The Poems of Dumas

The Weaver

All that's died shall yet still live,
All that's taken, is yours to give,
Fishes keep me from my grave,
yet I seek them in night time waves.

There's no dust beneath my feet,
cleansed again between your sheets,
My heart is yours to give or take,
I taste your salt until I wake.

Kites

Isadore

Star Dust

I am simple as a stick,
or a shadow, take your pick,
We make merry and die so young,
all before this song is sung.

Rivers, oceans, all run deep,
fishes in them can really speak,
they would show you, if you would listen,
a path of stars that you should christen.

Your steps would take you to this place,
where only angels know your face,
Your secret's safe with they and me,
as we swim in starry seas.

And as our heart rust turns to silver,
children laugh in emerald clover.

The Gypsie's Path

Sleeping

A fisher's tears don't come cheap,
yet without them, I'm not complete,
so at night I toss and turn,
and seek these dreams of no return.

Colorado

Run not away on April's Day,
words like grasses hold their sway,
otters, trout, and fools at play,
in a shadow, a shepherd prays.

He prays for something that he has lost,
stars must linger as his hosts,
You cannot flee this love that we feel,
Mountain trout must fill his creel.

Migrations

Return to me Spring's first flower,
the one the Cripple Shepherd lost,
near Achilles Fountain,
tossed in winter grass, of this I'm certain.

Return to me my reaching soul,
the one the fishes woke,
when in seaborne storms they spoke,
while dancing with the Ocean folk.

Return to me all that's left,
beneath the moon, the sun and forest mist.
Return to me the wind and rain,
my song revealed by a silver crane,

but most of all...
...return....

Weeping Willows

Question

Biology Class

Conservation

An Ill Fitting Shoe

Scalloped towers rise from ocean depths,
one by one, we trace our steps,
to the home of fabled fishes,
let the fool gild your dishes.

He will song you soft at night,
weave you dreams of harsh delight,
waste the seams of your once dread,
and plant these seeds in your head.

The Woman's Burden

Men are cruel when long in tooth,
not much better, right from birth,
Send them all upon some quest,
ere too long, they'll find your breast.

Be but gentle in this time,
we're but here for a while,
I'll near death, so proud and brave,
if you just, smile and wave.

Trolling

Sheer Meaningless Whimsy

The Bath House

Webs

What crazy webs these spiders weave,
causing lovers to make us grieve.
A trinket buried in the sand,
tell of pirates on the land.

A dimpled smile is all I seek,
no other treasure would I keep,
Blue/green eyes would make me weep,
a dream I'd send you, in my sleep.

A kiss upon these worried lips,
will let this secret from them slip.
Oceans and Oceans I have sailed,
to find someone to spin this tale.

Look into a mirror some foggy night,
Is it really Heaven's light?
What reflection do you see?
Is it you or is it me?

Silvery Elvers.

Peace

The Hunter

A Cruel and Morose Poem

 ** As you can tell, I had a bad day, with a rather annoying political hack.
Excusez moi and on the morrow I'll attempt to craft a song of beauty and dance.

The Traveler

"Sing me a song!", I implored,
"My soul is empty and I am bored."
He looked at me, winked and grinned,
and found my very last bottle of English gin.

He wet his whistle and then he spoke,
his voice so clear, behind the smoke,
"Don't look further than your heart,"
"to find the answer to what you're not."

"We travelers are born in dew"
"I came here seeking the likes of you"
and so as my ankles turned to water,
I found myself, in the eyes of my father.

Beware of Gifts Bearing Geeks

I know I've sinned and sinned alot,
I hold no seat in Camelot,
but I will fight them to the last,
before my death mask's final cast.

I know that reptiles need a place,
but not so close to my bearded face,
Send them now, perhaps forthwith,
to my favorite geek, named Word Smith!

(Thank you, I bow, Thank you.....)

Fishing

A Whisper

The Song of a Loon

Cravings

The Rain of Angels

The Return

Redemption

The Fountain (Rated PG-13)

I'm getting old, I confessed,
the bones won't move, they need their rest,
lovers who once spilled from my door,
referred to me now, as a bore.

I had heard of a man named Ponce,
who'd restore my youth, all at once,
but he could not take a shine to you,
once you took that pebble, from my shoe.

Now the blood pours in my heart,
and other places, no more rot,
If any maidens still are laughing,
they'd best be off, before it happens.

One Past The Eleven

The Eleven were here this morning,
all in black as apt for mourning,
dirges sung while harmony lacked,
all in keeping with burlap sacks.

They said your children have lost their way,
we bring their meals on pewter trays,
yet you and I kissed and watched the sparks,
that lit this world and chased a lark.

