Fabian's Site

and I took along some worms

I'd been a' digging since my youth

I'll tell you what I've learned

You can get hooked on theology

if you do not have a float

the bottom's full of history

guaranteed to rock the boat

Snags and branches of every sort

lie scattered all around

fallen trees of worrywarts

where truth is seldom found

A poet's heart is a lightning rod

that draws the fire and heat

of dreaming demons and nameless gods

where land and water meet

Learn to tackle the toughest questions

by study, grace and skill

You will find the greatest lessons

are all unanswered still

But there are answers deep within

the chambers of the heart

that do not yield to lines of sin

This fishing is an art

Set the hook and reel in slow

Have the patience to wait

No answers lie in books I know

not open to debate

Never one to accept a fact

on someone else's terms

But I shall think before I act

and not forget my worms

Morning whispers your name in dreams.

Small stars flee before the sun.

Singing birds awake to greet the dawn.

Alone, I face the day that comes.

Where are you, my green-eyed love?...

In some fair valley 'neath a willow tree?

As the sun shines and the willow casts shade

in that cool glade, pray, think of me.

If death's cold grip should still my heart

it would not nearly be enough

to make my spirit forget that star

shining nightly, brightly, with my love.

You are my bright and shining star indeed.

I could not count your charms.

And though I love you from afar

I need, I long to hold you in my arms.

The waking day may soon forget

the dreams that visited as I slept

Tears on a pillow,  moist regret

beneath your willow, only know, I wept.

Two paths lead to this spot near the creek

One, straight, directly to my backyard

The other winds like a summer blacksnake

through the wood past moss and hollow logs

The scent of jasmine and honeysuckle

drifts through the laurel and mimosa,

mixes with the damp rotting of leaves so subtle

to form a rich musk, heady and ever closer

A groundhog stretches up shoulders high

Out of the grassy vegetation

And watches me as I pass by

a rusted sign reads "No Trespassing"

Near the edge of the field, chipmunks and rabbits play

An owl hoots out his mournful note of question

The sky is streaked with shards of the dying day;

crimson red splinters of broken perfection

All along the creekbank, treefrogs chirp an evening song

As darkness comes in robes of midnight mink

By the light of a golden orb, I take the long path home

from the spring where moonlight does will come to drink

The curve of a woman's hip,

the full swell of her breasts

stretching the fabric of her bikini.

The curl of an ocean wave,

the sphere of the sun by day,

the orb of the moon against a sultry sky

burning memories into the mind at night.

Cantelopes and watermelons,

Oranges at breakfast with toast

Apples of the eye, red as ripe strawberries

A slice of cherry pie with vanilla ice cream

Round, ripe fruits of summer

when everything seems possible

and every sun drenched tourist

sleeps to dream.

They are the people who talk about your life

because they have no life to call their own;

a second hand husband, a third hand wife;

a dog without its lost and buried bone.

Their tastes are vicarious, they have no style,

no personality for character flaws.

They wear a hilarious plastic smile

with all the sincerity of painted walls.

So pragmatic; they assume themselves,

they utterly lack inspiration.

The faults of others they love to tell

at the slightest hint of invitation.

They are catalysts of confusion;

drama kings and queens of pain.

Their pity party is all illusion,

with a wormy apple for a brain.

Gossipers, backbiters, judgemental fiends,

all of them sit in the very front pew.

The people beside them are not their friends.

They only came to hear more about you.

Its not identity theft but deprecation.

It's your wrong doing they're after.

You are the topic of their conversation,

the pawn of disbelief and laughter.

Great minds will always speak ideals

from the lofty heavens in the heart.

The mediocre mind speaks how it feels

on topical subjects or even art.

But small minds have no room for furniture.

They borrow and never give back.

They only talk of other's adventures

because their lives to others are boring fact.

Second hand living is not life at all

and a thorn in the side of others.

You long to hang up when they call

and you wonder why they bother.

It's to get the scoop on your life, you know?

Because they haven't one of ther own.

I wish they were frozen in glacial snows

so stiff, they might leave us alone.

And when they thawed from their new ice age

then they'd have a tale to relate.

