price
as you have had to do yourself
from all the insanity
inflicted upon your core
the earthbound toils of
spirits buried, their
divinity longing for return
you evoke heaven
to remind me
as well.

Apostle from the Bronx
you traveled far to bear
this gift of salvation
for my spirit to rejoice
shema, hallelujah
menorah candles burned before us
this winter season
O' Jerusalem, we sang.
Then our journey transitions.

Long distance calls
we had to make... now
but from the distance
what a covenant of grace
has been there to
carry us along
shepherded by a guiding light of
divine purpose.

to be the apostle from the bronx
as I called you always.
This makes you whole.
This makes me whole.

To see me again?
Is it necessary?
Yes, if only for sanity's sake.
Yes, if only for eternal life's sake.

- by Ricardo Santana

Making It Hard

The bright room is almost full.
All four walls of mirrors reflect women and men
In baggy shorts and sleek black tights.
The music is so loud
The woman in front of me stuffs ear plugs in her ears.
Lisa G says, "work from the core,
Your workout relates to your real life."
I want to get on with it.
I don't come here at 6 a.m. to listen to a lecture.
The neon sign on the wall says, "sweat,"
And that's what I want to do.
The woman behind me complains.
I don't know her name, but here she is every week
Always in the same spot, always complaining, always in black.
Black tights, black sports bra, black thong leotard,
Black headband on her head of black hair.
Even her lipstick looks black.
A drill sergeant in baseball cap and high-top aerobic shoes
Lisa begins her litany
"If it were easy, everyone would be fit," she shouts
"Don't come here and expect it to be easy."
She doesn't know my name. I like it that way.
I like the feeling of being anonymous here
I don't know anyone and no one knows me.
No one knows about Paul, that he died
Or any other thing about me either.
Being anonymous is a benefit
It keeps me in shape, calms my mind,
Gives me the space to be myself.
It's a mini vacation from the horrors of my life.
So, I thank Lisa G
For getting me moving,
For making it hard,
For making it hurt,
For showing me how to
Trade one pain for another.

- By Madeline Sharples

MARIGOLD GIRL

LOOK AT YOU, AGE 10-AND-A-HALF,
FULL OF PRIDE OUT FRONT
OF THAT BED OF FLOWERS
YOU'VE MADE FOR YOURSELF.
TURNED THE FALLOW EARTH,
LABORED WITH A TOOL TALLER THAN YOU.
ACCOMPLISHED WITH THE LEAN STRENGTH
OF YOUR LIMBS MUSCLED FROM CLIMBING,
SPRINGING, TUMBLING FREE
DAY INTO NIGHT.

LOOK AT YOUR HONOR BURSTING
FROM MID-TORSO, BARE
FOR SPRING'S SUNNY PLANTING TIME,
BETWEEN KNIT PLAY SHIRT
AND STURDY CANVAS SHORTS
CRISP AND UNSUMMERED, UNBLEMISHED.
SHOWING COLT LEGS, PILLARS THEMSELVES
STAKED IN THIS SOIL SO PROMISING.

LOOK AT YOUR FACE SHAPED
BY A SMILE SO SELF-POSSESSED
IT IS UNTHINKABLE HOW
SUCH A POTENT PRIZE
COULD BE WRESTED FROM YOU
IN THE CRUCIAL GROWING SEASON TO COME.

HOW WOULD IT BE IF I RETURNED
TO THAT GROUND, PUT IN MORE SEEDS,
SPROUTED ANEW, ROOTED IN POWER
THAT WOULD NOT YIELD THEIR STEMS OR MINE
TO ANY OTHER THAN OUR OWN PURPOSE?

- HOPE FRAZIER

Celtic Yuletide

Winter's skies
misty mornings
moatlike waterways
with cobblestone walkway
arched bridges, stonewall castles
outlined by glimpses of
fairy lights, nature spirits
and wizards.

