Waterfall Words Follow Windmills
Waterfall words
follow windmills to
the seashore
by the daffodils.
No window suns
shine to break through
poison polymers
that burn straight through.
Fallen frogs
melt in dark corners
without flashlights
to somber curtains.
Motion pictures
circumspect cavemen
while the daffodils
fall to the evening.
Waterfall words
follow windmills
to the seashore
by the daffodils.
(11.7.08)
- Chris Hamilton
(added 11.17.08)
The Windowsill
Time is tight, I stand completely still,
Mouth toward the moon.
I have vision;
Flower eyesight opens from my innermost
Where I rest my chin upon the windowsill
Van Gogh room that John Coltrane paints blue.
I stand there one with the moon,
The other with you between indigo and blue.
I tried to save time from itself, to make it stand still,
While I burned my candle on the windowsill.
I use candles for vision,
A dark flame arises from my innermost.
Nothing words of the weatherman, sky of blue,
Ancient predilection of my innermost,
Simple as the moon.
I close my eyes and seek vision,
And I sit still,
Still upon the windowsill.
I seek all answers from the innermost;
You see nothing but my windowsill
As painted and view the be world blue,
Endless distance through existence still,
House made beside the moon,
Central source of night visions.
Mad tablets of paper pills upon windowsills
With wobbly ancient scribbling visions,
Pen and pencil of the innermost,
Take me without you to the moon,
Street address undressed blue;
Many curtains conceal what’s behind the window still
Burning and returning to the volcano of all vision,
Which I find only when my mind stands still,
Still behind the windowsill
Beneath the room where I keep coltrane blue
Color of the infinity of my innermost
Hue of my evening against the moon.
Endless visions, leaving this world from my innermost
Light of the insane moon, sky of coltrane blue,
Sit beneath the windowsill, and let my mind be still.
(8.21.08)
- Chris Hamilton
(added 11.17.08)
I Happened Without a Sound
It happened without a sound.
I thought there would be
gunshots. There was
explosive silence.
It was not a bloodless revolution,
but there were no gunshots.
There was a collapse,
a circus set up
that melted into itself
like organized demolition.
It had its own heart
attack.
There was no lynching.
The hangman
hanged himself.
I guess you could call it
a suicide bomb.
I happened without a sound.
There was little resistance.
An invincible fortress was built,
and it was invincible
until it was not.
Invincibility is the most
virile poison
ever devised
for the history of humans,
a religion.
In the end,
there was little argument.
Only the dry, bleak
mouth of opera.
Once you lay traps
in your own
house
for others,
there is no
turning back.
Dirty words, garbage bags
that used to be
synonymous with revolution,
became soft snowflakes
in common parlance.
There were no doors to open.
The hinges
had already been
removed
and each piece
sold separately.
There was nothing left
to come unhinged.
The sky
opened,
the doors were gone.
People
who once said
there was no alternative
began to see
there was no alternative,
but the card had now
been turned
over,
and it was
stuck
upside down
on the tar sands
gummed financial fly paper
it had laid ambitiously
like the concrete
beneath our feet.
There was no need for a bloodbath
that had already occurred.
Skyscrapers
made of toothpicks
stood down.
It happened without a sound.
- Chris Hamilton
(added 10.20.08)
Organic
so you organic,
woods stoned deep granite,
make my soft pink trees panic.
and so you organic,
and spinning my seasons manic.
oh my organic lover,
hide me under your ocean cover.
you are the fire and the
flames,
let me be your wick,
deeply organic.
my universe you move not
unlike the wind groove round the smooth
face whose
my hands are fanning frantic,
so you organic.
you make my soft branches
panic,
your breeze shakes my leaves into a frantic.
and still you make my seas
sick,
when your hands,
undock from my lands.
together like the cosmic
and tree climbing snake,
my ancestral supernova awake,
your intergalactic milky ways make me shake.
bows rain sending me chasing wherever your
pouch or gold,
and the colors of your prism,
are begging this panting organism,
to put these lips,
to existence's hips,
i exist,
only to kiss,
your lady himalayas of bliss,
oh my universe organic,
take me to your nine planets.
you my lover organic,
cover me under your ocean atlantic,
i notice not your december's devious antics,
call me a hopeless romantic,
call me to your wide blue attic,
where your hands of quick white sands steal
from my dreams and plans,
their roots to these very lands.
and i can spill but one
word,
with this stick of ink,
as your sunset pink
organic
i drink.
please,
my ancestral supernova
awake.
your intergalactic milky ways make me shake.
bows
rain sending me chasing wherever your pouch
or gold,
and the colors of your prism,
are begging this panting organism,
to put these lips,
to existence's hips,
i exist,
only to kiss,
your lady himalayas of bliss,
oh my universe organic,
take me to your nine planets
- Chris Hamilton |
