Vince Storti

 

 

 

(USA)

 

 

 

 

Dream Sleep Links

 

Found dreams dissolved

slumber broken    midnight sirens:

fire-truck’s raging howls

from the street, truck horns bellow, blare

a furious race to reach disaster

flames.

 

Stumbled man: awake: a yawn,

a vivid remainder, a reminder, a faded  snapshot

the  dream forgotten.

 

Beyond the night

a recent dream: something recalled:

houses with broken board

recollections of shattered glass

shards: puzzles of cracked seawalls

dead birds on sidewalks

cemeteries and caskets broken open.

 

Out on the patio, birds singing—

long brown feather’s

flapping.

 

A scene of unbroken cement and marble

the idea of a city, beyond crumbling theft

those visions

dreams.

 

 

Restless Dream

 

Last night

slumbered pages of dream-talk

rapidly shifting moments of scenes

forgotten places, sleepless nights

thirst for answers in shadows

flight of Escher’s circling stairs

floating boats full of sails

flower-sent seeds into gardens

a house on a hill

a broken fence.

 

Narrow awakened morning

around me, over me

tumbled Mexican blankets

blue, red, yellow in jumbles

attempted recollections

last night’s dreams escape; floating images

cave dark warrens, silent towers, bridges

disappearing faces, walls

unremarkable reflections

windows, resisting answers

invisibility of untouched replies

tucked away dreams.

 

 

New Dreams and Drift and Music

 

this

night and

breeze-blown

sticks of incense and

faces traced by shadows

visions created by deep slumber

cold rain falls on water-dripped glass

as someone turns in wool-blanketed bed

words drift mumbly, way beyond any meaning

as songbird-trilled dreams still hold a distant sway

where beyond this sleep, saxophone riffs play the street

defining ancient tones drifting upon cool morning breezes

music-slumbered in rhythm visions teased by that recent refrain

of last night’s hours dug in weavings of joy and high-bopped swing

buzzing in jump-blend jives of sweet jazz notes and savage solos

where flute-play cadence-gripped silent dreams, making magic

as new couples kiss/whisper in dark and secret reaches

where they so quietly find those blue-haze tables

before drifting into sidewalk-night city streets

to make their way to shadowed rooms

where rain-drop hours are spent

sharing newest incense loves

within atonal mirror corners

beneath gentlest bebops

of silk-sheet romances

toward soft places

dream love

goes

on

 

 

New Dreams and Drift and Music (reversed)

 

on

goes

dream love

toward soft places

of silk-sheet romances

beneath gentlest bebops

within atonal mirror corners

sharing newest incense loves

where rain-drop hours are spent

to make their way to shadowed rooms

before drifting into sidewalk-night city streets

where they so quietly find those blue-haze tables

as new couples kiss/whisper in dark and secret corners

where flute-play cadence-gripped silent dreams, making magic

buzzing in jump-blend jives of sweet jazz notes and savage solos

of last night’s hours dug in weavings of joy and high-bopped swing

music-slumbered in rhythm vision teased by that recent refrain

defining ancient tones drifting upon cool morning breezes

where beyond this sleep, saxophone riffs play the street

as songbird-trilled dreams still hold a distant sway

words drift mumbly, way beyond any meaning

as someone turns in wool-blanketed bed

cold rain falls on water-dripped glass

visions created in deep slumber

faces traced by shadows

sticks of incense and

breeze-blown

night and

this

 

 

Waking Again

 

In the field of memory called sleep, unlit night approaches:

silent moments drift tales: fleet dreams mix and scatter replies.

 

In nighttime hours, boundaries measure what spins

magic stories; visions of hope beneath rampaging stars.

 

Here, what reveals a kaleidoscopic ocean: hidden beasts

luminous fishes, suggestions of Picasso: his Night Fishing in Antibes.

 

Beyond this, wind-chime sounds sparkle;

a train whistle hoots a mumbled incantation—it sounds

a confident warning—it rouses beyond slumber’s nest.

 

Near memory’s mirage, what softly emerges, what is born of restraint, as

sleep flees night’s dimmed edges, as spinning stars surrender to morning light;

in faded sparkle, what fuses distant spirits of dark sky folding into blue.

 

Roused from sleep, in new dawn light, an arm reaches out

it begins a fumbled search; fingers grab a pad of paper, a pen is lifted.

