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Stephen Pickering

Category: Poems

  • A New Poem: “Street Car, Sweet Heart, Sweat Hard”

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    Stephen Pickering
    in ,

    I love your Spanish talk. The soft ground around you Hovers as you walk. Chinese flowers grow out of me like dreams lifted under a bed of yellow Lantana and grapewood rosevine. Midnight and a sleep walking Sun dip its claws into the milky Moon. She blows a serenade and makes a note in her…

  • A New Poem: Sonnet #2 “Sunfather”

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    by

    Stephen Pickering
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    Sunfather Red Wave Petunias shower over clay, All things can open up and show their light. A life becomes transparent in warm May. Transparent to transcendence born from night. Their eyes the leaves foam into greening smiles to Father Sun and Mother Sea of dream. They feel the music, sibling Wind breathes miles through body,…

  • Sonnet #1

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    Stephen Pickering
    in , ,

    (*I figured if Shakespeare can write a hundred than I can too.) Sonnet #1 I loved the girl who lived next door to me. Her eyes were blue and clear and sang with joy. She was the sun, the grass, the trees, and stream. Her hair was blond and bobbed just like a boy. Then…

  • A New Poem: The Cross

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    Stephen Pickering
    in ,

    The river flows uphill. It isn’t magic. Magic is when it flows downhill. The arrow of time is pierced by eternity The man hanging is the soul awakened. The milk girl is dancing The “Cotten-Eyed Joe” on the gym floor of the mind underneath which the oceans of the Cosmos Splash applause and awake our…

  • No Possum, No Sop, No Taters

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    Stephen Pickering
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    The trouble with authentic artists is that they’re in a silo both psychologically and culturally, so its not feeding the culture, and we have a Wasteland situation. Science, Art, Philosophy, Psychology, Media, Business, Politics, Technology, Religion are all walled off into separate silos. There’s no integration because they are controlled by protocols and systems, institutions.…

  • Little Night Poem

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    by

    Stephen Pickering
    in ,

    I don’t care what the foam sea squalls say: The mountains are made of mint. Green I spend gliding upon the emotion- Less ramp besieged by the creepy Count de Bourgie Of my psyche. The orphaned Queen of my heart will jump Straight down into her moat and drown If the adventurer of my soul…