In meadows he once spoke to us,
before these bones turned to rust,
in millenia still to come,
I'll keep his promise to your son.

Grown tall and handome as a tree,
wild and raging, while still free,
no cages, shackles meant for thee,
shall keep you loving, this reflection, we.

A Hackle Of Swans

I swore that the swans once spoke
at dawn around Tristan's lake,
Yet the God's defied, plot only doom,
'tis why they're now but a pair of loons.

They but cackle in my sleep,
I know not but to run or leap,
To unknown fishes in their deep,
and scaly promises for a soul to keep.

Limpid Linguini (A Rant)

I ask you, all, brothers and sisters of a sort...is there nothing more displeasing to the palate than limpid linguini? I mean even masticated menhaden, with it's tang and hidden bones offers the diner, at least to some extent, an element of surprise and even danger.I appreciate that there be perhaps greater and more pressing issues before this august body, but I remind you that it is only June and ample time to at least reflect on this matter. August will be here soon enough, along with Nero and Ceasar..and those Romans won't put up with limpid liguini, I promise you. Should anyone care to respond...well...I couldn't imagine why...Perhaps WS was correct when he said I had lost my....you know...the thing that goes into your head.

Ripple (In Still Waters)

18 August 2002

If my words did glow,
with the cold of sunshine,
and my tunes were played on the harp, unstrung,
Would you hear my voice, come through the music,
would you hold it near , as it were your own ?

It's a hand me down, the thoughts are broken,
Perhaps they're better left unsung,
I don't know, don't really care,
Let there be songs, to fill the air.

Ripple in still waters,
when there is no pebble tossed, no wind to blow,
reach out your hand, if your cup be empty,
if your cup is full, may it be again,
Let it be known, there is a fountain,
that was not made by the hands of men.

There is a road, no simple highway,
between the dawn and the dark of night
and if you go, no one may follow,
that path is for your steps alone.

Ripple in still waters,
when there is no pebble tossed, no wind to blow,
If you chose to lead, must follow,
but if you fall you fall alone,
but should you stand, then who's to guide you?
If I knew the way, I would take you home.

Long Division

...put a nuance in my dance tonight, Scaramouche,
...and play it at a later date, Harlequin,
...for mystery is a secret wine,
...to be savored from lips divine.

...there be spiders in this web,
...known to me from east to west,
...poison flees right to the heart,
...to a point where all paths start.

...It's now and then,
...here and there...
...far and near...
...where souls divide.

[untitled]

In a Colorado closing of this rocky deep,
I sing no songs, or trout do keep,
in Winter's wounds, no hurt doth seep,
'tis time for the Mountain Otter's sleep.

I've thanked you with words unsaid,
with tales untold of future dead,
It's the song of you and I,
and stars and skies and little lies.

We reach to it and release a tear
in hopes a Savior but can hear,
It's made of salt but reflects the earth,
and all the ashes, we have birthed

I've caught some trout,
and wards of salt,
and released them, early, in dreams unsought,
'Tis what makes me of what I'm wrought,
Sand, Stone, Ribs and God of Fish.

Why I'd Rather Be A Fish

The Regent slept, and while he snored,
he broke some wind, which the Queen deplored,
But he was a high and mighty king, not to be ignored,
Sheep were blamed, fists were made, and peasants gored.

Woe to those of little breeding,
Air for us, but only breathing,
When it goes out the other end,
prepare your life to defend.

Farting may be shared by one and all,
you the short one, me the tall,
But when all is said and done,
Fishes smell like salt and sun.

The Water Wife

In a fractured sky, I came awake,
with a hero's heart, that love would break,
For I was young, and spun of flesh,
not yet casting this fishing net.

And now I'm bold and full of life,
and talk to water, as a wife,
She loves me gently upon wings of kites,
and speaks the truth in starlit nights.

The fish return to Winter's haven,
just before I take my leaving,
I now cast this starry net,
and pray that she, my soul will whet.

Waking In Eden

The ledger's balanced, with your blood,
No angel's legends, or ancient floods.
Scaled warriors, all, have their own stories,
wrought and craft within sunken dories.

Evangaline makes haste, and counts beads of worry,
the woods remember her, for they're her dowry.
She sings and dances upon sticks and leaves,
and I remember her, and the rugs she weaves.

There is no wine sweeter than love,
No fishes wiser than the Lord above,
But should He cast me from this storm,
You will find me, in Eden's morn. 

The Silent Moth

The Templar awaits,
He gives his troth,
to a silver coin and it's moth.

What life is not uncertain?
What song has no final curtain?

When this ocean found me,
I knew it's cost,
The Life I was given,
or the Life I lost.