 

On grappled page, night-husked myths; sets of mysterious scribbles:

what marks, the half-conscious mind—a memory scene: peasants weaving cloth

a priest’s dirge, and there is winter rain, and children playing in a courtyard.

 

One child looks down at what used to be a nest.

in sun-cleaved morning, eyes open amid echoes.

 

On a notebook page, smeared scrawls: indecipherable words: letters like runes

illogical queues; hints of ideas: something about art and music; Claire de Lune, Eroica;

Georgia O’Keefe: skulls, flowers; and then, Matthew Arnold: his Dover Beach.

 

Here, a sense of what a poem might become

the moment that brings little but a whisper; the day begins

displays scenes of what might yet paint freedom’s reply.

 

 

Dreamt Trail

 

i

 

As midnight spreads darkness

evening dances toward slumber’s

napped shadows.

 

A head drops to a pillow

surrenders to sleep, begins to move toward shadows

wandering in distant realms memory seldom retains

in dream-bound visions, in sped inward scenes

quick-whispered, with few remembered traces.

 

But just now, a blind man is walking, guiding

his tick-tic stick down a mountain road—

he is outlined by splashed daylight hours

in a realm where the sun brightly shines

as a bird hops and trails just beyond.

 

Just now, a blind man is walking, guiding

his tick-tic stick down a mountain road—

he is outlined by splashes of daylight hours.

 

A voice calls out:

ARE YOU THERE

Lao Tzu? Lao Tzu, is that you?

 

What has been roused from sleep sets a tale—

fingers fumble to locate a pen and pad of paper

the moment is traced by jagged script, it tells a story

scribbled on scattered pages, as tumbled words fly

and catch the backwash of remembered dreams.

 

Lao Tzu, is that you?

 

ii

 

In stupor, scenes float ideas flying in the wind

images like kites lifted to zip from room-to-room

as gliders to soar above garishly painted faces, to

drift over impatient voices, those demands:

come down now; end your flight of fancy.

 

iii

 

In fragmented sleep, dreamt scenes sustaining what presents

no solution, prepares no salvation—points to no easy reply.

 

Time edged toward morning.

 

A quiet breath; a mind shifting with dawn.

 

Awakened, with dream wings now useless hopes, and

there are only pages of jotted curves and scribbled lines

those scrawls and doodles that hint at murmured reply.

 

Risen from that bed, a scan of sky and clouds, in

sun and shade-shaped locations, the high realms

of a raven’s soaring lazy flight,

 

Up there, what might lead toward an unmapped sea

a sailing place, a realm of what is now ready to begin.

 

 

Walker Woman

 

She—flirt-spaced jiggle-walker

          slow-stroll lass

          clever-bound    in travel-town

          found now    slinking down

          skank-alley    shadow ground

 

Me—above   in distant watch

          dream bound, but desire’s hound

          long watch: her pace and walk

          this urgent setting, this growing realm

 

She—back and forth like short-money sort

          paper-bag drunk, clever hidden right hand

          something reminiscent.

 

She—clandestine tight-booze clutch

          ale-waving right arm, curls of hair

          her fingers and the can-cradled air

 

She—mascara-heavy   skin whimsied

          nicely weaving form, upward floating gaze

 

She—wiggle walker: beauty’s dark treasures

          flesh-vision pretty; hips whispered wide

          slight sling of breasts,

                              dreams

 

She—young-wonder walking legs

          flowing tresses and leather-laced

          something nice—partly showing

          her seeming invitation

 

But she—somehow wounded

          and beyond clever brazen ways

          life-shaped, her bewildering pace

 

Me—Vesuvio tavern-traced warm

          dreaming still of nights to come

          ready to forego taken vows

 

She—impossibly distant upon dark-alley-street

          her whims of silence, no singing-rhythm songs

          no slinging of tunes, aloft

 

She—back-and-forth-like cat

          in cautious walk

          her slow-stroll ankles

 

She—leather-clad and beneath me—

          black-coated, her figure sways

 

Me—in bull-abandoned mask

Me—in slow-descent decision

Me—down empty stairs

 

Me—outside to search; this narrow alley—

          echoes of  traffic’s hard-honking sound

          traced lane now quickly regarded

          disbelief, and discovery in this

 

          and what she had abandoned

          what was now, her disappearance

          suddenly, yet this again.

