Look Who's In Full Feather Now, Charlie!

Cetus Lapedus! Has it really been four months since I last exuded the endorphins here?

Blogging certainly is a demanding and thorough task. It really is like your own sort of parenting. Bill Cosby even once said, "Fatherhood is pretending the present you love most is soap-on-a-rope." It's never easy as sliding off a greasy log backward; it does indeed require a balance of time and creative vision. I've just been as busy as a stump-tailed cow in fly time since the holiday season, continuing to corral and lather myself up in Vitamin D, continuing to just stamp my Birkenstocks out on the sidewalks of the world, and practicing whistling louder and louder even with a sandal full of slush. But spring cleaning is a must once a year, and that's exactly what I'm doing here; bedizening Mr. Miyagi's poetry in motion, waxing on and waxing off this screen like a white crane penetrating wasabi winds, and oozing all those endorphins back to you via Pickle Feather Express, yay!

I shall have plenty more new entries to come, so keep your starry dolls eyes peeled! To tide you over, here's some new poems, yay!

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The Ornithologist
By: Noah Eaton
1/30/06

Homecoming immigrates with the wind,
solitude and thunder abruptly rescind,
how is it that you can build,
yet leave all as it was without skill,
teach me to use all talents I possess,
each moment unsung is a damsel in distress,
how is it you can soar over every ridge,
while holding all your mystical baggage...

All around, I hear nimble minstrels,
translation is beyond our control,
the genesis of all emotion,
libidinal winged lyrics set in motion,
wearing a green bough on my sleeve,
emancipating myself on the qui vive,
summoning my sabbatical leave,
from nests of last season where we’ve misconceived...

Surrounded by thousands of God’s truths,
watching all flighted youth profuse...

The ornithologist sings after every storm,
living with voices that we never hear,
birds only land in the hand that doesn’t grasp,
to understand you must volunteer,
to understand you must volunteer...

Brought together by the Great Mystery,
never to be documented through natural history,
the cellos that challenge symmetry,
with unrehearsed, playful carpentry,
from the low branch that God provides,
for the fledgling still learning to fly,
everything has long been in place,
whenever you believe there’s always breathing space...

Surrounded by thousands of God’s truths,
watching all flighted youth profuse...

The ornithologist sings after every storm,
living with voices that we never hear,
birds only land in the hand that doesn’t grasp,
to understand you must volunteer,
to understand you must volunteer...

Constantly wrestling just to touch base,
grace is something you cannot chase,
it comes like a kiss with a Queen Anne’s lace...

The ornithologist sings after every storm,
living with voices that we never hear,
birds only land in the hand that doesn’t grasp,
to understand you must volunteer,
to understand you must volunteer...

*

Taboo Ragout
By: Noah Eaton
1/27/06

Hinder me with unkempt silence,
smoothen each fissure,
with effortless artisanship,
like some supposed sorority dentist,
let your catuaba kick in,
dolled up in tumultuous providence,
dandified in your unorthodox leisure,
painting the untamed lily,
just so I can see your cheeks,
rouged in Indian summer.

Shadowboxing with first impressions,
dubbed in dwarf sunflower dialect,
no attempt of image compression,
can encapsulate all your worldly respect,
your Spanish jasmine aria,
has left me with myriads of side effects,
cajoled to your capricious allergies,
infecting each millimeter of my lips,
with each one no poet has classified.

Muting out all white noise,
so all I can hear is you breathing,
re-acquainted with ancient orchids,
knowing I’ve loved you,
long before we were born,
regaling each scoop of taboo ragout,
in our imbued pas-de-deux,
stricken with Xanadu flu...

…spicing expressionless syllables,
with marigold prophecies,
and feminine touch...

*

The Chameleon’s Chemise
By: Noah Eaton
2/6/06

Full-blooded tidepools coquet,
with eleven virtues of jade,
exposing your pure and prolonged,
sempiternal lingerie,
fetching fire from the sun,
ushering in the sincerity pageantry,
in torrid fan dance I’m tangled up,
impaled by your zealous chastity...

Magpies quaver in your kidneys,
burning high with unrestrained choreography,
with dizzying divertissement,
penetrating me with each ravishing thrumming,
your temperature responds to my breath,
perspiring every color in wanton wake,
as your unbridled Indian-paintbrush lips,
drip with saw palmetto berry tea breaks...

Pacifist agony, gusty glances,
bend and break with your refulgence,
daisy chaining with the whitecaps,
misty petite potpourri pleas of indulgence,
appeasing affinity for salacity,
exposed in sandbars of Venus-looking glass,
but all mystique our technique,
all mystique your boutique...

…putting me to the test,
possessed by the emotional lingerie...

…behind your misty, chimerical chemise...

XOXO,
Noah Eaton
(Mistletoe Angel)
(Emmanuel Endorphin)