Gargoyles, like prophets, perched in deep dark grottos,
Sweating blood, staring through moist sultry fog, glaring out,
Buddha eyes, dharma smiles, contemplate earth's demise, reciting mottos,
Boiling plasma, constrained by lava, sipping lithium along that narrow route.

Jupiter sweeps red spots from its weathered zone,
Imprisoned poppy fields, purporting liberty, plowed and sown,
Weeping, abashed, the tethered moon cries alone,
Freedom groans under sombre skies, drones and sorties ceaseless, flown.

Wild jackals tear at bleeding flesh, then pause,
RPG's blast and rip through tender skin and bone,
War repeats, war repeats, war repeats, its evil cause,
Penitent soul's, soldiers rent asunder,  so nation's must atone.

Wise men see what could have been, those wounded, wand'ring lost,
Blind men stumble through burning rubble, earth lies broken, marred and quaking,
Adjacent mine fields, where legless children beg, candied coins are flung and tossed,
Bright sons and daughters of freedom lie bleeding, as a tattered world lies shaking.

If flagrant war, marched to every battle, on its very own,
If no army went, no private, captain nor general,  nor uniforms or bombs,
No flags flown, no war songs sung, no creeds chanted, would war still be sown?
Would women shoot the guns? Would warriors turn to pen goodly psalms?

Such worry! Demons inspired by this evil wartime plight,
Still armaments, manufactured, built, and sold, and sold, and sold three fold,
Rich profiteers horde wealth, contrive war's economy, gain from each sordid fight,
Reaping wretched riches, hell's reward in the end, ugly lies are told and sold,  again retold.

Whence Peace? Where is that loving human heart?
Has mankind given peace a chance? Or is it all just folly?
Would Jesus and Mohammed bear this grudge match, e'en take part?
Would Moses lead the battle charge, give strict orders for that fatal volley?

Deep in that Holy cave, Saints and common men ingest ransoms truth,
Mother Earth bewildered, behaves extant, crowning Glory with elegant Being,
Awash with Alpha and Omega, timeworn brilliant life deems war so uncouth,
Angels impart God's will, whilst Heaven's door is oped, sordid hatred fleeing.

Approach the Throne of God! Lay down your wicked arms!
Let Creation Enlighten thee, whilst Sages sing of Perfect Peace!
Let honourable service be thy quest! Rescind your wicked charms!
Let goodness rule! Purest love shall surely grant the Golden Fleece!

Gargoyles settle in those steamy caves, relinquishing evil's enduring test,
Gentle souls mark the day with heartfelt introspection, while Sufis' twirl and dance,
Each age, so marked, by war's relentless rage, such bitter horror, engulfs the nest,
Conjoined in life by breath and heartbeat, yet forgotten compassion takes war's stance.

Gargoyles, like prophets, spout, spilling truth upon the earth below,
Swearing allegiance, sipping from that Holy cup, whence creation began,
Shouting to four corners of the world, thus spake the sun, with its creative glow,
Buddha's eyes, with that dharma smile, extoll the goal of good life for all of man.

Deep in that Holy cave, deep in the heart of all mankind,
Born with each waking breath, as daylight rests evil's realm,
Earthly souls applaud the loving light, rejoice with each days welcome find,
Creation's passion, abide all sentient beings, let compassion take the helm.

Cold April! Capsulating thy arctic barren look!
Wilt thou wake, from this frigid winter slumber?
Hast thou e'er dressed, with summer's frilly hook?
Wilt thou finally warm, reject ice and snow, unencumber?

Silenced, so cold hearted, becomes thy wintry trend,
April's sultry spring, like naive Juliet, awash in icy moonlight,
Standing staid, conjuring, this budding love, where art to send?
Impatient May awaits! Redressed Romeo, arrest thy courtly night.

Wickedness strives to mend, sweet tender bust,
Depraved, out of wedlock, April's lusty horn,
Expects spring's leaving, such lofty lazy trust,
Still icy calm pens reprimand with frigid form.

What now Paris, lying bloodied in thy shallow grave?
Shall April's waxing period become the perfect storm?
Lax now, whence worms devour hidden secrets, so depraved,
Beneath black loam where April greets subsoil's cool norm.

Lest this balcony collapse, with the weight of spoken lines,
Behest rigid Paris, with spring's opulent second coming, awake,
Yet Juliet, imprisoned by life's poisoned blade, so refines,
Lest Romeo, fail to unsheath his sword, regret love words he spake.

