ouro 3“Beware when the great God lets loose a thinker on this planet. Then all things are at risk. It is as when a conflagration has broken out in a great city, and no man knows what is safe, or where it will end. There is not a piece of science, but its flank may be turned to-morrow; there is not any literary reputation, not the so-called eternal names of fame, that may not be revised and condemned. The very hopes of man, the thoughts of his heart, the religion of nations, the manner and morals of mankind, are all at the mercy of a new generalization. Generalization is always a new influx of the divinity into the mind. Hence the thrill that attends it.”
― Ralph Waldo Emerson

The circulation
of scarred arbitrary hearts —
I wanna stir up
revolution, reversing
Russian Roulette directions…

Myopia blinds,
binds self-imposed slavery —
Suicide’s living
this shady side for ourselves,
like there’s no life through the light…

Either dreams drive us,
or we let our demons steer —
What’s the difference?
It’s in our lives’ directions,
either out or further in…

Son of a Mist and Selene of the Claire De Lune’s Twilight Tryst Duet (Tanka 1/10/14)

Social dissonance
so thick you can slice it like
a piece of moon pie
Awkward, alienated,
fallen from skies in my mind

You son of a mist
stop drifting off, you’re missed
Morning mourns your kiss!
Trace residue from your lips
disappears, leaves grass widowed

I cannot help it,
it comes from chasing the wind,
never finding it
in my social dissonance,
for full moons seem empty rooms

by Keaton Henson

I’ve been looking for you all year long
Just to tell me I have not been wrong
Is this all that you can give me back?
Come on, woman, you’ll have to do worse than that

And now I see that waking everyday
Always leads straight to feeling this way
And if you’ve no more to say than that,
Oh well, I’ll be leaving and I won’t come back

I’d give you all I have
If I could get it back
This has been the best of me
I hope you end up missing me
And I’ll hold on to that
And I’ll hold on to that
And I’ll hold on to that

Is the water dragging at your feet,
Urging you to slip down underneath?
Are you gonna let me take your soul?
My god, you lead me on, I’m gonna eat you whole

You son of a bitch,
Stop writing songs like this
You think you’re better than them,
But they don’t have to pretend

I’d give you all I have
If I could get it back
This has been the best of me
I hope you end up missing me
And I’ll hold on to that
And I’ll hold on to that
And I’ll hold on to that
And I’ll hold on to that
And I’ll hold on to that
And I’ll hold on to that


Quietus-Kissed, Cast Adrift Within (Good Friday Occitan Sonnet)

Quietus-kissed, cast adrift within
remedial sleep’s Elysian dream
with Solaris stitching Lunaris-spin,
weaving a family, foreseen three

Either naively or sovereignly destined,
like a shield, I cleave to the belief
Que sera sera, with suffrage convinced,
what God wills, happens eventually

A quantum leap asleep, of faith awake
in momentous minutes of a life envisioned,
where halves of loaves, hand-feed face

My better half and I, in church-like fellowship
with the Giver of Life, just like marriages imitate —
in sacrificial love, with respect’s sustenance

I originally posted the sonnet above on April 18, 2014 (in a post currently set to private) and had completely forgotten about it, until I read Aquileana’s wonderful new post (which I wholeheartedly recommend reading) Greek Mythology: “Selene, Goddess of the Moon” / Poetry: “Selene Awakens”, by Christy Birmingham.- brought the memory of it back through reading her details about the immortal Selene falling in love with the mortal shepherd Endymion, and how Selene,  unable to bare the thought that Endymion would one day die, made him immortal with a spell that put him to sleep forever.

That is an underlining plot point of my “21 Shades of Blue” story-arc, drawn out more clearly in my January 29, 2014 Tanka “Life, Winterized” below:

Summarize my life?
False starts from one long winter
of magnetism
for curious Wintress’s
seasonal forgetfulness

Liberty Bell, with…
chorus by the Nephilim!‘ —
Us, steeplechasing,
indecisive, shape-shifting
her face while melting my heart!

I am her Jack Frost
trapped in her grasp behind glass
underneath a dome
and her spell in this snow globe
The only life that I know

My life, summarized?
Forgetting what summer’s like
from when still a child,
but never feeling my age
like nothing is changed with time!

Garnet I & Opal 23 [Flash-Fiction?]

