Pyramids

how much it is so
the gravely inken barns pass by our youth
bolden and brayen
seamless to the tongue yet erring to go
and all the condusive flow
that gives lectionaries the bile to blow
into the weeds of the cartoon show
and its wavy little wake
those sharp left corners
just below the glow
over what we know and below what we don't
and the trance incidental
where nothing isn't
no need to decide
and the arbitrary maps fall into place
to believe a distance
no more than a stork could be found
and a butter burned stone
enticed by night's shimmering knees
and its flickering leaves
those shadow drinking pools
driving the dead to stool
further than coins can swallow
and the baby bathers toss and throw
while the mind quails between the knees
and the oceans bit their mighty roar
strong as mite and bit of tongue
the tarengers wake
what the tooth throwers left behind
and the docks hid their shores
behind the quail signs
tossing the nines
inside the pyramids of my mind.

Denis Streeter   3/16/15

Hidden ways

I head down my hallway
Dust mouse scurrying the floor
A Gryphon screaming after
Scatters me off my toes
Growing plural
Jumping keys playing fortissimo
Cocoa stirring cups
Some sleepy nightcap
Souls wrestle their dreams
Hips joint their confusion
Eyes twinkling moonlight
Wobble their sockets
Second life electric
Startled synapses
Another planet in the brain
Unknown to our origin
Fossiling ancestors
That deep matter
Submerging then rising
Kissing our flow
Sets it aflounder
Torch to our waking hours
Watching over our days
Our daydreaming deep
Its dark humor rise
Reading each sign
Each human encounter
Light filling and draining each vessel
Searching for some understanding
Inside each unknown dream life
Some continuum wanting love
Exploring all directions
The heart moves discrete considering variables
Or so says the mind who does not like to share
Just learn and take credit
The heart moves some internal know
Head and heart misplacing metaphors
To gather in a basket and sort later
That history leaking our dreams
Scurry our pavement
Dust moat our minds to gryphon conclusions
Playing our keys
To our belief
Wandering living pastures not dead to dreams
Wakening our human condition to yearn
The gravity of our journey
The hidden ways we read and misread others lives

Denis Streeter  3/8/15

Description

He wore a tink tank top
Toggled as normal
Whispered as blind
He tore a nice schnoggle
And the blitters were fine with him
He wore a blintz blind poggle
Some bin biffered pants
And a shortle that accented his eyes
But it was the bliblepin that truly set him apart
It was three inches wide and four inches long
Skin as floffle as bawn
His nose was as high as his inch was long
And when he swallowed all you could hear was the boffle
He was a wide sort of chap, yet three times long
You could say he was dimensionally challenged
But I say he was a work of art, no matter how you bloffle
His intentions were always blime though his works toffle
You couldn't fault him for being obscure
With a name like Flifflefloff
He wore a wig of blintz blance blind
Really more blaff than bloffle
But he was keen as a hair piece
That he toggled as normal
Some thought him rather noffle nawp
Others thought him lorm de lime
No matter which, he continued to flaff fliffer his way
But nobody said he was flawn
Oh no nobody said he was flawn
He was a simple man yet quite complex
Some found his manner flounder
Others found him mix de mor
But no one could account for his bliblepin
It was too much yet too little
Sometimes when his biffered pants shortled him
He would tink and not tot
Women would worfle and why
With a name like Flifflefloff
But they liked his schnoggle
Even though he was a wide sort of chap yet three times long
They could tell he was dimensionally challenged
Some were rather flawn by his manner
And drawn by his blime and toffle
But he didn't know what to say as he baffled away
He hid in a bloffle when he was feeling less than blaff
And then he would blorn and not blern
But he was a blerf of arc
Oh yes.  He was my blerf of arc.

Denis Streeter   3/2/15