Perhaps the beginning of a whole new page

flipped to a future by the hands of fate.

Until then, I guess that we must listen

to them babbling moronically on.

About that life or maybe this one

but I wish they'd find one of their own.

The smell of sweat and sunshine lingers beneath that of fresh cut grass.

The man on the radio says, "Its a hot one, so stay inside today."

The lawnmower sputters dead, the thing is clearly out of gas.

I guess its the poet in me that sees the metaphor along the way.

All winter, I was trapped inside because, "Its cold out there, be sure and bundle up."

There's only so much coffee and herbal tea one man can drink

but I resist the urge for whiskey and instead have another cup.

These morning hours spent working in the yard are time to think.

I've measured my life to the change of seasons, winter, spring, summer. fall

and the work these calloused hands and aching back achieved;

listened to the deejay give me oh, so many reasons, why I should not enjoy them all;

a conspiracy to keep me from enjoying life, if only I'd believed.

But instead I decided to live my life wide open; the same way I run the mower;

burning up my fuel on cutting grass that will only grow tall again;

never forgetting that pain and regretting are reasons not to take Ginko Bilboa.

I've drowned more than a memory or two in a glass of brandy or gin.

Now, what's that idiot on the radio saying? "We've got the blues to help cool you down."

So I suppose being happy is the next best thing to being hot.

But I listen because I like the music that he's playing; not a bad station I found.

And at my age a little inspiration is better than smoking pot.

Whether the sun is baking or they call for snow and ice, morning coffe is always good.

I just don't buy into all the deejay's advice, there's a few things my radio has to learn.

Maybe I'm not doing things the way that others think I should.

But I'll be damned if I let life pass me by because I'm afraid of a little sunburn.

The orange ball of the sun burned into the shadowy mountain mist.

The fog surrounding the dark pinnacled pines shifted, uneasy.

I have seen the lighted fires on the ocean's distant waves wax and wane thus.

It is like the glow of charcoal embers seekng breath to catch flame.

My mind wanders and remembers; a tiny infant's grasp around my finger,

a little puppy snuggled against my cheek on the pillow,

the broken sadness in my father's hazel eyes.

I can see the face of my best friend and feel his hand upon my shoulder.

But now, how many years has it been?

He is gone and I am slowly growing older.

At noon, the day is clear and bright but I am full of dreams.

Far away beaches with swaying palm trees beckon from snow white sands.

Rainbow trout are jumping in the swift current of cold clear streams.

But I am carried by thoughts and memories far from where I am.

I feel the pain of lost love like an arrow through my heart.

It is a shifting glacier of ice drifting cold to the pit of my stomach.

I feel the burden of sin on the back of the wretched creature I have been.

It is like the addict's monkey; a slave to death and destruction.

There was something that I wanted to say and pull the cork from

the bottom of my overflowing heart to let it spill out in ink on an empty page.

There was advice for my daughter, there were prayers to God,

there were things unsaid like the love between two men who were brothers,

there was healing and pain, hate and love, joy and suffering, patience and anger.

But it all lay behind a blanket of mist like the diffused disk of this morning.

I wanted to see things clearly as the bright fish living in his liquid dream.

But the water filled up my eyes instead and I wanted to laugh and cry.

I wanted to say from my heart the things no mortal ear has ever heard.

I wanted to reach up from the well of my soul and pour the cup of music full.

The salty taste of my own tears tells me that I am nothing but a fool.

Only a foolish poet would ever dare to try, when after all, all I have are words.

Thirteen generations since the mighty sea monster came;

poisoned the prince, devoured the queen and left the old king lame.

He left behind his dragon's riddle with a rhyme of prophecy.

And thus, he spoke by the castle mote for all to hear and see.

"Savage heart may not be slain except by the blood of Serenity.

Thirteen generations hence on the full moon I return.

A maiden then of thirteen years I will require of thee.

If she is not willing, then her father's house must burn."

Down through the generations, an alter was built at the place

where the lovely queen had lost her life, much to the king's disgrace

And the story was told of the dragon's words among the sages and seers.

Magicians plotted a righteous revenge down through the waiting years.