Dreams linger now like
ancestral notations
like marked Runes
to enchant us life's purpose.

Grace and gravity. Heaven and Earth.
Life and Death. Before and After.
A seasonal introspection
Opposites pull at us to bring us to center
with our nature.

Celtic vigil in deepest winter
introspection and reflection
the alchemy of self
each day a lifetime
to behold sacred
our journey that struggles within the ancient
heart-spirit
we pray the day, like the Celtics
within our own ancient
we pray the Yuletide to deliver us
toward each other, in peace.
Then we can rejoice the Celtic Yuletide.

- Ricardo Santana

...FROM A FRACTURED GLASS

she drinks in the garden with thirsty eyes
swallows the wild potable earth,
intemperant with melancholy.
she absorbs the wind moving
raw as breath crushing
against the pale leaves of new iris---
her soul drips like absinthe
from a fractured glass.
she sees this distillation
through the vines clinging,
abstinent and pallid, to a white-washed fence.
she drinks in...again, embittered
by the pungentcy of cowardice
and the aftertaste of whine.

Texaco New Mexico

It was hot across 40/66
shorts hung on the antenna
towels rolled up in the windows
drying quick in the adobe heat
pulling off to six-shoot
an abandoned hulk car target
rusting in no-man's desert
the shy dog came back
when the shooting stopped
with old deer bones to chew on
in the dust covered desert bath
that lights up after dark driving
to the moon hanging below
venus above pine forest rocks
to sandy bottom river hot springs
where you can stand in the cold a half hour
when you get out buck naked
steaming in the star studded night
filled with turquoise indians in trucks
sold by the pretty pueblo girl
who says you can't take a piece
of the petrified desert with you
cash or charge the land can't be handled
so you drive out of the monuments
over campers shit cans and plastic
to take a picture of the wonders
at the last chance indian village
corn dog live buffalo navajo display
blanket genuine silver ice cold beadwork
and gasoline for 88 miles.

- Chuck Fadel

eat flowers, listen to bugs,

change

every time you kiss my wild heart.

And now I AM ...

And now I am
The stars
And the birds
And the trees
And the Ocean
And All the things I love.

When you miss me
You can see me
In
All the things I love

My friends will tell you how
As each one knows
A different part.
And together you can re-construct me
Before you let me go
And let me go you must
"Ashes to ashes
And dust to dust"

And
Also remember
YOU
Are among All the things I love

- copyright 1992 ginni clemmens
Dedicated to my Mother Dorothy Groves 1918-1972
When I thought I couldn't find her anywhere, I looked to nature.

warm infusion
the shine of dreaming visions
linger with me
and caress my heart

songs of truth venture
beautiful and haunting in this light
of copper and sparks
betraying the urgency of woman
to reach and touch and open
to cast a soul
to soul

First Day Uncle (for Blake)

My cells know
You now though
We haven’t met.
Their pre-dawn
Revelry woke me,
Brought me
To this page. There was
Commotion, excitement,
The clinking of glass—
A down home cell-
abration, a
Genetic sigh
Of relief. It felt like
Sideways gravity or
High tide maybe
Low, being
Pulled toward
Your cellular division
On opposite coast,
That though once removed
is still my survival—
Vicarious fatherhood;
Grateful gay
Uncle. Me

- Bradley Wester 29 August 1998

THE PASSENGER WIFE

last night i slept in jellico
under the curve of the moon full
and the blue ridge,
in the shadow of her last smile.
so close...
i could trace the distance
on a motel map with my small finger
caress the impossible
paper inches between us.

at dawn he drove south
towards magnolia, spanish moss and my mama
while i sat in the passenger seat
feeling the cold miles and disappointment
from the man behind the wheel
with the flesh and blood of my womb
riding in five point safety restraints
as binding as the expectations
which held me in place, too.

Buddhist Junkyard

If poets need their pain
then I want my share
searching rusted acres
for the part I must have
to keep my soul flying
eyes looking down
at lines of hulks
melting into the earth.