No Silent Knight can find me,
No river knows my name,
But one day you will call me,
and touch me, not really far away.

Oleander's Tea

Beneath the Oleander, and it's shade,
sleeps a boy,whose youth,is yet to fade.
In those leaves sleeps a toxic poison,
Were a tea or potion, but find a reason.

But already Death has touched him,
for no other reason than the breaths within,
He's my brother or perhaps reflection,
birthed and crowned through natural selection.

Please, don't wake him from his dream,
You know those fishes, and their streams,
They must ponder what's writ in sand,
And as they die, they understand.

Seasons turn about the lives we weave,
One is named, so one can leave,
Do not fear of what is dark,
Do not regret, to leave your mark.

The Elegance Of Dreams

An elegant dance is set upon me,
between the throes of things set free.
One is one, and you the other,
We speak to it, as a child, to it's mother.

Don't bless me with your kind gifts,
Don't leave me here, yet unkissed,
No fishes, here, swim, unreleased.
'Tis time for the Virgin's feast.

What years of stars are now enfolding,
the speed of light is still unyielding,
and so we dance in lives unseen,
yours in elegance, mine in a dream.

The Morning Dew

Have you touched a finger, carved from bone?
Have you sealed your memories, behind walls of stone?
Have you searched for your own redemption,
Behind pillars of salt, and Lot's salvation.

Legends and myth tell a story,
that bind us all 'twixt hell or glory.
Birds and fishes quote the Apostles,
while sons of God, sleep in hostels.

I've dreamt of my own hands, pierced by scorn,
I seek them nightly, in this bed of thorns.
I really know no more than you,
but my eyes keep opening, when touched by dew.

...and Promises To Keep

My sleep sings not sweetly to my soul,
No fishes spawn this beggar's gold,
No Crimson pirates in cleric's robes,
No time to snatch what I can't hold.

When dreams reveal Perdition's promise,
'tis time to heal, and flee the hospice,
Death and dying have no meaning,
when time is lost, without it's season.

And so I wake, or I will wake,
in Freedom's chasing of that hake,
You know that fish has got my gold,
I want it back, before I'm old.

(WS can't have it 'cause he's more than twelve)

A Dvorak Cello Concerto in B Minor

I have seen the pale of friends,
when no darkness remains unspent,
I have crossed rivers of snow,
where Slavic memories, play a concerto.

There are mountains to the east,
that are home to kin and beast,
And this water upon my cheek,
was salty long ago, in the eyes I seek.

This Island is now my home,
not unlike the ones you own,
where no fishes should gasp last breaths,
no lovers should ever speak of death.

But life contains it's own darkness,
beneath the sand of long ago,
This blood that we will forever seek,
is heard in songs, played from sparrow's beaks.

To A Friend

In mourning, we pass through fields unsown,
Grieving, we see flowers,
Where no seeds were thrown.

Some say, we walk our own paths,
That these steps are for us alone.
But I know not of any Heaven,
without the love we have known.

So weep not for the memories,
Grieve not for the past,
There are answers in those flowers,
beyond this morning's grasp.

Tomorrow brings new tides,
and the wheel keeps turning,
All paths lead to this beginning,
and flowers spring from every life.

A Frog's Lament

No princess came to kiss this brow so sweet,
No, not today, No, not last week,
I can see where all the otters play,
In mud so fine, it would make you weep.

It shines my warts from head to toe,
and makes my slime, like starlight glow,
but dark clouds linga in my dilemma,
no princess, yet, has sung my mantra.

I suspect a braggart from these parts,
long of tooth and fond of tarts,
He is of an ill wind that bodes no good,
British he, and dense as wood.

He speaks not fondly of us frogs,
and hates even fishes, in his grog,
In midsummer, he'll molt his flesh,
I for one, will feel refreshed.

So ye, bide not, in his time,
I offer thee, this slime sublime,
Fortunes fall upon this moment,
frogs were here, but WS weren't.

In Avalon

There are no flowers in Avalon,
for they are gone to graves, and Arthur's sons,
In hamlets swept along it's coast,
what grief has left, is beyond life's cost.

There are no songs in Avalon,
for no man knows, his true anger.
It's wrapped in twine and straws of mangers,
Lost, he seeks Magi, in silent wonder.

There is no fire in Avalon,
with steel gone cold, on a forge's anvil,
Brittle, like his soul,
He sleeps and heeds the drummer's roll.

There are no dreams in Avalon,
where oceans roil, one by one,
There is no stopping of the seas,
'twixt rock and tide, where fishes flee.