What need is there for this cautious delirium?
Skipping pebbles, 'cross frosty rippled ponds,
Bouncing like days and months across hours emporium,
Entrancing rising sap, cherishing May's promised fronds.

Yet April, regret it's annual place, hope for placement in summer's heat,
What then would fair Verona vow, if spring replaced cool April's bow?
Would two households, dignified alike, amuse the play, rewrite spring's treat?
Would citizens applaud new acts, recourse such fate, amend this sacred now?

How now this violent nature? From February's slipp'ry grip to April's budding trip,
Spring's playful theme, love's yearly feud, this sensual sonnet of fourteen weeks,
Like icicles hanging glassy on a winters eve, like brash red willows sappy sip,
April's permutations, transforming acts, expressions a star-cross'd lover speaks.

Lovers meet, two seasons greet, a kiss, in April's chilly street,
Like natural death, organic birth, this painful month of spring,
Remorseful, aft a moment's strife, birth and death compete,
Desire! This ancient grudge, whence buried rage is nought to bring.

Capulets and Montagues, like two seasons, abate the blossom's rush,
Romeos and Juliets, like snow and rain, abrade life's lusty torso,
Two houses, address the moist and wet, abreast with spring's honest flush,
Whence the burly stage is set, the plays the thing, with April's primal morsel.

  I'm sorry for my tardiness, not often reading comments you readers have so kindly left at times. Please pardon my audience neglect. In reality I have severe stage fright, something that I have carried since being a child. Those times when my parents and teachers encouraged me to get up on stage, in front of crowds, suddenly in the spot light, toodling on my accordion, messing up, playing rotten notes. Suddenly up on stage, again, after so many practices, speaking memorized lines, in school plays, messing up, such a soporific actor, such terrible acting. Strangely, when I was a little kid, I loved making people laugh, a clown at heart. But then something tragic happened. After I broke my leg (you know the old saying, 'break a leg'), I lost my clown suit and withdrew. I think it was that damn accordion, all those Saturday lessons (with one music teacher in particular, the guy that would get mad and raise his voice, Mr. Turta, oops), all that after school practicing, then those occasional stage disasters, when I withered and decided I hated being in the spot light. Since then, all those years ago, I've faded into the wings, seeking the shadows and moonlight more so than daylight and the spotlight. But then, ironically, I have this small side of me that still wants, still craves, you know what I mean. Don't you?! I'm sure you must, you do, at least the majority of you. Anyhow, to not go on and on with this I must tell you that there have been inquiries, a few folk that actually like some of my poetry, some of my stuff, that I post here, and there (in my google guise, as Kestrel Feather). A few people that have asked if they might share my poetry, even writing it out with their own skills and artistry, like calligraphy. Truly, I am honoured that such kind and generous inquiries have been made. Honestly, I hope that those folk that are inspired by my words, my work, do indeed share and link my stuff from JoeC's blog spot (in reality I would love more exposure, a bigger audience, more readers). I only ask that when you do share my poems (or photos) that you please be sure to let people know that I am the original author and photographer. I would also appreciate that if anyone does decide to share my work that they let me know (through this blog page, as a comment or some note), kindly letting me know where and how my work has been shared as well.
  Thank you all for taking the time to come here, to JoeC's blog spot, to read my poetry, to view my photos. I hope you continue to enjoy what I post here. Thank you all so very much! Cheers! 
 -  JoeC, aka Joe Carrot, aka Kestrel Feather.
- email me at joecarrotinargenta@gmail.com