The alter and temple, long fell away, where took place the royal slaughter,

tonight, there by the light of the moon lay the brave king's only daughter

She offers herself, a sacrifice, upon the moonlit, midnight hour

Her only comfort is the sleepy scent of a magical flaming flower.

Her mother's joy, her father's pride; a princess like divinity

with an angel's face and heaven's grace, they call her name, Serenity

Silently she clutches the dainty petals to her breast

forgetting the stinging nettles and trying to do her best

For around the stem of the beautiful blooms rest razor crested knives,

the aroma rising in sweet perfume from the protector of her life

Now, at last, the midnight hour and the sea begins to churn.

Sweet Serenity is unafraid, her father's house shall never burn.

With a bloody hand she reaches out to touch the dragon's scales

And sends him writhing away in pain with mighty roars and wails.

Thus, the prophecy is fulfilled, the princess; spared all pain

with the bllod of Serenity spilled, the savage heart is slain.

All the kingdom around is filled with shouts of joy and laughter

Serenity is proclaimed the hero of happily ever after

The ancient alter is washed away on the sandy glittering shore

And the dragon's words no longer hold sway in the land of Evermore.

What a waste my life has been;

dreaming a poet's dreams while dancing with death.

What is life anyway but a dream in the mind

of a tired and sleeping God?

I know that Percy said I should not mourn

for Adonis but truly, I do.

Donne said that death should not be proud.

Proud is an idiotic way to die.

And Vincent, my swirling mad genious,

I hear your voice from the other side.

Caravaggio is there, drunk, waving his sword

claiming his knighthood they took away.

I see Jesus calling Matthew.

It is ironic that the greatest masterpiece sailed away

while the painter followed on foot across the desert

only to die in the sand of a foreign hateful land.

I suppose the fellow he killed near Rome

had a laugh in his grave at that.

Papa, when you blew your brains out, did it hurt much?

Did you take one last long look at the sea

and smoke one final fine cigar?

You gave us A Farewell to Arms and The Sun Also Rises.

Will it set just as beautiful on that distant shore?

Hey Jack, can you believe some thought you did yourself in?

I know better, even if you dreamed the thing drunk a time or two.

You loved life, The Snark and Charmian too much to go that route.

You even loved that old sow you had for a pet.

I loved you Jack and the world loved you too.

We have White Fang and The Call of the Wild to remember you.

That skinny guy in the cowboy hat with the Alabama drawl

wrote some great songs then died at twenty-nine.

If anybody has the blues to moan, we have him to thank.

Gentleman Jim called him Mr. Williams once.

He just stared intense with those thin smiling lips and said, "Its Hank."

Ray, they made a movie about you starring Jamie Foxx.

They didn't leave out the pain or the heroin.

I just remember Georgia on my Mind.

Jimi, I hope you and Janis are playing the stage in heaven.

You made Woodstock rock back in sixty nine.

There's Charles. Did the world ever figure out that you were Charlie Brown?

They will never forget Snoopy, or Linus, or Shroeder or Lucy.

You spent your whole life working for Peanuts.

What a waste my life has been. And I'm running out of breath.

I am but a dream in the mind of God

dreaming a dream and dancing with death.

The drift of snow across a frozen landscape whispers dusty dreams

The wind in majestic pines replies, "nothing is what it seems"

The Spirit moves in magic as the ocean swallows the shore

Atlantic arias tremble with tumultuous rumble and roar

Waterfalls crash from scattering heights like the breath of Niagara falls

Raindrops softly pitter patter windows, tin roofs and walls

The soothing roll of the embryo deep within mother's womb

Remembered times beyond words and rhymes, whalesongs without tunes

Thundering echos of lightning bolts that rip the blackened sky

Awaken years of primal fears from ages long passed by

The white noise of the world to me has always been my friend;

Physician which never asked a coin for healing the wounds of men

At the top of the world, high upon Mt. Everest, the sky is more black than blue.

The air is just too thin there for the refraction of light to bend and pass through.

But there are places in the hearts and souls of men that are just as void of life and love,

places that have never risen to the dizzy heights where nothing waits but heaven  above.

