(See Sandor sign)

See Sandor sign
his new painting sings of wine
betrothals to Nature
the walls of the Old Garden
crumpling, overgrowing themselves with leavy trees
the green leaves drooping over ochre
the moist branches draping lower portions of the sky
twelve baskets hanging from the widest virtues
the sinewous worms stretching from their ground
earth feelers , gummy unfettered naturals
letting themselves be brick red and the
flowers of the sun, casting their seeds to
the breeze of gentle summer
The Northern Sampson sees clearly, his mountains
a brilliant sapphire , blue as the snows on Kilimanjaro
a coyote hunting in the orchard, the apple
he took too peachy red
For the painting grows as the garden glows
The adventure of painting never finished
The woman sitting on the natural wall
diffused earth ochres her bare feet
motioned by the wind
Her smooth back is a rest
the greyest panther ever walked calm & wild
towards her circumlocution
the apprentice , sits and stares at the scene

(Outfielders of history

(Outfielders of history

Outrageous disasters of history.
Mister don’t throw away your tie.
Welcome blue moons
and yellow moons or parts of moons
and empty pouches.
Empty kangaroos, and empty ears
reflectively reflecting eyes
Outriggers of history.
Mister don’t throw away your hat.
Just give it to the cat, and maybe
welcome blue moons
and pink moons, or sections of the moon
and green cheese of the moon
Empty fringe eyes-of-the-moon
empty salvation lies of the moon
Outfielders of history.
Missus don’t lay down on that bed.
give it to the cat, and that
welcome howling from your insides.
and pink moons and pink daisies
travelling side-by-side to the moon at noon.)

Pigeons Still

Pigeons Still

– Pigeons still – she wrote, upon her note to Gordon Airth
the quiet room became a birdcage
melancholy blue
the soft flutter of wings and chummy hum of cooing
we woke every morning
to the sounds
the soft friendly feathery fawning
mites would enter in at our window
we thought
curious glowing-marble-eyes heads would crane their necks and watch into our window
she thought they would fly in
but they never did, their unconscious
thoughts subtracting heaven from eleven,
professor-like stepping to and fro
above the facia
free they were, but stuck together
inside our bedroom walls they
shuffled and hopped
wondering if one was stuck, I mentioned it
they were our ghosts for awhile
that haunted gently, the winter nights
and gaze in our eyes green purple and grey, brown eyes like a hollow spirit
just climbing down from its tree
we get up and make tea
and those fluttering pigeons
take lift off the roof corner and disappear in the vanishing point near a cloud
as grey as our sofa.

Bridges to Babylon

It's easy to imagine yourself a millionaire
with the Rolling Stones playing in the background
and Mick's coaching on the Goddess album
I am the Master of My Own Money coming In
A 30 day meditation of 20 minutes each
I pretend I go to the London School of Economics myself
Read books on how to succeed in business
Bridges to Babylon and the hanging gardens
just keep doing the same things over and over
Roll your eyeballs around in piles of money
Chew on it, fill your mouth with money
Sweeten up honey, I'll fill your bed with money
And especially my shoes, my secondhand shoes
– I'll crumple bills –
stuff them with money to make them hold their shape

Be Open to every Opportunity to make
Write them Down after You think of Them

My Imaginary Children

My imaginary children Cinneroth & Rajasthan
are coming through the Living room to play with me
on the carpet, the Persian wing
huge in its flying
like an angel on leave from combat duty

I’m sunk in my soft couch
watch me play
in days of never
All the sunny
smiling leaves
of their adjacent forms
longing for the laughter, the screaming
and stench of baby poo
and bleach, the nausea
of jars of predigested babyfood

alltogether we would sing away
and go on adventure tours thru the wooden branches of the forest,
our hiking sacks sticking to trees
as we walked up the incline
Then, in next generations
trees would bloom
and the plume of the Mina bird would be the resurrection of the proud
louder than Nazareth*
in funky caverns we hid with/our minds as beavers
spanning crevices as spiders
long-legged and black, forgotten
webs of intimacy,
silly creational playing,
sidetracked from lopsided life
supping with the saviour
his hands now flesh and bone
drinking the wine of the Father
his feast in heaven, waiting
pertaining to our collective unconscious.
All trouble is a ceaseless battle here.