Beat anxiety, that's what the T.V. ad, blinking truth serum, said,
Beat depression, too, at least that's what this simple pilgrim read,
So I thought, yeah, no doubt, there's left, a remnant of that beat generation,
Still scrambling out of ditches, slipping on the dregs of life, wand'ring 'round this tormented nation,
So yeah, it made some sense to unembellished me, those beat folk are oft a burning anxious lot,
And yeah, there's them seekers, sleep depressed, wake depressed, infested, slimed by the grundgy walk they got,
Strange how T.V., so it seems, acknowledged those, needled in heroine clothes, donning crack and crystal shoes,
Them folk, hid away in rotting cities and stinking alleys, rummaging prized crap that fatter cats and rats tossed out, such thirsty life behooves ,
Now it dawned on me, sitting out of town in my dirty hermit shack, surrounded by so much of my own lack,
Dreaming of Mexican beaches, salivating with the thought of fresh peaches, relished tourism on a stick, but in reality,
All that good stuff, those with jobs and funds bind, those with excess dollars find, so blatantly obvious to me,
What the beat generation still pursues, hippies now, all that peace and groove and love, along with other fools,
All that wine and pot and poetry, slammed and smoked and spoken, like ancient rhymes,  wielding life's lofty tools,
Oh so cool! Just social misfits, shuffling along, with their misgivings, festooned in baggy pants, ragged skirts and longtime hurts,
All those homeless folk, those worshippers of spice, all those bedraggled nymphs and losers, cruisers, adorned in worn out shirts,
Not unlike those poets and winos, some long dead and gone, wizened sprites and armoured knights, that strove to live the beatnik life,
There's this relic, unwanted surplus jazz, still thinking Kerouac and Ginsberg and Waits, reciting spirited words and vines and lines,
Retelling snapping fingers, with electric zap, so powerful still that Moloch cowers, hotter than sizzling lava, drizzled, sometimes poured, from lofty cement towers,
Speaking hymns and rhymes, in these martyred times, cooler than a thousand New York nights, all cracked up and murdered, via secret hurricanes, growing segmented flowers,
More truthful than all the dead and dying, children sliced and killed like head lice, lying diced and bled and crying, on some foreign battleground,
Where helter-skelter innocence, frame by whitewashed frame, is flung pell-mell, scattered  reckless,  all around,
Into the flames of hell, for Moloch to tear apart, bloodied dessert for the fiery beast, delivered with savage unruly wrath,
Causing all this beat anxiety and hip depression, washing through timid street ranks, calling out with unholy howl, leaving rank oily streaks along that well worn path.
So now we see, there is no glee, in this precious premise, that fascists too, doped up with ativan and lorazepam, dream those night mare walks,
Suffer side effects, drafting their own wicked knocks, all stretched up in their tailored suits, noosed in blasphemous ties and shiny shoes, as they walk their fetid talk,
Cognitive deficit of delorazepam from their shelves, scraping facts and feces from their virus ridden lives and selves, wallowing in wealth, wanting to beat anxiety and depression,
Wending through their fearful, angry lives, stumbling half drunk and blind, confused, along that torrid path, wond'ring what street to safely take, sensing true confession.

Unlike Charles Bukowski, perched on his box, seemingly up on his luck,
Drinking poems into grenades and rockets, carving oblivion into lines,
So coarsely rude, abruptly true, farting better than he could fuck,
Slicing bores and whores into bits, mixing base life with dollar wines.

Unlike Leonard Cohen, feeding his Suzanne Chinese oranges and tea,
With hallelujah tattooed on his lips, striking deep chords with his trips,
Singing deeply sublime, harbouring that perfect time, Cohen flies free,
Conjuring rhymes, mixing stanzas with storied chimes and red rose hips.

Teasing myself, full moon rising, no luck or oranges stuffed in my traveling bag,
With my Suzanne hidden in the wings, tugging at my heartstrings, from so far away,
 Lost love drags me o'er the embers and coals, never letting me go, constantly playing tag,
Bleeding and wounded, abridged and abrupt, foolish old fool, or so the wise say.

Maryjane holds my hand now, dancing with Pan 'round that forest stool,
Colourful cap on my top knot, chopping crude chords, flexing my base fingers,
Rumplestiltskin marks golden time, spinning chaff into dust, with the old fool,
While Robin Red Breast, stamped indelibly there, her nubile memory still lingers.

Armoured Inquisitors shouting 'CHARGE!', into that smoldering, hallucinogenic fray,
Swords at the ready, rushing to crucify foolish old Joe, adorned with his thorny crown,
Searching turf and nook for calendula blooms, colourfully indecent, so wonderfully gay,
Unforgiving in their sordid quest, zealots flay every worthwhile thing, not gray or brown.

Unlike Kerouac, sojourning on the road, up on Desolation Peak with Archangel Raphaels,
Piercing America's star spangled heart, leaving empties smashed upon the filthy street,
Mixing color and patina on rusty iron rails, crossing streets and beat lines, smoking Arab camels,
Introducing tortured martyrs and other hepsters, all those the Ginsbergs and Niks dream to meet.

So old Joe crows, chewing carrots, planting fat weeds that yearn to be cut and rolled,
Young Pan and Maryjane dolled up in their make-up, painted hooves, manicured nails shining,
So solid in their forest groove, laying down lines, amongst the whispering pines, verses told,
Rapping time on twinkling stars and flashy comets, with drum sticks and lucid tones, combining.

