KISS FROM THE CLOUDS

With Real Toads--d'Verse Poets Pub

She was a woman from Jakarta
the mistress of a Cardinal
and she painted lonely landscapes
on her journey to the sea

A child of the east
a woman of the west
she loves only what is forbidden
standing naked in the courtyard of a country church
where you have followed her from the tourist bus
dark angel beseeching heaven
for a sign from her departed lover

And you know that you can touch her
but she has already told you
that sex is meaningless unless
it is tied to some romantic illusion

And she has told you that her lover
had said that when he is dead
he will send her a kiss from the clouds
and you turn your face skyward

And you know that you can possess her
but she has already told you
that life is meaningless unless
it is tied to some romantic illusion

And she has told you that joy and sorrow are both impostors
and that joy is born from exultation in the moment
and sorrow in a morn when the moment has passed

And you know that you can kill her
but she has already told you
that death is meaningless unless
it is tied to some romantic illusion

And the rain comes like music divinely orchestrated
and your tears come like the muse
unexpected but greatly appreciated
and the colors of the rainbow explode inside your head
as she transmogrifies into a vision of the Madonna

And transcends into heaven

And you wonder who will pick the shrapnel from your eyes
as the rain sends you a kiss from the clouds

She was a woman from Jakarta
the mistress of a Cardinal
and she painted lonely landscapes
on her journey to the sea 



Many thanks to Sherry at Poets United for selecting "Kiss From The Clouds" as Poem Of The Week.

RISE OF THE FALL

Friday Poetry Fest

Poetry Picnic

d'Verse Poets Pub

St.George and the Dragon--by Gustave Moreau.

Night descends

like a straight razor in a morgue...

The cutting edge of the

moon illuminates a blood-spattered

canvas, as art imitates death.

From the tenements there comes a wail--

siren song to the thunderbeat of jackboots

in perfect sync, a mirage or a memory, but

you can't trust a fascist to tell you which.

In the night I sense that he

is soaring over the city

with his searchlight and his megaphone.

Solo flight in a jackdaw dream.

Brownshirt in a black sky.

He wears a silver swastika on a golden chain.

He has come to inspect my paintings.

I tell him that once viewed they

are no longer mine, but belong to the world,

like Saint George and the Dragon.

Pretending to be a Brahman with

high-falutin' ways, his tail switches

like an alligator who disapproves of my shoes.

His lips curl into a sardonic smile.

Flames shoot from the sides of his mouth

as he contemplates his next tactical move.

When I escape, the sky

is on fire in my rear-view mirror.

Pink flambe in a Black Russian's eye.

Is Paris Burning?

Quick, try to remember the year you were born...

and were you in love with Anastasia after all?

Across town it is ladies night at

the poolroom, where Miss Manners

is learning to let down her hair

as she falls off the chair,

lying in a lump like yesterday's oatmeal--

the foam on her lips like white caps

on a sea of unspoken desire.

Her words float in the air like alphabet soup...

Unhand that rainbow, you cad,

and let me color my world like

a purple-assed baboon

walking backwards on the moon!

The hushed gallery waits for her to tee off again.

While I sit lonely

by a fountain

where naked cherubs

are pissing away my dreams,

knowing that collaborationists

stalk their own shadows

while pigeons goose-step

through the square--

but none can tell you whether ghosts

sit up and listen to the footsteps

that echo through an empty museum.

Now, the edges of the world begin

to blur, like a painting by Monet.

I must draw my own conclusions.

And I am running...

RUNNING...

ducking down blind alleys

searching for the truth

that will open my eyes.