I have let that blog go its way and it died...Am getting back to it.

Getting there

And a hah, and hon, and a my and a sigh
mommy what are you doing
nothing taking out the garbage
Mommy did you see uncle Camille?
Ill is good but good kill
is hell whole, is right bright
was uncle king of Kong
and did he slap the Pope
for no good reason.
No t'was Napoleon
Brother of Victor the Hugo
who gave the hussar his last drink,
in the wink of his brink
in the war, maybe Troy,
in old Greece
the horse ploy
yea that's the story
of the horse that was white somewhat lame
and for who back and front became same
never saw the sun shine
till he died
cuz of Jammes
who travelled on a train
that whistled three times
if any. Anymore is too much
any less ain't enough
yet she moves this flat earth
Galilee, told the man
who couldn't fit in his box when he died
and to rest in peace
had to sleep in fetus on his side
lie in peace, piece of rock
marble cups, filled with rut,
dirty love, heart of gold
black charcoal, on fire
the burned tongue
The speaker
call him Mo the leader.
race of men, massive thought
the silence of the lamb
Passed over for dinner
sacrificed for the child
angel's breath
love that sway in the wind,
floating leaves in the spring
sundown, the new day
the judgement, the pardon
love that shines in a song
angel wing in the skies.
Enveloping transparent atmosphere
the fruit, the apple, the sweet flesh
The child, the perfume, the woman creation
the music of the art, sending lights of pastel
in a field of colors: God's aquarelle
The artist with his brush tracing a river
in the center of the bed in its depth
a sailor harpoons his dream
and the dream pulls the ship
in the path of its feel
angelic sensation
peace inside
the warmth of the race
and the grace of life
the new birth through the death
the white sheet, the cover made of lace
lashes resting on the cheek
the slightly parted lips
let escape the last whisper of the breath
Forgiveness, blessed love, the dream of a dream
and the powerful thrust bringing on life again.

The clarinetist

j ludwikowski tolstonog

I heard his clarinet on Burbank, near the freeway.
He was there the old man, he was there again today
through the car window, I handed a bill to him, one dollar
holding his music, for a short while,
he brought his hand close to mine,
I held it for a flash It felt cold, and dry against my palm
I loved him, I loved him nice, with all my heart
I still can feel the rough cut of his lifeline.
Thanks, he said…Driving off, I wondered if perhaps,
he despised me for being white

Circle

j. ludwikowski tolstonog

Seashells, a pile of sand
A lost soul flying by
The sea, the wind over the land
A man, a life,
One step, one thought
One experience, insight
…Still a life
Knowledge, wisdom, blessed light
Slow burning fire,
Fusion
Confusion,
Oversimplification
The march of time
Burst of vision
The Hand that passes
To erase the misconception that we call life
A lost soul going by
A few shells, a pile of sand...
A gentle breeze has cleaned the land.