Poetry & Songs, by Charles Carreon

Identified as a trouble maker by the authorities since childhood, and resolved to live up to the description, Charles Carreon soon discovered that mischief is most effectively fomented through speech. Having mastered the art of flinging verbal pipe-bombs and molotov cocktails at an early age, he refined his skills by writing legal briefs and journalistic exposes, while developing a poetic style that meandered from the lyrical to the political. Journey with him into the dark caves of the human experience, illuminated by the torch of an outraged sense of injustice.


Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 4:48 am

Supernatural Wail, by Charles Carreon

As I rode home just yesternight
I heard the banshee scream,
And a strange wind came
from the wild fen, and my heart
began to grieve.
I laid the lash to my horse's flank
and spurred her through the dark;
Her shoes struck hard in the moistened earth;
Her hooves flung flying sod.
The oaks along the river bank
were shook as by a storm,
And as I dodged their tossing arms
I prayed to the Blessed One.
I left the winding river road
at the base of the Eastern hills,
But behind still followed an evil laughter,
the omen of sorrow and ills.
Still urging on my faithful mare, whose
mane seemed touched with elfish fire,
We bounded over the tumbled stones
and leapt the tangled briars.
As I crested the knoll I sought the light
of my cottage below in the vale --
Only dark met my eyes -- in the meaningless night
I heard the departing wail.
The spell was broke and filled at once as my
horse blew a shuddering breath.
We both looked around at the glittering sky
as silent and strange as death.
Down in the valley I wandered all night,
'till dawn came to seal my despair,
And away in the village, the people, all strange,
regard me with awe and chagrin,
And kindly say, "Sir, in the place that you name,
there's never a house that has been."
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 4:49 am

Sword of the Wind, by Charles Carreon

Penetrating the interstices
of the world,
Breathing through the holes,
gaps, and cracks
in mountains, caverns
trees and teetering shacks,

The sword of the wind,
delicate as a whisper,
tastes the surfaces
of all exposed forms,
savoring the contours of terrain.

With deft, gentle strokes,
pressing the formless form of mist,
with unbluntable edge
shaping the clouds
like a swordsman playing with smoke,
sometimes leading, sometimes following,

Dividing the hills,
dabbling the surfaces of
lakes and brooks,
rattling the dry branches
of winter, removing every
wisp that obscures the
eye of the sun,

The implacable blade has
innumerable emanations,
everywhere addressing the
face of substance, even in
stillness standing at attention
with the edge before.

Light itself blesses the blade,
An invisible gleam runs all down its length,
And settles in the empty sky.
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 4:53 am

Tales of the Pioneers, by Charles Carreon


The old ones came when they were young.
Beautiful, without shoes,
Treading delicately on morning dew,
Drinking dawn air like
An ecstatic fluid.

The old ones knew nothing when they came,
Having fled homes of privilege,
The taste of things rustic being novel,
Their works were fanciful,
Emblazoned with imagery of dreams.

The old ones shared seed with each other,
And children blossomed like wildflowers
Covering the hillsides way up the mountains.
The old ones built the corrals of stone,
The houses of wood, dug the wells.

The old ones left an ambiguous legacy --
Prayer flags flap in the breeze,
Their words were those of libertines,
Sacrifice and ceremony were known to them,
But a cacophonous destructive tone marked their songs.

The old ones did not give much thought to history --
Their early goals changed like tadpoles,
Just in time when the puddles dried up,
And pragmatism drove them on when ideals
Proved too capricious to bear the load.

The old ones broke the soil
And it sullied them;
The first generation shall not see
The promised land; from the love
Of my ten thousand descendants
Shall come the seed to save my heart.

(1/14/94, Colestine)
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 4:56 am

Tasting the Edge of Dawn, by Charles Carreon


In the chill morning
The dark, solid shadows of the pines & firs
Dominate the hillside,
Permitting only glimpses
Of the pre-dawn moon, glowing
Full and naked
In the cloudless, star-specked sky
Above the western ridge.

The dawn comes gently creeping,
Preparing the arrival of the sun,
A spreading ripple of radiance,
Silencing gentle chatter
In the gallery of the stars.
The eastern mountains,
Robed in darkness,
Backlit in silver-blue,
Call the earth to order,
True vassals of the sovereign,
Enthroned through no power
Of their own, their voices rumbling
In profound serenity
Downward through deep veins of stone
As quickening light touched
Their peaks
And opens eyes of snow.

A tiny man of flesh and bone
Wandering over the frozen dirt
That glitters with countless crystals
Of frozen water,
Will gaze about him and
Beneath him
And discover
A lack of tethers,
A great silence ready to respond
With echoes only to his any word.
Tree bark, lichen-patched stone,
Blades of dried grasses
Rimed with frost --
One need only forget
To be utterly lost.

