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NB I

Vinny — Sat, 19 May 2012 02:34:10 +0000

Sol berating as a life ill-chosen upon the brain,
witches brewing wicked and
pecans withered before the mast.
Inscrutable my heart and
young,
too many winters and
throat shot for the trying.
Too high in the mix sit the toms.
The pianist has too much vibrato, but
yet time passes, the
moments dripping from destiny as
so much blood.
Crown me the body emergent,
O Muse! and
allow my shriek to
pierce
worlds.

Though My Flesh Breathe

Vinny — Fri, 11 May 2012 11:21:53 +0000

Do not mistake me glorious.
Though my flesh breathe and my visage be fair and though
I speak with the tongues of angels, the
forsaken ossuary balm
pervades the absence of worth.

A hollow place,
hidden,
less eagerly searches, and accepting
                                                  bows
                                                          its
                                                              head
                               and the cup of resignation runneth over.

Dark the morning and
hapless the heartache, the unrequited guessing of a
farewell or a greeting.
Mellow in the moonlight the song sung sweetly,
a spinning wheel without
end.

Waters,
lift me up upon thy crest;
permit my slender pittance to burden thee,
and in fine bear me

Home.

Immortal

Vinny — Wed, 02 May 2012 01:02:27 +0000

A scintillating forge of memories.
                        arcing ageless
Distant the vision                     to evenstar horizons,
  my grasp outreaching -
fingers of dying light in chorus
eternal.
Never the gleaming cadence.
Tempered. Quenched.
An omen still phantom
for all the years of searching,
  and deeper now
                        and urgent
                        returns the endless query.

The forging.
The forging.
The forging.

Swallowtails

Vinny — Tue, 07 Jun 2011 20:05:05 +0000

Swallowtails airily dancing above
{high-flown sentiment,
lofty outlines -
noble plan of campaign}
young eyes awash in past victory.

Would that lines ever stood fast.
Would that eyes ever beamed bright.
Would that eyes never beheld
ears never caught
heart never knew
the handiwork of too high an aim.

Mirror

Vinny — Sun, 05 Jun 2011 20:42:17 +0000

Precipice abrupt.

The deep howls itself wide,

jarring derision.

30MAY2011

Vinny — Thu, 26 May 2011 06:29:25 +0000

Despite all the things that I disliked about my time in the military, I still miss it frequently. Perhaps I just grew so used to it that now everything else feels foreign. Perhaps the act of offering one’s life to an idea is one of the few things a life is worth in the short time it is given. Perhaps the man beside you is the dearest treasure of all.

To those who have gone before, choosing that the idea was more sacred than breath, whether the world knows not your name or whether history will tell your tale a thousand years from now, and to my noble comrades who know the meaning of sacrifice, I salute you. Happy Memorial Day.

Untitled 949

Vinny — Wed, 09 Mar 2011 18:47:49 +0000

Visions darken,
soothingly star-blankets winking, the
voices of earth calmingly
bearing the descending cup of evening to her intended.

The poet Alambil (with) Tarva the huntress
beacons to the chosen,
shimmering descant damascened in hemispheric sable
and the warrior guards.

Amid the gardens of forever vanity
mouths the query but
pregnant pauses the respondent and ashamed while the
lost children tell no tales.

Stone-wrought visages

Vinny — Mon, 07 Mar 2011 22:20:37 +0000

Stone-wrought visages
weathered
by the storm,
lining the lane leading
to the
groves of death.

Like statues in the gardens of dreaming,
each face a lifetime singing -
promises exchanged and tales.
Glances kept downward,
eyes glazed but hopeful -
for recognition thirsting.
Ever the path pursuing,
fruitless journey:
turning away,
turning away.

The sun bloodies the river

Vinny — Mon, 07 Mar 2011 17:42:04 +0000

Mahogany in his nostrils, smooth-polished beneath his fingertips that sit beside the cold glass. The sounds of a land across the water, the bow sweet-stroked over the strings and the bright voice ringing. Curious that so strong an association arises, unknown as they are. Neither are they of his own place and his own sounds, but from across the water in a greener land - not the tor-flagged home which he cannot envision in his thought and yet of which he misses the sight. Mist-ridden landscapes sharpened with unblemished grass. Pregnant fog on the wet stone. Cold. Things remembered? Things conjured? Never to know, never to know.

The sun bloodies the river, and red the water goes,
A new dawning rising swift, the sky a shade of rose.

Maryland, 2010

Vinny — Fri, 01 Oct 2010 14:09:58 +0000