Ruminations of the Dead

The dead ruminate in their sleep

and their sleep

is a very deep

and fire quenching

sleep.

The dead…

some live deep inside

our heads;

not so dead.

Others live only

in their deep

and ruminating sleep.

They are truly dead.

The dead think about

the things that were,

about the Book perhaps

they never read,

Some think about the book

that was never written.

The whiteness

of it’s blank pages is

a silent nightmare

in their head.

Some think about

the words

that were never said,

Some about

and the words

that were better

left unsaid

in the world.

Some think about the thoughts

that crystallized into

words, acts and deeds.

Some think about the anger,

Some about the peace.

Some think of those

left still alive,

some of whom are blind

and sleep

while they’re left

still standing on their feet.

They can’t divine

or read or write

the Book

before them.

Some think only of

the child ,

of the children’s grief,

About their suffering,

About how they long

To be whole.

The thoughts

of the dead float amongst

the monotone drone

of a monk’s prayerful song

and the single strum

and twang on the instrument of soul.

The ruminations of the dead

are long,

bodies now long gone,

they contemplate,

the bag of fertilizer

that they were,

and that we are,

to be spread across

the fabric of the universe.

Their ruminations

move beyond.

They think of the

gate

and of the broad

and upward tree

that spreads arms

well past the ages

unto the ages

and into an embrace beyond.

“From Ruminations of The Dead” by PWChaltas

Dance

Dance with me

My love

Let me feel

the ethereal weight

of your palm

in mine

with extended arms,

my right hand lightly

touching on

your back,

and yours on mine.

Together we will twirl

across celestial skies

We will pirouette

among the stars

and constellations

stepping both in time,

lit up by the moon.

Together

we will commune

and be alive

gliding across

those endless skies

of moonlit

milky white

that fall

into the dark black

spaces at the bottom

of the night.

Let’s dance

In eternal motion

and in the twinkling

rhythms of love.

Dance with me

Love,

Let’s both be made alive

for now,

for eternity,

and for the moment .

 From “Ruminations of the Dead “by PWChaltas

No Money in Poetry

They say

there is

no money in poetry,

and that  all poets

have other jobs,

or are people of means,

or even dilettante sons and daughters

of the rich,

except for Bukowski

who took a leap

among the cockroaches,

the booze

and was taken care of.

They say there is no money

In poetry unless

you’re  a Cohen

and can sing,

or just fashionably famous,

wise and  can win

a Nobel prize.

I say so what.

You do what you love,

and what feels right.

You say what you

need to say

to make the pain

go away,

and say what needs

to be said,

simply because it needs

to be said.

Sometimes the obvious,

sometimes obtuse truths,

Sometimes the unspeakable,

must  be said

because in the

final analysis

and human denouement,

we are all dead…

so might as well

say what needs

to be said

before the time comes

that we all end up

that way,

to see If anybody out there listens,

anybody out there cares,

If anybody out there

wants to hear

a truth or two,

or make a difference.

I bet a poet’s income

that they do..

 From “Free Verse in Useless Times ” by PWChaltas

Water and Words

Water and words

can wear

and break things

down.

They conversely

can give life

and fortify

another round,

 perhaps a win.

They can make,

the hardest hearts

and walls cave in,

or make the will of stone

wear down

persistently and slowly.

Water and words

whether taking many shapes

or meanings ,

whether clear or frozen,

whether cleansing or polluting,

make the stuff

of victory and love,

of hate or sin ,

of life or dissolution .

 From “Next Steps to Paradise” by PWChaltas

Give it a Rest Buddy

Give it a rest buddy.

Have a heart.

Let’s not give

the varying

shapes

and sizes

of humanity,

such a start.

Be gentle,

It’s easier

all the way around .

He can’t help himself 

can’t you see?

Why pulverize him

into dust

and put him down

into the ground.

Give it a rest buddy.

Don’t go to town.

Just have a heart 

and let him be. 

He’s been seriously

hoping to be free 

from his afflictions ,

and he’s dying too,

just like you ,

just like me. 

 From “Mercy Brother ” by PWChaltas

Man of Tall Letters and Passion

The T was a thousand stories high

And when they hung him

from the top,

It made the vestal virgins

sigh with sorrow.

It made them cry

the Tears that stood for T.

The I was less than

a single story high

because for him

The I meant nothing.

And so The I

that he became

stood for

for Immemorial,

which his remembrance

was to be.