*Rock group of the 70s, purported to have been one of the loudest bands. Had an album in 1974 entitled Loud ‘N’ Proud

Parents of the Poor

We are the Parents of the poor
we give them food
and offer them free lessons in humility
if there were a chance
we could say “Jump”
and the thrill of responsive action
would lurk there
as our reward. Maybe if it rains.

On snowy days
Act like you’re giving alot
when you’re actually giving hardly anything at all
But the purple haze commands
And 13,000 more people without jobs
The doors of Eatons close forever
And the blanket of white powdery covers everything over.

A nice sunny sometime
with a rainbow and a pot of gold
and a tussle here brings us to the realization
in a New Day of Creation
Where the makers are they themselves
and the Cowboys all have earrings
riding over sagebrush widely in the country
That the sting of the thing is it don’t help.

(something just snapped)

something just snapped
and I stopped doing it for them
and started doing it for you

something just snapped
and I stopped curtailing my self
and began doing it for me

Somewhere over the night mare
a fairy feathered her wings
over vain and glorious things

somewhere the rainbow doesn’t end
and the hands that build
are not torn, but healed

Somehow in the hand-made quilt
rest is had
sleep is felt, and dreams come

somehow where the waves loll
in the sand
rejuvenation sends her wealthy arms

somewhat strange
cool and gently bold
like a Dream awakening

somewhat like fairies chattering
lifting their wings
in strange music

something filling
a bold new music
a big full song

something like Learjet
cool as flight
bright as a table in sunshine

somewhere
in a room
filled with window

somewhere
in southern light
and white crossbeams

somehow lifegiving
wild and gentle
solid and serene

somehow big
healing perfectly
bringing warm light

somewhat strange
and new
freeing

somewhat silent
yet providing strains of music
in the soul

The Artist

The Artist sits all day in his easy chair
and dreams of what life is like
Then he goes out and buys himself
an expensive weapon
And begins to attack society
he rages against lunatics and Freemasons
he bullies religious and tears apart angels
he takes old rags and burns holes in them
he accesses hidden sources
and teases recognition out of his onlookers
Hey! Ya! it’s me, he says
Ya! You! You’ve got eyes in you head – See!
he begs for a meal
and turns it into a healing implement
he gives away his dinner
to the poor of spirit
he rebels against authoritarian tactics
knowing full well the power of constraint

His weapons are paints and thoughts
his elbows are made of iron to crawl on
the avenues of his departure
are as vain as a flamboyant magazine
the nasty afternoon is full of empty air
where he’ll burn his hair with gasoline
in mid-traffic to get across
an ecological point

The artist sits all day,
and spins his thread of unsound thoughts
and nobody hears
as the worms begin to crawl over dead bodies
the artist with his alarm bell
with his whistle and milk thistle
begins to pull at the needle of drunkenness

But it is always too late by then,
for by the time you hear,
the earth is sinking
or the water will cover your head
and fire surround your bed

at this point the artist has a good laugh
because now you have heard him
and now you’re going to die
and he laughs so hard he cries
and as you sink into the quicksand
you know he’s laughing at you

And he goes back to his palette
and begins printing the alphabet on it
in plain black letters

and you think, Now?
but he just goes on painting them
as your head slips beneath the sand.

Rudolf Penner © 2001

Red

We called it Red
The colour of true love
On scenic faces in the sun
Our hearts would cry and yearn for one
The shades of night came far too soon
The sun and sky to tread

We called it Red
a lollipop
that glowed a crimson glow
Like all those poppies row on row
Foreshadowing the flaming suns
Resounding in my head

We called it Red
The blood that flows
On thousand Flanders fields
Who knows what seeded blood will yield
Perhaps for blackened crows