Yet somewhere in that garden, in that deep blue sea, amongst the flashy fish and glowing corals,
Storied futures stack up, reaching higher than Sagarmatha and Lhotse, from those cavernous trenches,
Reviling kings and thrones and crowns, truth requisitioned by Imps and Nymphs and Elves with morals,
Rounding corners, old oaks moan in blessed gales, as ancient mariners watch stoic from stone benches.

Therefore, unlike Byron and Browning, just out for love and poetic rhyme,
Old Joe lays down with snakes and slugs and worms, on their lofty terms,
Remarking with remarkable expression, in the key of Gee, rapt in four four time,
How life revolves 'round perfumed roses, thorn adorned, bordered by wavering ferns.

I don't know if you'll ever see this,
I wonder if you'll ever read this,
It's been such a long time since we've spoken,
I've held my breath, hoping for some friendship token.

It seems like yesterday we held each other, kissing,
Looked into each others eyes, yet for years you've been missing,
From my life, from my empty life, still fixed in my broken heart,
I've kept you, memories so dear, yet we're distant, so very far apart.

I don't know how love works, it's a mystery to me,
Once you said you loved me, spake those tender words to thee,
Held me in your heart, kept me warm with all your charms,
Cherished life, adoring  love together, sultry in each others loving arms.

But something terrible happened, some tempest, tearing us apart,
An ocean vast and deep, of words and places, right from the start,
A world where understanding, drowned us in a turbulent sea,
Heaven's song imperiled, finally castaways, clinging to the loving tree.

So life goes on now, somewhere your heart dwells in a separate world,
I eat and breathe and sleep alone, since our precious love unfurled,
As time passes by, years now, I still think of you each day,
Dreaming of the love we shared, how we kissed each day away.

 
We laughed and loved under moonlit skies, I wonder if you recall?
Kisses, meant for you alone, together, mixing love with the autumn fall,
Holding hands, sharing love, in your garden with all it's bloom,
Sweet birds sang, flitting too on tender wings, chased away every gloom.

When those southern Jacarandas bloom,
Poems you spoke within your postcard room,
Brilliant purple on spring's austere morn,
Reminds me of euphoric times, now I sit and mourn.

Mellow wind, carry love's message to you,
Gentle joy, sign each tender thought, my love for you,
Across the broad Pacific, to your far-off sunny land,
Rememb'ring strolling down Golgotha's lane, joyful, hand in hand.

Ne'er the twain shall meet, yet dreams keep love alive,
Storied gardens, where fragrant eucalyptus thrive,
Beyond vast oceans, brilliant love doth keep,
Gems, I do recall, rejoice, awake, together we did sleep.

Transformed, this gentle autumn breeze exists,
Recall those easy days, whence we sat making garden lists,
Love's tendrils cross, years of time and space,
List'ning to the colours of the wind, while joy caressed your smiling face.

It seems that rugged time will ne'er change,
It seems that love deceived, beyond it's range,
Our hearts, that joyous sum, shall ne'er again be entwined as one,
Relinquished treasure, where once precious love had won.

Falling in love,
I slipped on the ice,
Falling for you,
I let passage suffice,
Falling entranced,
Your looks did entice,
Feeling romanced,
Your smile so nice,
Feeling my heart race,
Your eyes, how they danced,
Seeing your flushed face,
Sweet love took a stance,
Seeing your hushed grace,
Sweet hearts at a glance,
First kiss, what a fine place,
Holding hands, what a dream,
First words, finding love's embrace,
Holding you close, this fresh cooling stream,
Love, how love's weave laced,
Still loving alone,
Love, how two doves braced,
Still love must atone,
Your heart, help me forget,
Love's whispered guise,
Our love, help me forget,
Love's forever, blue skies,
Our lost love, my lonely regret.

I prayed that I might find myself,
staring into a shining mirror,
gazing past reflective image,
seen true, abstractly clear,
wondering just who,
was staring, looking back?
Recalling participles too,
supported by a sloping cantle,
placed upon that skinny mantle,
up on a tilted shelf,
I hoped that lack of pilgrimage,
might help repel the black.
Those words of fear,
clutched so near,
that life itself be lost,
along with joyful tears,  
beyond the ghastly scrimmage,
such a lasting, fateful cost.