Saturday, October 6, 2012

Chrysalis
















Chrysalis



In unstoppable glide we move in the evolution
of us.
Most unaware, some are, of the malevolent
mugging.
A mugging and murder of untold millions, by cowards,
down low and hidden high.
Sneaking roots from their hives slithered about over years,
trespassing history while writing futures,
burning lives for their coffers without conscience,
so utterly aware.

Inbred and bred for this, born of trusts and funds,
feeding on the souls of all creators,
building steeples, witch's hats on holy houses used to dupe.
The sloths of high and mighty, the society of sorcery and soulless
sold.
They murdered minds with false history, and poisoned
the bodies that followed.

Queens and Kings sat fat and sallow, drooling wine of coronations
and squeezing subject’s wounds from prior punishments.
Brothers and sisters inter sexed, coupling poison semen and warping sallow eggs.

They are perverted trees of families taking countries to war,
and killing the futures of worthy stock, while burping in their comfortable sleep. Waking in afternoons, after another night,
after all, this is their creation, silt, rubbed from worthless flesh of theirs, soiling sheets their only toil.

The bastards built tea pot domes, shook dirty hands while sucking cigars,
and raised the bar of thievery against millions of their bosses.
They stole because they could, they lied to find their way in, they stepped over and on
the honest few.

The monarchy went covert as the web went all over, sticky across our lives
arriving home after birth.
Slave certificates signed us away, wardens of the states, earners for our inter bred keepers. The remoras attached until the casket’s hold had us,
down into the ground, while they sifted through remains.

Filthy theater every fourth year, by then our memories deadened. Profits and promises filled pockets empty.
Some twisted knives in the backs of infrequent truth, whores of redundancy, but it’s all they were bred to do,
and their practice made perfect for them.

And,

during this age of usury, and the bludgeoning of spirits, a chrysalis began to form in the deepest recesses of wombs.
New generations grew restless,
questioned the rented air,
schools for the mentalities of herds.

The ashes of past generations spiraled
within the vortex of time, souls of indigos
returned to arm minds and expose the chains.
Each birth chipped the armor of the mammoth.

The new minds were cast off,
unable to fit the molds of the clearinghouse.
They floundered, gasping for survival,
sometimes suiciding thinking their births
were mistaken in the lands of manipulation. 
Still others fought on from the corners of their own success.

With truth as witness, they worked against the
the steal. For every eye opened, millions more
filed by with the glaze of trance.
Revelation of the world, a paper whistle painted gold.
The useless eaters coveted their killers
and championed their impossible lives.
Salvation eluded generations, easier than animals,
never born free.

But,

now the evolution is upon the stupor,
exposure through the iris blinds the eye.
Everywhere control, is everywhere to be seen,
the construct of constriction is the web of its own demise.
Top heavy distortion,
the foundation, 
aching under the weight of the parasite.
Us, together rising,
fluid as brilliant light in ten seas of blackness.

We are here. 

Simple. 

We are everywhere.








GJH 12


Sunday, September 9, 2012

Any Time...






Any Time



In pleasant opus we can sit together, or apart, on any porch, at dawn, dark, or any time of day.

We can have this.

Amidst all that is bad in the world, be happy we have this.

The clarity is not always there, clouds steal the sun’s shine, maybe our will of some days. But when it’s quiet, as here and now, we can feel someone has dressed this corner of the earth, for just our minute.
Another day to finish, with the cautious promise of another, nice to know we can have this, whatever life’s decision. Because,

nothing is worth more.

At this moment; I understand what we have.

It’s not one thing, it’s not that, or the other, it is the rock shoal of all…


It is us.





Thursday, September 6, 2012

Lancashire Bloods









Lancashire Bloods

Sitting by a bistro,
in the city,
I was mulling the
flavors of a fantastic
Panini Italiano.
It was warm
down in Chelsea,
antique in my corner.

The bricks
in a wall,
a broken,
crippled wall,
spoke to me.
They grew thoughts
to me,
single ingots
of countless sagas.

They were Lancashire bloods,
new in 1900,
as books,
on shelves,
unread,
noble novels
without words.

Each had felt the
grip
of a chiseled hand,
a gentle push
atop wet mortar.