But my soul needs sunglasses
it is so bright up here
there is no relief
from sharp blades
of light that glint
off chrome and glass frozen
below waiting forever
for their own light to go green.

They suffer like me
once finned and glorious
running smooth and shiny
along splendid roads
with no end in sight
until this lot beckoned
like the sirens
I hear every night.

I think my wings
must be made of wax
my enlightenment
just a flash
on the dead grass
I walk over
being very careful
not to cut myself.

- Chuck G Fadel 1999

poet like me

wear eternity like a stream always presenting a free will universe

explore, remember, question, embrace

kiss women, listen to our young

with fresh desire to live more wild

to dance open a center, embrace some stream

drink up green broken time

wake to changed heart, laughing like a fresh baby, born clean

go bellow, wear blue, think warm, have peace

no more worry

heal the lie by smiling and going naked

and remember my velvet child

sacred ghost magic

time from poetry remembers eternity

imagine she who is butterfly

born of song and flower

her heart is red green blue music

she glows beauty mist

her angel voice saying

listen

life is heart work

soft, ferocious, clean

mimi baczewska 5-25-98

wolf-star

celestial winter shadows
white snow crunches
under large paws
robust limbs, noble breasted
dense thick armor mane
broad head, palpable sovereignty
emerges stealth like
there,
through the forest thicket
wolf eyes pierce, mystical
soul shapeshifting my being
i hear
the ancients yelp
dogan star, pathfinder
the myth howls,
dogan star clan appears
teachers of the way
guiding medicine
keen sense, intuitive
seer of wisdom,
guide me, so naive
to my true path
through this thicket
i still my voice, to hear your song
i still my sight, to see your wisdom
i still my knowing, to learn your knowledge,
moon-dog
powerful ally, vital lifeblood
the tribes greatest teacher
star-dog
evokes the wisdom within me
to teach the mysteries of life
to the children of this earth
wolf-star
I've become you

- Ricardo Santana

*Ribbons of Lavender-blue*

Somewhere between the ages of five and seven
I lost my bright loving mother but not to heaven.
They call it schizophrenia; it's such an ugly name.
It does not lead to glory, nor happiness nor fame.

Sometimes the mists would swirl just right,
Magically there would be the tantalizing sight;
Of my golden-haired Mother who laughed, danced and shimmered light.
My heart so yearned to keep this image but back came the blight.

The soft sheltering haven of her arms had vanished,
My adoration and love-offerings were banished.
Punishments were now horrid long lectures or a beating.
My solace became books and dreams for retreating.

My faerie godmother brought me a priceless gift to see.
My beloved great-aunt Helen became like a mother to me.
Her unconditional love made me feel like Cinderella at the ball.
When the angels led her away, how I missed the shelter of her wall.
(I lived in the Ice Age of Lonely for awhile.. )

The last times I spoke to my mother, most of her words were mean.
She didn't feel like my mother but just some stranger between (two worlds...)
On Mothers Day, I skip the cards..the words just aren't true.
I unwrap and re-wrap memories in ribbons of lavender blue.

- Barb Toomey/Silver Lady
(dedicated to any of my online sisters who also have "lost" their Moms)

HARK (THE WRONG TREE)

Hark!
The lark!
A song marks the darkness.
A spark!
And hark
The marking of the darkness
The melting of the hardness...the ice breaking
The silence shaking
Hark the mad marks of hammers in the heart
The mad sparks
In the dark
And sheep, one two three
Count them silently before you sleep
Count the sheep
And between the sheep and your heart
Mark the spark that divides the dark into parts
Past and present
That parts the spark that is electricity in the heart
That is electric heat in the beat.
Meet the beat... face to face
Don't beat the meat...don't make a face
Take the steak plate by plate
Day by day and softly skate...softly shake
Softly take the cake and shape it
Softly softly shake and softly softly bake
And do not leave it in the rain
For I may never have that recipe again.

