As I See Sea Green Agasszi Sea

As I see a sea-green sea on the shores of extinct Agassizi Sea,
An Anasazi Indian spied I wearing an azure dashiki on the sly,
And caught I sight of a caracal in a coracle by its ancient rugose atoll,
Drifting in its crepuscular wake currents was a mahout on his mammut,
Under Fortean skies mottled with mountainous mammatus formations rolling (above/overheard?),
In front of a turquoise-kaleidoscope-laden reflected water sky,
I spied with my eye this reflection in my dream-covered mind.
But then a beachbum barrister beating bongos in his billowing
Billabong boathouse boasted of blistering sunburned-skin, bikinied
Bathing-beauty beauticians blasting oboed woodwinds in bombastic baritones of bleary, blue-eyed ballad-inns.
Stomping and stepping on the shoreline was a silk-suited sultry, sweating, seventeenth-century Saladin,
While whistling slick, sickening usurpations of the sloughing-off of sickening sunburnt dead-summer skin, becoming
Red, radiant leaves of falling glossopteris trees of fall left falling on the now red surface of the ancient sea,
Red like the surface of a rhodocrosian Siamese blood-full-summer orange Sumerian sun.
Slick, glistening, shelled once-and-now extinct sea scorpions and trilobites swept and swam and slithered and sank through the waves
Like green and red frond sea weeds slipping, sliding off the slick, wet siliceous fossilized sea serpents and lost plesiosaurs of the ancient faux-Silurian sea,
Swept like skeletal schooners through the ancient slipstreams of long forgotten, extinct, Lake Agassizi.
White, like whispering wailing withered wraiths in the ichorous dark black-blue midnight night under the ancient sister bone-white moon.
Leprous, lecherous Luna leered down on the dimly lit landscape/seascape of limpid, lipid, lustrous now
Zebra-foam-white ancient sea, and yawned and lay down,
And nosedived in to pillowed verdigris sea sponge and snored herself to sleep on her sister-twin Terra's ancient sandy seabed.
All dreaming ancient sea dreams of a once ancient dread of a world once alive, now gone, now, forever, dead.

Of Obstinacy (Or “Stubbornness”)

Long-lived demands, rather commands, such obstinacy –
All of us, in the rarest of times, can see the all –
The yesterday, the today and the to-morrow –
Expressed like the mother’s milk of perception profound
From the teet of a loving, maternal Universe.

Mother, my mother, should have had such long-livedness
Can I see now.
But, now she is obfuscated only by the greeniest of grass
In the stillest of mortal plots.

What paradox of human spirit and cosmic law,
slew her and laid her evermore
obscured from the perceptive eyes
as those observed by the Cosmos.

How obstinate Death,
to overpower an iron-gray mule train
as long as a thousand Cosmos.
The only Other thing that end such stubbornness and
A will to live and overcome can succeed.

[ Or from Propertius, x.5
“Quod si deficient vives, acdacia certe
Laus erit: in magniset volvisse sat est.”
Or: “Even if strength fail, boldness at least will deserve praise: in great endeavors, even to have had the will is enough.” Translator unknown.]

Fear, inevitable Fear that is, is not innate,
Rather, whence it comes, be advised,
Be aware, it is ob-stin-ate (sic).

A Night Poem For The Halloween Season

One All-Soul's Eve no sound, sane, sober, sanguine sleep found I,
And lifted myself up from my sleepless bed in some otherworldly dread,
Knowing not why, I looked upon full-blown Luna in an inky black night sky,
Fraught with invisible demons, wailing wraiths and imaginary incubi under her eyes,
Pregnant, potent, portents of ill-fortune betold me stay inside stay inside!
Do not dare adventure under this diabolical night night-side of the sky!
Wandering I went unsure which way to wander and seek what I might,
I found a glowing bight, yellow-green and phosphorescent and as unnatural a sight
I'd ever seen drowning a rabbits' warren in my local woods.
An ancient, aghast, awful old ash stand was angled round by ashen, misshapen
Leprous green-white, vaporous, miasmic phantoms of untold type of number,
The type of which many and multiform come from under the netherworld
And never daring visit ours, sparing us mere mortals our sanity, our sight and our minds.
Creatures and phantoms of evil, wicked dread ringed round a great blazing circle of red
Hell-flames dancing up from beneath the deepest depths below the crags and knees and roots of the great Ashen, Ashmolean circulatory round of trees bent downward as if salute
To the seven kingdoms of all Hell, all unholy, unwholesome and the unknown.
Wraiths and ghosts and demons and goblins and ghouls and what may,
Danced the dance grotesque infernal and funereal in the Stygian black of blackest of nights,
And One so might, so horned like the satyrs, yet a million times more menacing,
Held council, dominion and sway over this unsettling, unsettled and unusual fray.
Licked its lips, with a snaking, reptilian forked tongue and bayed at the Moon
Like a Devil howling its displeasure, its captivity to this earthly coil and recoiled
At the sight of me as I stood trembling in the red-reflected foil of fern and fungus,
Protected by their superstitious, sanctimonious blessed-ness,
While a Fold of Fog wrapped itself around Luna as if to form a palatial, mighty Face
And say, get thee behind me, get thee out of here, get thee to thy place,
And the sun began to rise and shone, as if around His head,
Good had triumphed just once more over this evil, mighty Dread.
And all the dancing demonic forms, turned black and burst as if in flames
And coiled down, downward into their Stygian hellish seas of dread.
While I stood their frozen, with a shudder if my eye, and scream unscreamed and wondered why, wondered why, why did I ever dare come out this time, o night?
Why indeed did I, O Why?

WHEN WE LOST KENNY

They found him sleeping, with much dread
Unwaking and unmoving, in his death-bed.
Kenny is dead, and gone forever,
The dead are gone, and never return forever.
My grief is unbounded like a starless night surrounded
By ground pounded like rain, by tears unsounded.
Kenny is gone, my near-childlike friend,
From my near-childhood is gone and is much lamented.
The White Buffalo skis his great plains no more,
He has turned around, and thundered back evermore.
Like so many gone before him,
Sue is gone, Hunter is gone, Frank is gone,
Barbara is gone, Dorothy and Mike are all gone,
And many others unnamed gone to otherwhere,
Other worlds unnamed and undreaded.
I never thought I would live so long,
To see such a day, a day of grieving,
A day like night, of mourning unended.
I feel like I have nothing, my world is up-ended,
But, I know poor Kenny, tearing eyes opened,
And all the rest, having lost life,
Are the poorest of the poor – they truly have nothing
And with nothing, have ended.