There is no star of hope in that black empty chamber of night, no shadows of silver gray,

but there, rests only the abscence of the Divine light with no promise of a coming day.

Here is a frozen puddle of tears, a mother cried who lost her child, a sad lament; a wail.

There is no port to launch the dreams of future times, no breath of life to fill their sails.

Here, the mourning pain of agony chokes and grips the spirit by the handle of doubt.

Woe; a cold chill wind, has blown upon the soul and the candle of life is snuffed out.

O Death, dear friend, sorrow finds it foolish you were ever considered a foe.

But now, with all the beauty gone from life, we long to walk wherever you go.

The nothingness far surpasses any representation of physical pain.

A cancerous mouth bares fangs and gnashes at the delicate tissues of the brain.

The longing cannot fill the lonely like the hoot owl's call from silent nights.

Darkness, empty, vast and only friend to desert sands that time has turned to ice.

Thundering echos of cannon fire with rumbling tanks that shudder and roar

roll over a landscape of broken bodies and the oozing entrails of endless war.

Here, a soldier screams and sweats, he turns face down to puke in the mud

and wakes in the morning with trembling lips he bites until he tastes the blood.

These are the places, the blank empty faces, that stare into an emptiness within

where once there lived a beating heart, no part is found where the darkness has been.

Time flies and fireflies, lightning strikes and lightning bugs, don’t bug the fireflies nor make light of them. They are energy conservative and working their tails off and on. I believe they signal summer is nigh like the honeysuckle shedding its sweet perfume. Butter fingers and butterflies, time slips away from us all but I am holding on to the wings of spring in my heart. I’m no mastermind with a master plan, just a slave to the belief that love and peace are all we need to become poetry.

Tired and drained by the work soaked week

Minutes drip by like used coffee grounds

What sort of reward is a little pork in the beans

When there's no flavor left in the brown stained hours

Scrub those small potatoes shiny white

Rub off the dirty red skins of yesterday's toil

The two A.M., three A.M. blues leave on the light

Where nothing good grows in the sandy worn out soil

Birds sing cheerfully on a bright Sunday morn

Hours before the first church bells ring

Sweating, regretting the day that was born

From the empty womb of night, I dare not sing

Serrated edge of sunlight slices jagged through the curtain

Peeling back my bloodshot eyes of sorrow

Tears and fears have gathered knowing nothing that is certain

Other than the labor of tomorrow

Aching muscles and broken dreams leave valiant men no hope

No metal in their souls there left to test

Staggering alone with injuries nearing the end of my rope

Hanging there and choking on the hallowed day of rest

Constellations unknown, stars unseen

That never came out at night

Or is there only darkness where

The earth leaves on the light

Does Solaris rule his throne; fiery unforgiven

Set to burn there all alone

On the other side of heaven?

Tiny sparks extinguished there by a greater flame

Identities relinquished without trace

Unseen, unknown; flickers without names

Hidden by the light upon their faces

While all the midnight eyes of men

Gaze in wonder on the others

Forgetting the brighter side of heaven

Are you jealous of your brothers?

Do the shadows bring contentment?

Is anonymity a curse?

Do you hide a dark resentment

For the poet and his universe?

Are there two sides to every story

If the story is never told?

Can those who do not shine with glory

Be as beautiful and bold?

