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The Poetry of Jude ForÉse
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The Writing Forum’s Writer of the Month - April 2008
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AUTHOR’S BIO:
Jude ForÉse resides in NYC. His poetry explores the inner and outer worlds of meta-physical thought as well as the realm of inter-personal relationships. He is a poet in motion, continuously developing voice and exploring style. He strives for the unique. Through the years, his work has been included in online writing sites, as well as online zines and in small chapbooks and magazines. He has one book of poetry entitled, "Moods in Motion" which is available from four different sources: please click here for ordering information. At present Jude is working on his second book "Acts of Flight". His poetic goal is to stimulate and intrigue the thoughts and spirit in his reader.
Email: JudeAce@aol.com
Jude ForÉse’s Poetry
Click on the button in front of any title in
the list below to be linked to that poem:
 dream juice (a) ... ka-ching
dream juice (b) ... dreamhouse
dream juice (c) ... awake
dream juice (d) ... ka-boom
dream juice (e) ... cachoo
dream juice (f) ... astral rein
dream juice (g) ... on fire
dream juice (h) ... dream mêlée
dream juice (i) ... playground
dream juice (j) ... parachute
storm drain
star doors
libretto
breeze of light
dashboard dreams
yap
inspiring conspiring
oh wow
case
internal circumstances
ghost town
shower
recycyle
one more time
age blossoms
growing grapes
drive
composition
atmosphere
sunlit
impression
lackamore bridge
diner
spell work
dreamjuice (a) ... ka-ching
I am working in an antique variety store
dusting, rearranging,
interacting with an occasional customer
at the register an old man is standing,
diligently watching me network his wares
as I walk across creaking wooden floors,
I gesture to a woman to follow me.
there is something I want her to see,
something she might be interested in
the sun is setting,
a powerful glare penetrates the storefront window
passing within the curios and artifacts
dust dances within sunbeams
fashioning a snow globe effect
we approach a hickory showcase
where there is an assortment of glass bottles
and silver urns
she inquires, “what’s that liquid in those bottles
and what’s in those urns”?
“well, the urns contain stardust collected
before I began to work here
and the bottles store dream juice, a very special blend,
one sip and all your dreams will be lucid
you can control and know what’s within every dream
it’s happening to me right now -
one more thing, the bottles
on the top rack are fermenting
and not for sale”
“what’s the formula”? she inquires
“what ingredients are inside those things”?
the old man smiles and responds,
“synaptic molecules of your being -
oh yes, the bottles above are fermenting
and not for distribution or consumption”
she looks at me, then smiles and waves
to the old man
ka-ching
dreamjuice (b) ... dreamhouse
I am standing before a large house
concealed in the woods,
covered by dense vines and rainbow mist
I’ve never set eyes on this residence before
though I’ve dreamt of it over and over,
assembling it from the inside out
rebuilding it step by step,
continuously laying down the groundwork
stone by stone, plank by plank
from a blueprint
designed in my dreams
by an unknown hand
in the deep coolness of the open attic,
my breath rises to the sunroof
I see the sky
embellished with cumulus clouds,
altering into varied shapes
and silken silhouettes
superimposed by sunbeams
they form dark yet alluring faces
and all sorts of archetypal shapes
conjured up by molecule bending
I always wonder whose house is this anyway?
I feel I belong here
yet, is it truly mine?
and I wonder who designated the dream blueprint
given in an episode of conscious slumber
I know somewhere there’s an unseen proprietor
I wonder where he really resides
though I never seen him I know he’s out there
inside the horizon of my dream
perhaps this elusive landlord
I’ve been seeking
is really the dreamlord of my being
and this house I constantly build
is the structure
supporting my soul
I am sitting
in a Chippendale 1760 mahogany chair
in the middle of a plow field
somewhere out in Long Island
watching eagles encircle
a group of dancers
pirouetting and straddling the air
in a divine ballet
a dance written
just so they can to watch their astral bodies
peer into my eyes
through the mirror of my soul
they reflect upon the light of the spinning ball
rising above the stage
I am honored to be dreaming on
with bottles of Luis the XII brandy in hand
they pour sifters for all
toasting the air dancing above and below us
finally I am awake
dreamjuice (d) ... ka-boom
I am walking into a tall building
there are gargoyles seated
on the corners of the top floors
the elevator men are bulky and faceless
their fingerless hands beckon me into the iron hoist
the floor light is set on zero
beginning to spin in a frantic blur
I have this compulsion to go upstairs so I enter
watching hesitantly as the door slowly closes
the view of the lobby disappears
I am moving upwards as well as sideways
though I feel as though I am going nowhere
and this sensation I am being watched
finally, the door slides open
onto the 13th floor
I peer out and look side to side
there is only darkness
except for the sparkle of lips
speaking unintelligibly
fanatically mumbling in tongues
filtering in and out of my hearing range
suddenly sunbeams pop through a tinted window
and I am transformed into a mystical museum
at least, that’s what this shadow informs me
a shadow
bidding me good health and a safe journey
and to watch out from being seduced
by voluptuous voices
soon all sound surrenders,
as the elevator descends rapidly
I open my eyes
sweating out the scent of lipstick and spice
rising to unfamiliar forms
falling into the twilight’s brave new gleam
ka-boom
dream juice (e) ... cachoo
walking across the edge of cliff
decorated with blue, green and red lights
flickering on and off
like a pulsar’s composite x-ray
