Live From Camp Cataract

Last night I had the Honour of reading aloud and live at Camp Cataract in Niagara Falls for the event held by The Literary Cabaret. This is the 2nd event like this, and what a night it was. Full of friend and family of all the talents in all the mediums of art…..Singers, Songwriters, Poets, Storytellers and an audience in love of supporting and exploring these many facets of human emotion and passion!!

Here is a video of me reading some Alliteration and ranting about Life, Love, Philosophy and random Idioms

Paint in my beard

There’s paint in my beard

This time it’s not latex paint, today it’s epoxy paint

A thick stain on each strand of hair

Flowing from my chin

I need to stop “looking” like in thinking while I’m painting

It’s now safer to stare at the wall, and watch the paint dry

Keeping my hands at my sides

Just standing there in a statuesque posture

Or, maybe

I should move to another wall

since there is always more to be painted, more to be built, renovated, more to be cleaned

There’s always more

Or, maybe,

I should shave my beard

but not really

Maybe…….

One day, I’ll shave my beard, Tear my clothes and Fall to my knees in petition of all the attrition I see

forming around me

I’ve always wanted to feel like a Prophet of Old

Full of dismay and distress

Wondering when we shall throw our swords and spears into the fire and meld them into ploughshare  and pruning hooks

Always wondering when we shall stop whispering about wars and rumours of wars

and simultaneously look each-other in the eyes and find the Humility and Patience to be at Peace with one other

When will we stop slandering our sisters and brothers and start sharing in the Experience of Life

When shall we pursue to be peaceful people, being able to rest and not feel turmoil for the ones they love

Well, there’s always more

and this is the reason I should stopped staring at the freshly paint wall, watching it dry and start looking like I’m thinking

Getting more paint in my beard

The Palace

Down the corridors laid with tapestries covered in crystalline

Hear the lamentations of the Pure, the Divine

Cascading the elegant torches of fire on the walls

Cobble stones and cornerstones

built to be fortified in the views of us all

  through the court yard

 looking up the walls

Cascades the gorgeous silk hos-ta vines

Shrubberies and Trees

All cut and maimed into the folklore’s greatest characters

All to appease

With every breath you take

With every sunrise viewed

You can see why this is a palace and not just a place

 in the mist it shall not seemed skewed

In the court of the Crimson King

dancing, twisting, wrapping  

The Jester with his frills and folly

Performs his pirouette of many colours

A foul and his art with many flutters  

In the corner of the Crimson King  

stands, writing, peering

The Friar with his quill and holly

Scripting his mandrels of many verse

A poet and his paper signing to a deadly curse

On the throne of the Crimson King

sits, lounging, yawning

The Princess with her filigree and flair

Paying no attention to anyone

A lady and her posture

With not a care

Silently we peer in on the palace halls

Still hearing the lamentations of the souls call

don’t forget what you saw here

For the palace stands as a monolith

A spire stabbed in the heart of a village

For such beauty can never bring sacrilege

We feast with the dogs as they like our wounds

But we shall eat in the court of the crimson king

Oh so Very soon

With fork and knife

On plate of silver

We shall dance and write and lounge

In the folklore of the greatest characters

Overflowing

With a mind overflowing

Stars aligned in the quiet expanse of the tiptoeing freckles and dimples

With a heart overflowing

Death aligns in the vocable language of shaking hands

and Growing skulls

to be a Flower or piece of Skin

to Grow and Envelope among such dirty papers

to Be or to Find out what it is to be

to be the Cup in which the Universe is overflowing

Brimming and Busting with Beauty

Overflowing and Outpouring with optic openness to the opals and obstacles that must be obliterated

Over flow with each flower viewed, on each paper scattered

Drink and never go Thirsty again

Over flow with the fondness of knowledge, with every touch of lips to the cup

Think and never go Hungry again

Overflow with every step gained and forgotten

Let the heart beat in the cage of the city

Unknown

the Unknown doesn’t want to be Known

The Unknown wants to be left in its high backed chair in the darkest recess

the Known wants to be reverted back to where it came from

to be placed back into the oceans mariana’s trench  

while the Unknown scratches at the surface of the Known

the Known is only that…. shallow scratches

and we will never Know the full extend of the Unknown

in circles we keep sliding into the Known

like a snake eating its own tail….we think we can Know the Unknown  

keep thinking we have discovered the Unknown made Known

keep scratching at the same scratches

it’s the Unknown, man. and it will never be Known

unless you or we, he or she. you Know, jack or fred, heather or jill

become Unknown, they might stumble upon the Known

but can’t, or won’t, will not turn the key into the Unknown

the Unknown, just doesn’t want to be Known

Can You Dig It?

Let us Talk of….

Let us talk of

Heavenly things, Earthly things

of Morals and Evangelical scared things

Let us talk of

The profane

how the Past is the Past    

what the Future shall Dawn on us and bring

Let us talk of

Speculations of foreign commerce

the Dwelling of home

the Acceptance of the many different traditions

all our Colours Shown  

Let us talk of

the Philosophy of who’s and why’s

the Essential of the what’s and when’s

the Circumstantial of the where’s

Let us talk of

not all Talk is Cheap, but in them, there is a Profit in what we Speak

Colloquiums, Allegorical, Dogmatic, Euphemisms

the Blood letting of the Tongue and Cheek

Bring fourth, Pouring within, filling up

something of when we Speak

face to face

phone to ear

Faceless, maybe, Voiceless never

Let us talk of

how the cup is Never Full enough

or

that the cup is Full and Hot to the touch

Let us talk of

Silly things, the Funny, the Absurd

with the dance of Semantics and Matter

in a Social Banter and Canter

Lets us talk of…

Bottles and Books

like a New Bottle of wine

You must Break the Seal

let it Decant

like a New Book of poetry

You must Crack the Spine

let it Sit on your Lap

Releasing all the Aroma and Essence

into the place you Inhabit

Soaking into the walls

Breathing in forms

Dancing with mystery  

the Inoculation

You can let it spill and drip

Flip and Fall or let it Rip and Tear

   Nothing Stops

the Truth of the Bottle

Nothing falters

The Eloquence of the Words

Shall we raise a spine

Shall we crack a glass

as we extend our Knowledge of Taste and Culture