Poetry & Songs, by Charles Carreon

For the sake of ornament and illumination.

POETRY

Postby admin » Mon Sep 30, 2013 11:09 pm

Reverie, by Charles Carreon

bed of azure blue
coverlet of drifting cloud
flesh and bone at rest
eyes close, embrace
snow-covered hills

cool air blows clear in silence
pure wind skirts the drifted mountain
bristled branches of evergreen cast
crisp shadows
blue on naked snow
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Postby admin » Mon Sep 30, 2013 11:10 pm

Run Run Ambu Run, by Charles Carreon

Well everybody's heard
That Ambu's bad,
'Cause she dumped a cup of coffee
In DoubleFish's lap,
and she told Namdrol
He's full of crap,

Run run,
Ambu Run,
Run, run,
And we'll have some fun
Ridin' motorscooters in the summer sun

Well they give her lots a shit
Cause she's full of sass,
and acts like she's the best piece of ass,
But she tears up the malt shop
Like hell on wheels,
And nobody gets back all the things she steals.

Run, run,
Ambu run,
Run, run
Ambu run,
We'll be ridin' motorscooters in the evenin' sun.

Well the Buddhists thought they owned
the whole damn field,
But she borrowed a monster truck
to make things real,
And when they saw how things were lookin'
They just started bookin,
Straight for the parkin' lot.

Run, run
Ambu run,
Run, run,
Ambu run,
'Cause you're headed for the beach and some wild fun!

Well she poked old Kusum Lingpa
right in the eye,
Fixed up Segal with a beerful of lye,
Smoked out Cathy Burroughs
with her lace and leather,
Frowned her brows
And made Arch Stanton act better,
So they backed up a little,
Then they revved up a lot,
Which is when she peeled out
with her Hemi hot.

Run, run
Ambu run,
Run, run,
Ambu run,
And let's go ridin' motorscooters in the morning sun.

Run, run
Ambu run,
Run, run
Ambu Run,
Waaaoooooooooooo
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Postby admin » Mon Sep 30, 2013 11:12 pm

Safe From Realization, by Charles Carreon

This Buddha wisdom we so admire
Is likened to a funeral pyre
Consuming all,
It does not leave behind
A library.
The erudite
have nothing to fear from Nirvana;
it is farther away
each day.
This literary club
we so enjoy
is just a ploy
to avoid taking a walk
in the park.
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Postby admin » Mon Sep 30, 2013 11:13 pm

Sandwich, by Charles Carreon

Experiences are like bacon, lettuce and
tomato sandwiches;
 
Concepts are like toothpicks
holding them together.
 
What is the toast?
Heaven and earth, the rising
of the sun and moon.
 
What is the lettuce?
Nostalgia for the First Garden.
 
What is the tomato?
Birth.
 
What is the bacon?
The addictive taste of desire.
 
What is the mayo?
Me and you. 
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Postby admin » Mon Sep 30, 2013 11:14 pm

Seed, by Charles Carreon

Image

Through bare window,
silent sand.
 
Mist veils distant ranges in
light dust of azure powder.
 
Rising sun, one drop of blood,
suffuses mist with spectral corolla
of solar radiance.
 
At the heart of the sun,
a vibrational seed, the emanating stillpoint,
radiates warmth.
 
In the matrix of the seed,
amid nonfinite transparent lattice rays,
silence, a vast sky of light.
 
In the light,
intrinsic energy engulfs sense/knowing.
 
Engulfed in light, who rests
within/beyond self, sun, seed.
 
Seed sprouts,
again self, sun, one drop of blood.
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 4:21 am

Shadow Children, by Charles Carreon

There in the shifting light
Lean the shadow children.
Seeking shelter from the cold--
Bleak survivors growing old,
They don't know what childhood is
They don't know what loving was,
 
They'll fade before the break of day,
Shadow children go away.
Go away.
 
I'd like to think that they
Are only figments of my mind,
But childish fingers clutch at me
And hang on tight to what they find.
 
Tracing fire in my soul,
Sobbing sorrow they grow old--
Shadow children full of weakness
Shadow children raised on bleakness
Shadow children come away
Come away to stay.
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 4:22 am

She Was Born, by Charles Carreon

She was born from one drop of blood
So red so pure so hot
it couldn't be contained
in any vessel
and burned away everything
before she took form.

Her tongue so ripe
licks away the surface of change
to reveal the immutable skeleton of flame,
Her fangs so sharp
penetrate the arteries of pain,
Her lips so full
fasten on to the neck of grief
and drain all the dark blue blood
from the frame of the walking dead.

Desire unquenchable
causes her to writhe, yearning
to reach the heart of the matter,
To twist out the dark root
with claws so kind,
'till the rich red color of her
floods forth, drenching
the subject of her tender mercies
with release,
Leaving one more
Bubbling scarlet,
At last breathing free --
Then on to the next.

She was born for this work.
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 4:24 am

Signs of the Times, by Charles Carreon

A man in a four-colored jacket beckons,
His silver buttons gleam.

A maid in a gown of emerald smiles,
Her eyes emit bright beams.

A dragon in his lair turns 'round,
His spines bestir the deep.

Ten million golden fishes flash
Their scales in your sleep.

Breathe deep the alien air my friend,
All things will come in time.

Remember never a man was hanged
Who spoke only in rhyme.
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 4:25 am

Silver, by Charles Carreon

Limpid moon shining
over shaggy trees swaying,
barely, in the night breeze.
This is the world,
the one I long to pierce,
exploring the silvery forms,
the illusive gleam between
the seen and the perceived.
With the fox and the bat,
my eyes devour with gentle passion
the gossamer images that abundantly appear
in ever subtler subtlety,
the shadows of the trees,
the fingers of the leaves,
the tracery of branches
the wisping curls of cloud.
All night, dark and light,
changing places,
Dancing liquid starlight poured upon
the flesh of the eye.
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 4:26 am

Sinecure of Moonlight, by Charles Carreon

Poor petals,
You have lost your blossom --
Unfortunate leaves,
You have lost your places on the Tree.
Upright, upon our feet,
We walk among the fleeing hordes
Blown by the killing wind. We find
the flushed corpses of blossoms
Rotting in wetness.
Our eyes reflect the color of the sky,
We are wrapped in the blanket of the wind,
We stand and watch the exodus of clouds,
Escaping over the horizon.
The abandoned shed,
tilting slightly on rotten beams
Affords sweet, if tenuous shelter,
The rickety walls showing splinters of light --
Nail and knotholes where the wind
Ventures probing fingers of transparent blue.
Here I could live
On a sinecure of moonlight,
On a stipend of grass,
Receiving remittances from sparrows,
Sleeping in old hay,
Reading the scraps of outdated dailies.
Watching the course of prolific summers,
Inhaling the splendor of moth-studded nights,
At last you might discover a road out,
Appearing like a mirage in the north wall --
Passing through, you might find yourself
At last among the migrating stars.
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