“And now twelve heifers white as snow they lead to great Minerva’s sacred name to bleed. …thro’ the depths of air she flies, mounts the blue heaven, and scales the liquid skies.”
– Elizabeth Barrett Browning

“But here is, to make the scales even again, the ‘Eloisa’ with tears on it, – faulty but tender – of a sensibility which glorious John was not born with a heart for. To be sure, it was not necessary that John Dryden should keep a Bolingbroke to think for him: but to be sure again, it is something to be born with a heart, particularly for a poet.”
– Elizabeth Barrett Browning, excerpt from “The Book of the Poets”

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

The Slums of MeL Min-Erva Copyright © Ry Hakari

Garnet 1, XX – A.B.S.

Today I have taken it upon myself to begin a dream diary, as Elly suggested the eve she disappeared, both in body and from the minds of all but me. It has already been one Chance and one Pass to the date since the loss of my one love and one friend, and still I refuse another of both. I, Rye who has no surname, dedicate this task to her surviving memory, Elly Elizabeth of the thousand petals.

As of last Sapphire, I am now 21 Chances old. In the tradition of the people of this sleepy town, as this is the first Pass of Another Chance, following the 7670th Pass of the Tail Chaser since my birth, I am leaving home to find my way.

Opal 23, XX – A.B.S

In the confines of recent sleep, while a dense purple fog swirls around me from below my knees I find myself deep in a forest of petrified wood. I find myself walking against my will, and the low tree limbs I grab onto in attempts to halt the pull of the jinx slip from my grip. Deeper and deeper I go into the wood, and deeper, and deeper still until I am forced into a clearing

A black light moon that never moves hangs overhead, catching a peculiar city limit sign outside the entrance in glowing purple hues and shimmering shades of blue. It says “Come young and live out your last days in Twilight Town” and below, following “Population:” reads “Fluctuates”.”

Intuitively looking up upon the 11th hour, the large hand starts spinning before my eyes, and the smaller hand follows swiftly in it’s train. The silver-gilded Gothic mesh on the ends of the sapphire hands of the clock in the moon strike midnight like two matches and the moon responds with a sound like a fire alarm as it turns a darker shade of blue, bursting into unburning purple flames.

I recoil with verbal frustration and disappointment, as I will not finish the dream this sleep, and will have to wait until this coming evening to resume pursuit of the Shrouded Figure Who Casts No Shadow in the Moonlight through the slums of MeL Min-Erva.

The air surrounding me turns and ripples like desert heat with a much greater temperature. My lungs collapse and my knees buckle as I fall on my back. I try to breathe but fail as my body bakes and my skin burns black on my hands and arms in front of me.

Suddenly, and I would be surprised and horrified if it wasn’t sudden, my body is tugged from my feet like from the recoil of a bungee cord that has reached it’s stretch limit, and I am snapped into the atmosphere to torpedo feet first through a hole in the dial wheel of the clock face in the moon…

To wake up safe, sound and well-rested in my bed at Gil Harglen’s Extended-Stay Inn, in the prosperous city of LeM Min-Erva.

My heart murmurs ‘Minerva‘ —
It’s heard, reverberating
nervously, yearning for her.
Tone — deafening, creating
a baseline beyond measure
of time and space in between
heartbeats, tempo-skipping, spurned
in silent treatment, dreaming

I could egg her on
but she’d get egg on her face
from lips still sealed shut
suggesting indirectly
truth convolutes minutiae

I knew she would already
always be beyond my reach —
Does automatically
knowing mean I can’t believe
Saint Clarity’s dwindling
residue‘s periphery
hides a tone that’s anchoring
auxiliary memories?

“Cobalt salts of alumina“, serene Minerva
sings, “season both July and September birthstones —
your body’s Sapphire-born, but your soul, Ruby…

It’s toxic to potters, overused creatively,
like ’round crowned vases shaped like Coat-of-Arms shields by
New York’s Columbia Blue college students,

which might have been you, you miserable Missourian…
Foreign sown, reaped, grow Cornflower Blue, most valued
Sapphire shade — You’re lost in a maze of maize,

not in a New York snow-globe!“, crows cellmate’s ghost-raven’,
“Left unguarded, your post does become a Straw-Man’s —
every harvest’s lost Cyan cause Faust’s possessed!“

“And now twelve heifers white as snow they lead to great Minerva’s sacred name to bleed. They fall — their bulks upon the pile are laid sprinkled with oil, and quick in flame arrayed.