The M was 40 stories high

and a reflected

mirrored symbol

of the passion

He endured.

It stood for Mortal Mantel .

The E was too

a thousand stories high .

It was made of

human  Error,

one top the other

like mortared

carnal bricks

piled high.

Together the letters

of the man of passion

spell a word through

which he travels

and

beyond which he

has traveled,

and survives.

The Orphan, the Immigrant, and the Survivor.

The Orphan , the Immigrant

and the Survivor..

They are three.

Sometimes,

and at different times,

we are all of us orphans,

and some are more than others,

and for longer times.

And some always remain

orphans in their minds.

And sometimes we are immigrants,

traveling from one place to another,

leaving behind all the familiar

and our comforts, our attachments,

and our home,

to know and feel

just what it means

to be human,

and to be free,

and all on our own .

And there is

another immigrant too

that is in us,

and that we are in,

that is our soul,

that travels

across space

and time,

and dimensions

without number.

Some of us may be martyrs ,

but not all of us are survivors..

They are a special breed,

with well connected

thought and deed,      

they survive to often spread                                                                  

their seed.

They are themselves devoted,

and are disciples of hope

or faith or greed ,

and sometimes of all three.

And kindness must be shown

to the orphan,

and to the wandering immigrants,

on their journey all on their own,

as the survivor must remember

that the survivor is often left,

and remains alone,

and all on his own,

unconnected to wander,

whether In the physical world,

or in the well traveled corridors,

of the survivor’s mind.

Without question,

and sometimes without mercy,

the survivors are all left in time,

to contemplate their fate,

and the final

dropping of the stone,

that must be faced alone,

and with a singular

survivor’s resolve,

that is tested to the bone .

From”Dreams For A Saturday Morning ” By PWChaltas

This poem is based on a character from Orlando Furioso . It is the third and final “Pig Poem”. The poem is not autobiographical or about any person living or dead, but there are and have been those who exhibit Senoir Brunello’s particular peculiar characteristics and traits .

Only Senior Brunello Knows

Only senior Brunello

knows

just what happens

late at night .

He’s always readyfor a fight .

He’s always right.

He rarely ever spends the evenings

with his wife

except for balls

and special events .

Senior Brunello’s brothers

only know bits and pieces.

Sometimes he takes one

or two out at a time,

But always different ones

at different times,

only where needed and

always according to his plan .

He’s the only one who knows it all ,

and that’s all that he cares to say ,

as he takes a page from Frankie and

Paul’s harmonic notes

and does it all his way.

Senior Brunello

likes them young,

as do certain well accomplished

men his age.

He gets what he wants

when he wants,

and gets to play the sage.

He’s tamed his girls

and his wavy curls,

with hair slicked back,

professionally coloured,

just the right way,

and eye brows plucked,

to hide his age .

The priapitic advances

of doctors help him perform,

otherwise he’d

just have to use his tongue

as he did in days of old

on toes and such.

Success comes

no matter what

the cost,of that,

Senior Brunello makes sure.

His intentions are somewhat

something less than pure.

It’s seems to

Senior Brunello

and all his aides

that he’s never at a loss

for actions or for words.

And Senior Brunello

unadmittedly is getting old

but still is so very much in love

with cash and gold.

Although now he naps just a bit more

during the day

and sometimes,

very rarely,

he forgets, they say.

But sometimes late,

late at night,

after the shinning latex

and the black nylons

are all gone, he cries alone,

even though

he’s been desensitized

by money, lust and fame.

He knows what he practices

and preaches will one day

come his way,

and he thinks about his Momma .

( Everybody’s got a Momma .

He’s got a Momma too.)

He knows that sooner or later

there will be

“no mercy brother “.

So Senior Brunello

just may decide to quit

and sleep most of the day .

And senior Brunello

can be likened to

a sometime sentimental pig,

the closest animal to a human,

with a facsimilie of the human brain,

who plays the  piggish game,

wallowing In the lavish

pen of his own making .

And he is intimate with,

and the only one who  knows

each and every spec of his surrounding filth.

Lately though there’s been

a nagging inkling

and he’s been quite seriously thinking

there may be one Other

whose been watching all this time,

over his very shoulder.

He wonders about the visibility

of his crimes.

And as is common knowledge and

as we all know ,

ultimately

pigs in pens are always bred

for slaughter.

This most everybody knows.

From “Mercy Brother” by PWChaltas