The Unschooled Moonlight
Ripples of empty bottles
Crenellate across the forgotten tracks
Where the elk have shed their
Crowns- beginning to think of death
As a friend across the caesuras
Of the mountain,
With absolutely no reason to believe
In the lighthouse that shines its
Beacon forever relentlessly across
The enlightened faces of
The proceeding valley-as the preacher
Gives sermons to the pew of his identity-
The rest is left to misgivings,
As the rains encounter the graveyards,
And the latchkeys run away once again
To the cerulean playgrounds
Stealing forever in the unschooled moonlight.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Beautiful Ocean
Blue gill in the lake of my childhood
Underneath the burning sugarcane of my childhood
Which I never truly saw:
Nor were there stolen bicycles in the canal,
Or rabbits holes to housewives bedrooms
I could not even interpret what I thought of you
Lost in the scars and sweats over all of
Those meandering afternoons the visions of
A Cyclops introduced to the kaleidoscope you
Can tell he is enamored and his senses
Have been turned it pigs, and yet
The beautiful ocean opens all around him like
A flower the rest of the heroes escape into
Her classes- and he doesn’t even care.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Like Airplanes Up In The Sky
Come to me through the angles of lost
Science,
Of how the pleasant men used to have to
Look at the earth:
Now there are no unicorns,
And all of the counties are taking down the
Highest swings—it has something to do with
Human relations
And the ways toward which the children
Have disappeared—
But somewhere in my house right now
Lies an echo of your memory that looks
Very much like you—
I almost didn't have the time to
Graduate high school,
But the skulls are becoming further and
Further unburied—
And the angels are beginning to look again
Like airplanes up in the sky.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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To The Ghosts
Now it says there is a sad column rising from
Her relatives
Because they wished that they had graves,
Wanderers piled inside the caravanerserai—
What lips they had still sing songs
When the wind plays them underneath the
Lamplight stolen into the sky:
Unbeaming wishes in the architectures of
Those bodies:
The wolves and dogs come and howl:
Somewhere close, a suburbia, and amusement park:
And trams to take the living home—
Emulations above the heads of these crypts
Where roses thought to drink—
And crickets dipped their necks like ticket holders
On a ride to the ghosts.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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In The Parking Lot
Another viewing's slowness: it looks as if the dead
Are on television,
And she is waking up, dressing in fireworks that will
Persimmon off her body in a two for one sale—
From the heavenly depths of
Miami—
She will look up into a sea of airplanes—and spin outside of
The tent,
And next to the trucks and the supermarkets and
The fast food chains:
And all of that traffic—long fuse rapping around her
For a moment she is delighted—object of holidays—
Red and brown queen as amble as a deer wearing silver
Sparklers—
A spectacle in the parking lot at the end of the day.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Waterfountains of Repolished Hallways
In these days are bared their new songs,
Like waterfalls gushing over the open wounds of windmills
That epic heroes have become too lush to
Ever fully explore: all of the rich aphrodisiacs spread in unison
Across the forest floor,
And amongst the pallid feet of aspen: flickering like hot blooms,
Like house plants cared for too well to ever survive again
Back into the forest,
While butterflies are too quick, and they will soon be underneath
The leaves;
Just as her lips reinvigorate across the water fountains of a
Repolished hallways that doesn’t have to care to remember me.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Underneath The Alamo
Lost in the water fountains of another high school
Looking up and down
And up and down her legs: where is she headed to—
Like best wishes blown—
Like ashes blown over a birthday cake, over all of
The pretty fish of the sea—teaming, aquamarine,
Basking and fluted and so alive!
Underneath the skies in their teaming banners
With no help from their godd$mned mothers:
They will have to go to school tomorrow, as she goes
To the supermarket—
And the Ferris wheels to another town,
As the golden fish continue to swim around and around
In the forgotten rivers underneath the Alamo.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Her Folkloric Senses
Castrations do not know my shadows—
My dog sleeps at my feet until I do not know
Anyone else:
The racehorses turn around like my father
Until this is no better news from Christmas—
And I have learned from all of the
Estuaries—
Strangest of cathedrals where no one plays football
And none of the babies sleep—
Across from the high school—or across from the
University where there is an ever busy beanstalk following
The fairytales up into the clouds—
As my make-believe wife rises from her bed of clouds,
And giving me her folkloric senses, pretends to love me
As best she can.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Seven Seas
Spindling ablutions,
The catastrophe of the weathers above the ways
Out in the make-believe of an ultimately beautiful day:
The frenzy of kites stolen away from
Little boys,
Who know so few words as never as yet to have
Surrendered to the loquacious avenues that birth the
Fraternity of sea horses:
Poppy seeds in the air, making an illusionary breakfast,
Cantankerously up from their low birth,
Gossiping their tranquilities over the low flying airplanes,
And their majesties:
Demigods who float on the breeze, in a woebegone
And yet innumerable sisterhood all over the seven seas.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Evaporating Sea
Another day finding out the tricks of angels:
My muse’s daughter is almost three:
Maybe she is almost my daughter too- as the trucks
Are loaded and loaded underneath the
Parapets of angels,
And the sacks of heavenly apples are loaded upon
The backs of stalwart ponies to be
Taken to other kingdoms across the blue and
Yellow mountains-
Along their way, the grizzly bears will pet them,
And the golden monkeys will pull on their
Reigns:
And when she gets up tomorrow, my muse will
See all of the bottles I have emptied to carry these
Messages to her
To be thrown in the evaporating sea.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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