And now descending midst the darkening skies — Behold the Goddess of the radiant eyes.

The ground she touched, beneath the mighty load Earth groaning rocks, and nature hails the God.

Within her hand her father’s lightnings shone, and shield that blazes near th’ eternal throne; The Greeks with fear, her dauntless form surveyed and trembling, bowed before the blue eyed maid.

Then favoring, thus began the power divine, while in her eyes celestial glorys shine; “Ye sons of Athens, loved by heaven,” she cries “Revered by men, be valiant and be wise, when morn awakes, Darius numbers dare clang your loud arms, and rouse the swelling war: But first to yon proud fleet a herald send to bid the Persians yield, and fight suspend, for vainly to their God, they suppliant call, Jove favors Greece, and Pallas wills their fall”, she said, and thro’ the depths of air she flies, mounts the blue heaven, and scales the liquid skies.

The Greeks rejoicing thank the powers above, and Jove’s great daughter, and eternal Jove. And now a herald to the fleet they send to bid the Persians yield, and war suspend. Thro’ the divided troops the herald goes, thro’ Athens host, and thro’ th’ unnumbered foes, before the holy man, the Persian bands Reverend give way, and ask what Greece demands:

He tells not all, but that he, chosen, seeks Datis their Chief, by order of the Greeks. The mission but in part, he, sage reveals and what his prudence prompts him, he conceals.

Then to their Chief they lead him where he sat with pomp surrounded, and in gorgeous state, around his kingly couch, his arms were spread flaming in gold, by forge Cyclopean made; And then stern Datis, frowning thus began, “What hopes deceive thee, miserable man? What treacherous fate allures thee thus to stray thro’ all our hosts? What Gods beguile the way?”
– Elizabeth Barrett Browning, prose excerpt from poem “The Battle of Marathon”

Mezzanine Muse Through The Elevator’s Lattice [Witty Flash-Fiction?]

NOTE (in my own words, screw Wikipedia!): Historically used to express secrecy, the phrase “sub rosa” is Latin for “under the rose”. The Mezzanine floor is a secret crawl-sized space sometimes hidden between floors, and traditionally built to be counted as the secret, inaccessible 13th floor between the 12th and 14th in hotels as a wise business practice in profit scalability that weighs the superstitions of travelers about the number 13 and shrewdly balances the fear (and budget!) with elevators whose missing 13 buttons subtly suggest to the unsuspecting superstitious patron, that floor 13 is inaccessible Executive office space, while avoiding being liable to sanctions and frivolous lawsuits about the scale of their floor plan because of the technicality proven and planned in the carefully labeled blueprints designating the storage crawl-space, as floor 13 on the foreman’s building schematics.

“Tell me more about your ideas on scalability… ” #nonprofitpickuplines
The Mezzanine Muse


I wonder why you say such plush things with such a lush hashtag, when recently, you’ve been speaking frequently about not wanting to change your life for anything – You are content with your own clever, one-sided singular business potential! You clearly are not sitting marginalized on the fence of discontent, feeling imbalanced!

Though you are infatuated with the rhythm of my witty rhetoric, you fail to measure it’s merit worth creative marriage, thus your settled fiscal resolve and the lack of risk in form and negligence in follow-through of a resolution to your fringe-flirting with the benefits of tipping the Scales of legacy together sub rosa through the lattice veil of your double entendres.

You are only curious about, not interested in my ideas about Scales’ ability.

There is a whole spectrum of difference balancing between mere curiosity in a concept and actual interest in a prospect to weigh in on in response to the semantics of your passive question, and we both know which side of the business and pleasure balance your process falls, stalls and fails on in collaborative topics as regards the both of us, oh Mezzanine Muse!

The truth no longer eludes me as you were likewise wont to, in your seeming to shift the amassed weight of how heavy to contemplate how worth the wait you were, almost as if you were an intemperate, irresponsible, over-extending of venture capital with exaggerated expected dividends with barometer scale chart-shifting, rain-making druidess who changed her over-flexible state of mind from water to solid investment mirages as my wasted time and energy drifted ever on to our implied first date on the cusp of eternity, our fickle-fated meeting proposal on the last quarter of your non-profiting discontent with pretense, ever-rescheduled merger pseudo-promised at least by the Zenith in the winter month of Never-ender…

Twilight Tryst (Lyrical Flash Fiction?)

