freedom is
an absurd grandiloquence
scribbled by a poet of Pretense (me).
freedom and all its very tall comrades
slide glistening off the tongue
with grotesque and sophistical
ease.
and what an irony
that we (poets of Pretense)
will quibble with vigour
over the fluidities of language
and how to define ‘sardonic’
while that grandiosity
with a false face,
its only face,
inscribed by arrogant quivering pupils
mocks us,
sardonic.
He moved across the forest They moved across the forest It moved across the forest moved across the forest elephantly. across the forest under the autumn star the azure trees the fruit of rippling way
that beauty shadows on the grass moon; hand; dance come alive, remember you, remembered reborn, we cannot sleep dreams have no answer but deep, close to the heart they say be seen, dream with one anot
The sun someday will be love again. The mountain someday will be sand. The land in the end will begin again, and flowers grow out of its hand. I remembered an ancient poem, held under the tongue of a