Answer then, you nameless stars

Where never was hung a wish

The other side of heaven is far

Where darkness breeds forgetfulness

Alpine meadows flicker past beneath pinions of charcoal gray

Dwarf willows and krumholtz dot a vast and open landscape

What it must be to ride the eagle's wing from those dizzy heights

A spectacle like silver stars the heavens leave on at night

The cold becomes more tangible up where the air grows thin

Men were not meant to breathe this pure, after all, they're only men

This place is home to the wolf, the hawk and mountain lion

Dens and nests secluded below the ridge of scrubby pine

Yellow flowers, now in bloom, herald the coming spring

Tiny messengers of the sun burst with the joy of being

Whisper trickles echo from the crackling ice and snow

Adrift in streams like liquid dreams to the mighty Colorado

Bear cubs sniff the cave entrance where playful shadows leap

Tumbling over each other and mother who still lay fast asleep

But soon she will wake to motherhood; a wish within a dream

Feed and teach her tiny brood to fish from half-frozen streams

Worry and fear have no place here as they do so far below

Survival bends around swirling winds that stir the ice and snow

The pack howls, mother bear growls as she raises her weary head

Life returns to the sequined peaks; ressurected from the dead

Her dark eyes where lightning flashed

Are now washed clean with tears like rain

Our thundering voices, silently abashed

Have had all confidence in argument, slain

The calm that came before the storm

reflective, deceptive harbinger of pain

Cannot compare to loving arms

When held within that sweet embrace again

Dark clouds are bound to find our skies

But love like sunshine finds its way through

Let go of the jealousy, rage and lies

And hold on tight to me and you

Hope springs eternal where love eternal flows

A gentle breeze caresses soft and warm

Ever folding and unfolding like the petals of a rose

Into times of love and laughter... after the storm.

Between the bitter jaws of winter and summer's floral crown

The easy days of spring drip like honey onto the thirsty ground

The work soaked week has left men longing to drown in beer

Out their windows, they lean, shirtsleeves and cigarettes, listening

I do not know the songs they sing to the music in their minds

Traffic coughs, car speakers thump, children scream, all in one

Restaurants give rise to the aroma of hunger in the evening

Paychecks cashed, hands and hearts grow lighter with the night

Girls come down to the clubs dressed to the teeth in their smiles

Glitter and bling, patent leather pants wiggle down the concrete 

Sidewalking their way into the hearts and heads of anxious onlookers

Shirtsleeves and cigarettes are smoking themselves with anticipation

Hard earned money will be spent and bartenders roll up their sleeves

The night becomes a shattered glass filled with refracted reflection

Thoughts to flavor, passions to savor, plans to endeavor mix the stew

The bite of snow and ice is spent, the sweltering sun, a dream

There is fun to be had now that the work week is through

Where the nectar is the thickest, a gathering of bees

Collect the social pollen of a splintered springtime's eve

Painted pony on the carousel

round and round, up and down

The music plays a carnival tune

You bring such joy, you know so well

all the little smiling faces

You hear the children laugh and scream

in your plastic pony dreams

You're off to run the races

Hooves raised high up to the sky

You never touch the ground

While on this track they ride your back

and all the circus world goes round

Pony, don't you ever dream

of prancing on the earth?

This beam they've lodged into your heart,

does it drown the smell of the fairground dirt?

Do the candy apples look good to you

or the cotton candy the kiddies strew

in front of boothes and gaming tents?

Pony, would you like to take a chance?

I know you love to give them rides

But it seems sad to be hollow inside

Is that a painted tear upon your nose?

Pony, you make the children smile

and that must make your life worthwhile

and no one can ever take that away

even if they never bring you hay

So maybe my regal carousel friend

you have all you'll ever need

And no dreams exist to be anything else,

not even a living, breathing steed

Your life is in the joy you bring

and while you seem a lifeless thing

You are somewhat something more to me

There are creatures of flesh and blood

which bear no evil yet do no good

They claim no sorrow yet bring no joy

not even to one little girl or boy

Up and down, round and round

on God's great blue carousel they ride

They have no post to hold them down

But they are just as empty inside

And I feel that way from time to time

I long to come here and spend my dime

They say the ponies cost a dollar now,

well, wouldn't you know?

That's the way the merry round goes.

My dog likes pasta and tomato sauce

spaghetti, lasagna, with all four paws

Turned up waggy tail and pink fuzzy mouth

He's not from Italy, its a little further south

My dog likes rain, snow and ice cubes

In the summer he likes the water hose too

He loves to dig and bury his bones

But he hates big trucks and lawn mowers

He hates the vacuum cleaner too

But loves his master, that much is true

My dog loves to go for walks

He always listens when I talk

And I believe he understands

That him and me are best of friends

Do you have a dog or a special pet

you love and feed and take to the vet?

They can be different as we are because

my dog likes pasta and tomato sauce