arriving from the depths of space
the colored globes appear to go on forever
into the contours of this dreamscene
there’s a lighthouse in the far expanse
beaming directly toward me,
pulling me into its bubble …
gazing downward
I see sparkling waves crest to my right
Illuminated by the full moon
and the jagged pattern
of the cliffs before me
lifting up into the air like a bird taking to flight
to a nest of fabulous fluorescence
toward a glowing egg
of enigmatic proportions
the lighthouse is almost within my grasp
as I suddenly fall into the waves below
and now the sensation of drowning
awakens me in tears
I breath in
I sneeze out
cachoo
dream juice (f) ... astral rein
in bed falling into sleep
when I suddenly begin to rise to the ceiling
it’s a bit scary but quite exhilarating
because I know my astral body is on the move
but the rapid rise to the ceiling
has knocked me back down
being naturally persistent
I consciously repeat the feat
controlling my fear this time
and now I am far away
very far, I didn’t even realize I had ascended
but I am now descending just above the ground
in an instant
I see a herd of wild mustangs
running across a grassy field
I meet the eyes of one horse
looking up to me as though she senses something above her
something has spooked the herd
to gallop as fast as their legs can carry them
but she stops to look above
snorting and raising her from legs into the air
she knows I’m there
suddenly, I fall back into my body
with an intense physical synaptic shudder
bouncing onto the mattress
I open my eyes
tasting the dust of a far off land
as well as the sweet smell of sweaty horses
dream juice (g) ... on fire
beside a campfire
I peer into the surrounding darkness
it is not empty of vision
in fact, my mind feels unblemished here
and quite fulfilled,
I can see into any direction
without distraction or disturbance
my thoughts take on form
and develop synchronicity,
listening to crackling chants,
from within glowing embers
and the chatter of my dream’s vocal chords
the embers explode into forms of light and sound
feeding my craving
to explore the vast dreamscape before me
the center of the campfire is all-consuming,
dazzling, poetic
it dances with archetypal partners
performing moves to delight and inspire
I must dream further on
into the smoky terrain
I am rising into
consumed by the fire of my alchemical soul
dream juice (h) ... dream mêlée
I dreaming in a huge field
it’s so immense its overwhelming
I’m dreaming I’m dreaming
my dream has no beginning, no end
no up or down
no sense of light
no swathe of darkness
I rise in this dream without moving
I see within this dream without looking
I hear my heart pound
like a ceremonial drumbeat
and my blood flow
like a river gushing over a waterfall
I’m back,
back in the field
right smack in the middle
to my side
a tribe of warriors dressed in deerskin, feathers
and war paint
an endless blur of bows and arrows are aimed to the sky
as a fiery chant permeates the dreamscape
I look to my other side
and see a vast army of soldiers
surrounded by tanks, canons and rifles
there are strange garbled voices over intercoms,
I have no idea what either side is saying
both sides are positioned toward me,
standing in a pool of mercury and mud
both sides are angry and psyched up
their bodies shifting back and forth
like a trance dance ready to rush upon me
I recognize this field is actually my soul
and the warriors and soldiers
are ready to fight over it
at this point, a transparent hand ascends from the sky
and pulls right in front of me
all the warriors and soldiers instantly freeze in place
only a cool breeze hits up against me
as I step into the hand,
it closes up on me like a fist
then throws me forward
casting me back to being awake
it’s morning, I’m feeling more alive than ever,
having survived another dream mêlée
dream juice (i) ... playground
I could see a small child playing in a sandbox
no adults or other children were standing by
just the quiet cascade of sand falling from spoon into pail
he whispers notes
singing enchanting wind songs
entertaining breezes
and laughing in the aftermath of
was his delicate gusty smile
he had a remarkably serene expression
his eyes, blue as the sky
his skin, a silky tone
of olive and light chocolate
his auburn hair,
shinny tarnished copper
there was no path for me to walk upon
no staircase to get up and slide down upon
no monkey bars to straddle across
so swings to attract his attention to
I turned away for a moment
and as I looked back,
he is no longer a small child
but a young man
he is carving a statue inside a crystal dome
he gestures for me to come forward
but I cannot move
a magnetic tug is holding me back
while a wave of energy is pushing me forward
I am suspended in this dream’s playground
I can only stand still and awaken
dream juice (j) ... parachute
I am falling through a cloud
twirling ‘round and ‘round,
a freefall with no beginning or end
I don’t know if I’m up or down
or how I’ve gotten here,
but as I pass a passenger ship
I remember I’m dreaming,
the logic of the situation befriends me
oh, I wish I had a parachute
I wish I could descend real slow
no sooner thought of,
I’m holding onto red nylon chords
as a bright yellow parachute
ripples in the wind above me
I have to admit,
the mystery and outcome
is both daunting as well as exhilarating
as I break through the cloud
I’m find myself inside another misty apparition,
a dense fog raining crystal balls
with rainbow bubbles surrounding me
there is a lighthouse in the far distance
and I can taste sea salt on my lips
and see the moon through the clearing fog
my legs waltz in the wind
and as I get closer to the ground
my heart is pumping so hard
I feel like I’m in a musical
dancing to the beat of tropical kettle drums
there’s a stage of souls waiting just below me
performing in a play
they're all waiting to take a final bow
as I land between their eyes
there’s a giant curtsy
and it’s aimed to the stars dancing beneath my feet
storm drain
waiting
in the rain
waiting
for you
drenched
in your pains
soaked
in your view
behold!
