Fortune clouds

Photo by Dan Fraser

Note: I found this poem looking through a folder of some of my oldest earliest poems. I think this was written in 1970 – yes I”m that old. I showed it to my “editor” and she said: boy I must have been really stoned! What can I say? I’m throwing it out there just for fun. It would be nice to hear some feedback – a bit psychedelic? I decided to not edit it at all.

Somewhere in the palm of fortune clouds
is a gypsy whim of song
anywhere in the almost spring thought
of a strangers grip
lies the pastures vice –
security jaws drooling
and the passing painted teeth;
between the grasping and the nothing
through the echoes of its well
lies the eternal part in me
somewhere lost in unknown pleasure
anywhere in quilted grandeur
thrown through lands
of in and the
somehow the one star spinning glass blower
from everywhere
has sprayed and flayed
his breath through all of us
between the lushward lyrics
he has specially spun
casting in some chaos nights
I sometimes think I hear him
listening to the echoes from his well

Doorways in disguise

Photo by Dan Fraser

I thought endings were really corners

and doorways in disguise

I thought worn out and broken

could be replaced with new and better

I thought down was the best preparation for up

that lost was a point along the way to found

I had a pocket full of keys

that fit a hallway full of doors

why would I walk into a wall

Maybe this time

Photo by Dan Fraser

A thousand times you told me

everything

a thousand times I heard you

tell me again

maybe this time

Despair tea

Photo by Dan Fraser

I made a pot of despair tea

it goes better

with honey and milk

would you like a cup

Golden words

Photo by Dan Fraser

Golden words flowed

across the late sky

no one spoke these words

they were released from the hands

of a heart that did not need them

the time of speaking had passed

the silence was framed by eyes

that looked into the distance

empty and complete

The green air

Photo by Dan Fraser

A blank face moves in dim light

in the wall of mirrors

the shuffling body is not one I wear

when I fly through the green air

and the giant trees on a whim