The Reincarnation of Hard Rock

3rd Stone from the Sun

Freest of the Free

For Walt Whitman

O Captain! Our Captain
Patriarch of the modern poet tree, always aiming
To be the freest of the free, even I too

Am a pupil of you, heeding evolution as a departure
From the masters, excavating
The exquisite canon

Of your Leaves of Grass mapped out like the long
Winding road of life ushering us
Back through the mine of

Your beautiful mind – full of vagaries, vigor
And vitality, full of love to be
Explored, even still

Tomorrow, for ages to follow.

©2014

Trackless Tracts Revisited

I.
No train of thought on the track
Of chain reaction

To the café
Called abstraction

Where age is
A broken record skipping

Just for the hell of it

As jazzmen sometimes scream
Buoyant riffs that tiptoe

Through tulips atop the roof gardens
Like birds at play

Until the future is

A retrospection
On apocalypse

In antiquity’s
Private collection.

II. 
No train of thought
Or inherited

Inhibitions
Just rumbled rambles

Of revelation
Riding an escalating

Squall shaping
Into a streaming storm
Of consciousness coming

& going like zephyrs
Zooming in a zealous flurry

At the zero hour
Of Earth waking
To the flight of a newborn

Sunshower
Chasing the clouds away.

III.
No train of thought
Or sanctimonious

Superstitions
Merely moments

On the montage
Of mynd, remembering

The corridors

To everywhere from the edge
Of nowhere. No train

Of thought, just ordinary
Moods, & hearts

With standing room

Only, between moments
Of night & day

Sundry as the soular
Paths ahead of me.

©2003

Xcerpt #4 — Ode to Langston Hughes

(the return of the drum)

This rhythm
Within
Is
Your vision

Anew,
Born
To begin again

Beneath
My umbra

Of blue. you told
Me, “bear in mind that death
Is a drum…calling life to come.”

In the wombiverse
Rooted like
Thoughts coded in the cord
That is mind, I know I’ve grown,

From a seed
To the soulflower
Blooming like “tomorrow bright 
Before us,” calling

You to me as though a beat beyond life
Still you drum the psalms
Of faith, hope and love’s azure

On fire, burning beneath beautiful
Ones not yet born, where age

Is embodied in innocence
Of the sun kissing the horizon
But for us to

Drum “a world” where everyone is free
Seems too perfect a dream for Mother Earth to conceive
Still/birth and its many complications are always rough on
Her.

©2013