“To what do you allude? I don’t want to start to assume in shades of the implied truth and end up finding I’ve misconstrued its subtle hues of ambiguous subterfuge,” I asked as the 11th hour of my patience passed for what I sensed was the silent treatment from Dusk, after she had winked her Sun at me on the horizon.

I had asked the Twilight to dance after I noticed she was staring strangely, barely blinking as one of her calico eyes slowly looked me over from head to toe… but now she kept it closed.

I confidently met her awkward gaze, comfortable in the limelight, until the rise of her  other eye reached the summit of the nighttime sky’s incline, and I realized that instead of sizing me up, she might just be rolling her Moon at me, over my brazen request.

…Either that, or my company was putting her to sleep, and the Twilight was fighting on the losing side against sleep’s somnolence.

I thought I’d finally caught the drift as her bright Clair de Lune disappeared behind her slowly closing cloud-lid, when suddenly I felt her resilient embrace in the wind, and her violent kiss in the morning mist on my lips.

It had taken the whole night for me to realize the distance of the Twilight wasn’t due to indifference, but her difficult predicament with commitment to merely mortal men, as she has always outlived them, ever since the Dawn of them.

It had taken the whole night for her to realize the naivety of my waiting on her wasn’t due to chauvinistic stupidity, but a devotee’s chivalry and a knight’s committedness to his cause even after others would call it lost.

It had taken us the whole morning to realize that as the 11th passed into the grave of mid-eve, with the Witching hour I could be cured of the previous day’s death and be brought beyond it’s nightmare eve-edge.

It had taken us the whole morning to realize we were both falling up in love to the atmosphere above the vermilion Dawn, dancing to our song, “The Scarlet Solaris & The Cyan Nocturne”:

You are the starlet Solaris―my concerto
Our galaxy’s wedding dance urges
I am the sighing Nocturne―your elegy
History’s authors of hours of dirges

You are my wings, highwind―I soar by stars by you
I’m swept up, up, away in you―I’m head over heels
In love’s heal-spin, red S kissed cheeks turn

I’m the sea thrones buoy―through seven troughs
You found me out at last―you discovered Atlantis
In deep Poseidon’s eyes, scuba-diving in love

You are the starlet Solaris―my concerto
Our galaxy’s wedding dance urges
I am the sighing Nocturne―your elegy
History’s authors of hours of dirges

You are mine, archetype―origin of my dreams
I chase after you always―I only have you here
In besotted Eden, begotten under Aegis

I’m weiss Siegfried’s hand―holding tight Kriemhild’s
You are my life’s Victory―you wisen, widen Peace
In all my names, you fill full their meaning

You are the starlet Solaris―my concerto
Our galaxy’s wedding dance urges
I am the sighing Nocturne―your elegy
History’s authors of hours of dirges

"21 Shades of Blue"

“21 Shades of Blue”

"23 Shades of Red"

“23 Shades of Red”

So Many Sirens (Petrarchan Sonnet)

Tossing waves are what I fondly call chaotic thoughts,
churning seas are what I’m so-calling Halcyon-longing
Siren shoals of Bream-dreams, the oceans’ thronging
tempestuous temptresses calling femme fatale songs
Like Odysseus I survive the Cat-curiosity, limbs taut
paradoxically always landing on my feet after listening,
and never learning anything but skills at death-cheating
the shallow depths Cupid frenzies sink through applause

I’m a Sonneteer braving a familiar frontier
through Atlantic mirrors, Pacific precipices,
poor guesses about whose a catch or snares
Both Warden of the Well, my Wishes’ Prisoner,
I run on Scylla wishing to avoid Charybdis
with a pair of scissors and paper heart that dares

“As it’s been said “all dogs traverse the heavens” and thus cats shit in hell–razed in it’s litter stink, shall I be forever-tied, with limbs taut in limbo? And cat’s eyes betwixt, mixed in with twilights– unsure if I exist more inside each dawn ascent, than I exist not outside it in each dusk descent? Am I lost surviving in death or here living a life?”
— Ry Hakari, prose-form of last stanza of “Schemes of Cat Eyes, Skeins of Dreams