Find a place to put the cake
Find a plate and place the cake
Upon the plate
Not the plate for meat
That won't meet your needs.
Cakes need plates
Find a plate for cakes
Find a place to put the plate
Put the cake upon the plate
Then heat the meat
And hark the lark
Electric heart that sparks the dark
That parts the waves
That hides the shark
Mark this part
The waves that break
The eggs it takes to make the cake
The shakes and steaks and sharks
The eggs that break
Don't put them all in one basket

For goodness sake thats all it takes
To make the cake an unsuccessful culinary experience.......
Hence
Mark my words
Concerning the lark at dark
And the spark in the heart and the car in the park
And the spark in the car
And the plates and eggs and baskets.

The spark in the car?
Park the car
Park it parallel
Except on Tuesdays between seven and nine a.m.
When they sweep the street to keep the street
Clean.
How I envy the lark
No car...no need to park
When to and fro they creep to sweep the street
Clean on Tuesdays
Sweep the street but leave the tree
Please let it grow
Let it wave its hands and arms
It does no harm
Not like the shark
Don't set the alarm
Don't park the car
Don't mark the car
Don't chalk the tire
Don't spark the fire
That could be wicked
Don't write the ticket in the city
That could remain unpaid, undated and
Unsigned
Unwise!

And who designed this sunshine anyway?
Will it break the ice
Just once or twice
Shall we take the ice in ten pound bags
Or will five pounds suffice
Five pounds of ice....will it suffice?
What about the rice?
A five or ten pound bag?
And what about the block?
Don't like the block...lets break it
Lets break the block
Lets break the ice....lets throw a party
A block party!
Don't block the bike with rice
Don't make the race ungrateful for the the rice
For the spark in the heart
And the mark in the dark
And the ice
Be nice!
And what about the shark in the dark
Beneath the waves that break
No cakes in this place!
No cakes, no party!
And what about the the street swept clean
What about the leaves left in between this week and the next?
What about the bark?
Hark!
Is that a dog I hear
Far off
Or is it near?
Harken to the bark and mark my words
Maybe its the wrong tree the dog is barking up
Maybe the dog is choking and thats why the bark is broken
I've already spoken far too much about the bark
And the shark and the lark in the dark
And all the other parts
About the cake and how its baked
About the meat ...the need to heat...about the beat
About the heart, the sparks....all those parts
About the plates..
But...
Did I mention the lake?
Did I mention the lake where the lark sparks my heart
Where my heart is marked by the lark
And did I mention the lake is in the park
Did I mention its dark in the park
Its dark in the park and the lark is by the lake
Lets get this straight
Theres a lake... a lark....a park....its dark....its late
O.K.?
They're pouring a floor of concrete
They're putting in a door
The door divides the floor provides the solid ground
On which I build my case.
The case is closed
My clothes are in the case...just in case
My feet are tired but my heart is fired
And I cannot sleep with all these hammers
All these sheep counting one two three before they sleep
Bleeting, bleeting in the sheets
All this heating all these meetings all this bleeting
All these doors and a lake
With all these plates, all these cakes
And all this baking going on
All this meat
I can't stand the heat
I'm getting out of the kitchen !!!
But then, just then

Again
The darkness parts
And hark!
Its the lark again
By the lake....
A spark!
Electricity!!
The car is parked..the chalks not marked
The street is clean... the cleaners been
The dog has barked....the cakes been baked
The plates can wait!
But then.... the lake...the lark... the park
Are silent once again
And all I hear is words
Words in the darkness
No eggs, no barks, no dogs
No sharks, no lakes, no cakes, no plates, no steaks, no shakes
No meat, no beat to meet
Just words........

I watch the words like flakes of snow
I watch them form...I watch them grow
Slowly, slowly into rows
As word by word and row by row
The words in rows begin to flow.....
One potato, two potato, three potato, four.
Five potato, six potato, seven potato. more....................

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