Residing on a spinning ball
We cannot depart from
But only fall into,
We forget the cliff,
The abyss of no experience
Into which we will tumble
When death pulls his abrupt
And exceedingly impractical joke.

Nevertheless, all rise,
The sovereign Lord appears,
Speaking eloquently with
Ten million warming rays
To bathe, caress and possess
All the numberless creatures
Born of boundlessness.

Colestine, 1/30/94
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 9:02 pm

... That Naughty Girl, by Charles Carreon

that naughty girl
won't behave ...
Like a page from a comic book,
She's a total outrage,
And rules are confetti,
As she flies through the storm,
dressed in something revealing
to keep others warm.
She's ancient as the twisted trees
that cling to blasted peaks,
and youth is but the fashion of the day.
Poisons pump through her veins
in stifling succession,
leaving her intoxicate with rage.
Strong medicine's needed for this one,
and a quick trip away from
the carnival of pain,
But like Dorothy seeking OZ
and homesick for Kansas,
With a horde of evil minions
on her trail,
She must remember the trick
And click
Her heels together
and say goodbye to this place,
Hello to Auntie Em.
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 9:03 pm

The Boatman Song, by Charles Carreon

For all you boatmen out there ...
Put on your boat shoes and
Row, row, row,
Row those sentient beings ashore.
Just keep rowing as hard as you can,
And then row some more.
The lust for life is a never ending fire
that you cannot extinguish with your preaching,
So as long as you love Buddha
You must slave away
Converting beings to his Teachings!
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 9:06 pm

The Company You Keep, by Charles Carreon


An angel broke into my apartment,
And stole all my things:
He stole my watch, so I couldn't
get up to go to work;
He stole my shoes, so I couldn't
go out in decent society;
He stole my memory, so I couldn't
remember who I was.
Just goes to show ...
You've gotta watch the company you keep.
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 9:09 pm

The Consummation of Snarfo, by Charles Carreon (14 years old)


But today
Snarfo took over.
Of course, no one knows,
But Snarfo, you, and me
You see.
But, to be brief,
Snarfo won against them
Because, well they were so specific,
And he so vague
It was inevitable,
Victory, you see.
Their preciseness was bound to break
Under stress,
And the very cloudiness
Of Snarfo's offensive
Made infiltration of their defense

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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 9:16 pm

The Dice Man Meets Nixon and Me At 4:30 A.M. In the Downtown Portland Days Inn, by Charles Carreon


That long night driving through the snow on un-studded highway tires, sliding once and carving a slow donut with a roostertail of snow, was the highpoint, watching others do similarly the vicarious thrill, arriving in the Portland Days Inn at 4 a.m. the apotheosis, laying down in my cheap bed paid for by my client the very peak, listening to the racketing piece of ice knocking about in the fan above me a step too far, that sound was like a crazy strange attractor spelling out my name in fractal images of repetitive not-quite-randomness. Having to get up in just a few hours to appear in court put edge on pain. Knowing I'd done this so many times before gave me confidence. Having done it many times before made me know that I had to lie down and rest every nerve even if it wouldn't sleep. Measuring out time in thin slices to move from edge to edge downward into darkness, I reviewed the books on the shelf which the downtown Portland Days Inn thoughtfully provides -- old books, usually some Reader's Digest Condensed Books, but some good titles, too, I bet somebody's got Tagore, and somebody else has Ivanhoe, and probably several people have Catch 22 but nobody's got Bambi. At any event I found with some surprise, delight, pleasure, that I had a copy of "The Dice Man," and this is in Room 517 if someone hasn't stolen it, I didn't, I was restrained, not looking for souvenirs when I already had the experience. This book, "The Dice Man" was something my friend Richard Coulter had told me about long before when I was a little experimenter. The Dice Man, the narrator of the novel had chosen to live life as Russian Roulette, extinguishing predictability with one stroke by willing over his will to the roll of the dice. But what really caught my attention was the mention of Nixon, and particularly, Nixon's "sense of history" in the introduction of the novel. You see, there was a photograph of Nixon leaning on his desk in the Oval Office hanging in Room 517. And at 4:30 a.m. I had this looming coincidence to deal with. Was this room the product of some clever interior designer's psychic weaving of subtle themes? Or was it, more likely, mere coincidence, a chance event? On that note, listening to the racketing piece of ice like a doomed ball in a demonic roulette wheel bounding not quite randomly, not quite regularly above my poor, benighted, weary head, I slipped off to sleep, or something like it.
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 9:20 pm

The Galleries of Sky, by Charles Carreon

This desert morning dawns a fair one,
The sweetness of moist earth and soft sun.
The fragrances of morning
On windy breaths ascend
The winding stairs of rippled light
Where thunder like a lion prowls
The galleries of sky.
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