 

Me—in this alley—

          finding lingering moments of perfume

          now with gothic night approaching

          these myths beyond stars

          all that admits to dreams

          all the shining worlds…

 

 

Georgia O’ Keeffe: These Questions of the Wild and Observed

 

“I’ve been absolutely terrified all of my life; and I’ve never

let it keep me from doing a single thing I’ve wanted to do”

 

Georgia O Keeffe

 

Georgia: beyond the main-stem of a myth-splashed city

your life spun beyond art’s small measures; in an alley of life

how you submitted to the mirrors: art’s own pleasure.

 

I remember that picture of you:

splayed fingers curved against your face;

that bright silence: what was valuable, alive.

 

*

 

I want to imagine how you escaped Manhattan

how you jimmied the invisible lock, set yourself free

beyond midnight Manhattan skylines.  Then, no more skyscrapers:

no more New York with Moon behind you; no more City Night: its taunting noir

no more of that New York Night, its windows lit against darkness

as if small stars could win with the spread dots of light.

 

Georgia: I liked what I imaged: how you seemed: exultant—

that fleeing and racing—your face turned into secrets;

it was the way you caught up with your life.

 

*

 

It was time for you to begin again:  you and that New Mexican desert:

there: your paint brush out: grace-daubing and dip-dappling those

whirled shapes, swipes of paint: those marching colors; those whistling hues:

white swirls played off reds: those glistening twists.

 

Now, it was Purple Petunias; Black Iris and Red Amaryllis

what of those flowers and that dark-dream desert, those

night scents and flights of ashen midnight moths?

 

What of that canvas you called Black Cactus?

 

There, I sought the template of your mind; I didn’t find it.

 

Those blooms: that hinted reply: the song of your scarred earth.

 

The question of what your creature was doing, dangling in that day-lit sky?

 

*

 

Georgia, I thought about you: did you read Collette?

 

Did you go sad-laughing, to bed?

 

Did you howl with the coyote?

 

Did you have a drink or two before lunchtime?

 

You said you never ate peyote:

so where did you find those bright colors?

 

Did you ever see lizards dirt-walking near broken windows?

 

Did you still see visions of the city?

 

And how many times did you say: they’re not turtles: they’re only flowers?

 

Did you ever become used to the wrinkling curtain of your skin?

 

And, with the last years set, was there still something savage?

 

Did you ever utter: “Oh the waste” as you moved forward

half-blind, through fields of untilled  passion?

 

Was it with deadly quiet you sent final notes?

 

With your hours set in scattered dreams, did you sing out one last time?

 

Was there still something laughing at the end, set with faith

your final mood painting an uncertain picture, a vague portrayal

until the last moment carried you beyond.

 

 

The Walk

 

1.

 

In these times

there are healers and ancient piles of bones.

 

There are old measures of what is buried and what survives—

the question of healers who heal everything but themselves.

 

Rules broken: the commandment ignored

you shall do no harm.

 

And there are hospital beds filled with the lives of poets

his life was as a singer: his demise: quick, like glass shattered.

 

I learned how he had so many friends.

He departs and a heart turns to stone.

 

2.

 

Also: the finest things: those touching embraces

the hug at a given moment, the signature of what senses

any reply: the allayed suspicion; the silent regimes of doubt.

 

Heat at this juncture: the pair of them in romance’s walk

the hidden moment what separates destiny from resolve

the wound cleansed beyond faith: weakness condemns.

 

A man and a woman who would or would not choose—

their moments are hand-in hand; they heal in different ways.

 

As they touch, the world spins around them: guessed

words unspoken, the equatorial heat, the racing mind

whether to go forward, or stay behind.

 

Hands of heaven, fingers of hell:

the open cages of angled resolution

the savage choices blowing toward them

the force of the autumnal equinox leaves.

 

He mutters to himself, no longer content

with what he feels, not knowing     how

to heal this.

 

 

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Bio :

Vince Storti has produced a poetry reading series at the now-closed Yakety Yak Coffee House and several other venues. He also has produced two literary magazines Awaa-te and North Coast Literary Review.  He recently received a first prize in the midi-poem category awarded by the Bay Area Poet’s Coalition’s Maggie Mayer Poetry Contest. Vince Storti is currently on the board of Alameda Island Poets and is also serving as a board member with the California Federation of Chaparral Poets.

 

He seeks to produce written works that narrow gaps in social and psychological understanding.  If we aren’t writing for one other, then why are we doing it? 

 

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