There was no love in Avalon,
'til you arrived, in morning's sun,
Now I see flowers,fire, song, and ocean's mist,
I exhale, the dreaming's done, in a waking kiss.

Pavel's Dreams

The words I speak, do tend to mock me,
for when I whisper, my dreams stand revealed.
And laughter can be a bitter medicine,
When taught by children of the wind.

Even fishes are caught in traps,
of pristine linen,where souls are wrapped,
They snared me too, as I slept,
and denied to me, a stone I kept.

I saw a grave in yesterday's sun,
He was nine and seven, and someone's son.
In a plain and simple coffin,
I bid goodbye, as he had done.

There are memories in all tomorrows,
but lost to me in my sorrows,
Yet as I walk this stony beach,
I search for rocks, beyond my reach.

Alpo (In the Dream State of Jetlag)

BEWARE the Wellington's,
before you're set upon.
You ain't no sheep,
But his passions, well, they run deep.

He's crafty and he's wily,
even for a Brit, he gets quite nasty,
Fly away, Fly away, to a home in Nebraska,
"Will you marry me?" is a question he won't ask ya.

Keep your virtue, keep it pure,
there are no promises, on this shore.
Perhaps it's Arizona where you wanna be,
Or it's Colorada, if you ask me.

(I'll go to Arizona as your representative)

Stonehenge

The oceans's winds sound across the trail,
In constant search of the Holy Grail,
I'm no sailor, yet seek fishe's sails,
In my dreams they speak, for I cannot fail.

The oceans's winds lead me to those rocks,
Cast of stone, but are really locks,
They keep hidden the souls of men,
that passed us by, before we're ten.

And now now my sons, brothers, sisters, sleep a sleep,
That on some winter's morn, we all will greet,
but stone is made of starry blood,
and will claim us all for what is God's.

Peace be with you.

There Are Memories

I'm hungry, on this branch,
I've wounds, that love just can't stanch,
Night simply, has no darkness,
that your love could merely blanche.

My mouth gapes wide, it's wild open,
as seasoned memories, fail to ripen.
There are no reasons for fish's deaths,
beyond some legions of empty breaths.

I'm just a child, lost amid the stars,
I wake and sleep, beyond your cares,
but what what dreams would have no meaning,
if my heart, you did not wear.

So walk again, upon quiet steps,
and dream again, where you once wept,
You remain for me, all I've kept,
between this dance, and no regrets.

Crossings

There are crossings, where roads must meet,
There are tears, that eyes must weep,
There are songs that blind ragged paupers,
As there are winds that shield deserted harbors.

When fishes swim beyond lost horizons,
They sate the flesh, that give men visions,
They, in turn, dream paths of fate,
as a phalanx of crows, makes us wait.

Bring me this seed of willowed frowns,
where trees rejoice on hallowed ground,
Their roots reach to hands outstretched,
and promise me, what can't be fetched.

I now plead for this soul's content,
when angels flee, from their own descent,
Crows and salmon are as one,
beneath the tide and the sun.

Peace.

My Mother's Child

My dreams are but echoes of soil and water,
that existed long before, I called you mother.
In this twilight dimming of what we call life,
I seek some answers from my father's wife.

Did you sing me softly into night's embrace?
Did you hear my laughter, in childhood's grace?
Did your loving passion give me my own face?
Have your footsteps followed my own pace?

Yes, Yes, Yes, and Yes,
I know the answers to these, my questions.
But I dream these dreams,
hearing your songs and laughter.

What see you now in that eternal mist?
What angels near you, must be kissed?

Fishes bring me to borders bound,
By soil and and water, and a mother's frown,
By right of birth all whales must sound,
to ocean's depths, where truth is found.

For Vera (4/30/1922-5/2/1978)

 The Widow's Peak

The sails are rigged, as we speak,
The widow watches, from her peak.
No wounds to heal, from swallow's beaks,
The widow nears, I, the one she seeks.

This empty harbor, grimly, waits for ships,
that long ago, in moonlit splendor, left their slips,
And so she stands, as black and lace,
became her signet, and sorrow carved her face.

The Ocean knew no anger,
the night she sent sailors to their graves,
I, for one, promise to tell no one,
of secrets found, in Poseidon's caves.

But this I'll tell you, one and all,
Seek thee thy own mystic fishes,
Which swim in dreams, and widow's wishes.

[Evangeline — this is not yours]

 A Dance Of Cups

Oh, that I had but lingered,
to speak to friends and share a smile,
a tear could have been wiped,
a word spoken to the heart, beside an ivied wall.

But the night bloomed and beckoned,
full of dreams and stardust horizons.

But we will dance the Dance of Cups,
if for no other purpose, that it binds us all.