They took their place
beside
one another,
each brick,
every course,
placed there
by a mason,
assisted perhaps
by an apprentice.

a thought, or wish,
attached to each.

When he first knelt
by the cornerstone,
had he been content?
Had he a wife
and children,
debts unpaid?

For sure,
I’d felt
what he had that day,
during
the third course,
there had been tears,
a funeral
for his father
he’d attended that morning.

Pigeons crowded
the lonely pavilion,
beside the mason,
and the
brick by his side.
Each red brick,
a memory,
a moment,
flower,
year,
season,
smile,
parade.

An arm,
a hand,
his,
a brick,
a trowel’s tap,
lilt of mortar,
knees to earth,
another course
toward sky.

Storied stories,
each wall
a prince,
hand hewn
by kings,
Lancashire bloods,
in course
atop course,
lime and sand,
water and lunches,
and walks
by the walls.

Lovely tales
entail,
once the brick
leaves
the kiln’s
bake…

Their stories
begin.


Hayward 2006

Monday, September 3, 2012

Could Forest









Could Forest


There are
confused roots,
reaching in every
direction,
driven,
by memory of water.
Pregnant night,
righteous flash
of thunder
lightning drenches,

steam mists,
and a frog's throat
swells.
Limp limbs
dip,
heavy leaves curl,
holding
communal reservoirs.

Nests of
old species
yet
undiscovered,
coddle the
hatchling’s
first night
in the trees.


Morphine tongued
viper,
there and gone,
slithering beneath
cathedral
skies.

The gorillas
wade the razor grass,
then disappear
into the hold
of a sagging timberline.
Sweeping tops
of umbrella
trees
cover their
lumber.

Crush
of insect screams,
fill the humid
voids.
Fruit bats lunge
near orchids
in the dark.

Mosquitoes stab
their  prey
steal blood,
until tiny
abdomens might
burst.
Then,
they ferry the stuff
away in the night.

Great falls of water
lather
volcanic rock,
loud
in the light of moon’s wash.

On
tips of
my fingers
I could feel all this,
and more.
In
the dark,
this jungle
behind my eyes.


Hayward 2006

Thursday, August 30, 2012

The Stop







The Stop

Sometime,
somewhere,
a simple breath
fell.

At present,

tender young
blades of grass
flicker
in 
whisper wind.

They guard
 bottoms of
fence posts
lining the way.

Split rail
fences
in wicked angles,
streak the drive
I drive.

Presently,

so quiet
in my head,
it rests
for me,
lets me be.

The crows
don’t crow,
they just stand there,
wing to wing
black eyes
unblinking,
staring from the dress line.

Shakes
of my hands
drop below
my flannel sleeves.
The crows
don’t care
that I am
where
I am.

The barn,
empty,
wooden cavern
today,
we are all empty,
but I’m content,
in vacancy.
Perfect
ensemble…

for the funeral.


Hayward 2006  

Friday, August 24, 2012

In a Station for Busses








In a Station for Busses

He sits and writes
inside a tiny book,
corralled
by
trembling hands.
Fortunes
pile
from his head
to the paper.

I know,

at times
he stops
he hurts inside,
he
stares,
surprised,
as if hatched
from
another world.

He ended my search,
for something
to study.
I looked
 for
anything,
according to school.
I wanted
to
build,
be king
to the sky.

I found a poet,
I know
now
I did.
He built buildings
in a book.

In a station for busses.

His mountains
lay flat,
but tall on
the page,
rivers stormed from
his paper and pen.


Rambling stories
tumbled from
his chewed
yellow pencil.
In the station
for busses,
we write by the travelers.

Going no where,
while they file by,
he writes,
held together
by his tales.

With all the words
inside him,
yet to come from him,
he writes because
he has to,
has to.

I watched,
him,
for years,
three times
during Christmas,
once on Thanksgiving eve.
The years never
forgave him,
they piled on
and left him here.

I know about
this art,
I build one word
before
another,
then finish
with a piece
of what I’ve built
that day.

At times
I stop,
not for long,
in the station
where the busses are.
They come
and go,
spilling people,
then,
swallowing more,
great steel stomachs,
rolling in and out.

I sit
and write,
building by the busses,
stories pouring
from the fountain
in the park
inside my head.

But,

I need to keep
me writing,
I have to,
or I’ll die.


Hayward 2006