this deliverer
of awful beauty!
a potent storm
who stings
while it sings
a vortex
engulfing channel
consuming
every drop
of my liquid
drowning dreams!
star doors
she arranged her own vibrant costumes
along with her mélange
of softly brushed make-up
delicately tuned eyebrows
and rosy cheeks
complementing a façade of smooth form
and aesthetic articulation
of movement and affect
she rose above falling stars
across an horizon of stellar audiences
such an intense,
charming character
her temperament moved
even the most contemptuous critics
she lived and died
in a wealth of fabulous theaters
and choreographed dream scenes
where star doors
open only to a special few
libretto
escort me
to the end
on windy skies
and sandy shores,
write me a script
so my character
is naked, running through fog
clothed by vaporous film
of unknown worlds coming and going
libretto
where the moon occasionally
filters through surreal mist
of past lifetimes
casting its distant beam upon my face
so I can see into the depths of space
where cool breezes
pass through my nostrils
into my lungs
so all my organs vibrate
with impassioned blood
just waiting, waiting for your arrival
to escort me
to the origin of my soul
write me a script
where I cease to exist,
yet kept alive
by your enduring words
breeze of light
through “hills and dales”
of spirited tales,
a sailor rattles
the sails of his own making
a vast breeze
stirs the mast
to guide his vessel
into a seldom taken direction
into a blinding state of being
brightly illuminated by moonbeams
and starburst patterns
rolling across the waves
in the galley, a secret slumber
is continuously awakened
by looking
through the porthole of rippling lights
guided by an internal compass
pointing to a mysterious bearing
where only dreamers
dare to sail upon
go ahead, my dear sailor
sail into that mystifying sea
navigate
to see the breeze of light
dashboard dreams
I don’t wait too long for my shadow
to catch up to me
actually, I don’t have much of a choice
unless I decide to hide in the bushes
or take a swim
in an indoor pool
or travel to a very misty sea
or perhaps the really cold, murky East River
or shower under the rainy trees in Central Park
sometimes, my shadow just disappears
from my angle of perspective
maybe it decides to detach
and visit the Bronx Zoo
to surreptitiously watch
the lions, tiger, and bears
and I’m left looking into parallel directions
where there’s no one to talk to
so I think of silhouettes and in metaphors
then again, Bellevue’s not too far away
but I rather go to the Bowery or the Cloisters
or perhaps jaunt to MOMA
maybe visit papa’s grave
or mother’s bones
I walk I walk in front myself
so I can see what I’m leaving behind
the art I visualize
are pictographs of words
filtering through my mind
choosing which colorful blur
to look for
while writing my memoir
onto the pavement in chalk
waiting to hail an unlicensed cab
to crash into another
one of my dashboard dreams
yap
she speaks with an unusual vernacular,
one I have a hard time syncing into
but it doesn’t really matter, she probably thinks
I sound like I’m from another world
and perhaps she’s right
perhaps, she has forgotten the moments
when inspired discourse ruled
our synchronized correspondence
at least the written word
disallows distorted dialects
as well as time, space,
and the outer contours of wayward dreams
but that’s water
way over the bridge
I can’t even imagine
the suspension beams anymore
they all have vanished
under the depths of our own weight
as we drowned
in an awkward vision of soundless yelps
inspiring conspiring
oh wow
we’ve only got one shot in life,
that’s what they say
yet, there’s new research
to keep you going
for maybe 200 years
by slowing down the aging gene
after all, it’s successful with round worms
wow, 200 years on this planet?
you’ve got to be kidding, right?
wouldn’t that be a cruel joke?
can any brain endure such abuse?
can any soul absorb so much beauty?
one shot, is that it?
isn’t there some grand mystery
after that shot is over?
me thinks mr. apple,
grand innovator inquisitor,
got it right
after all, his dying words were,
“oh wow, oh wow, oh wow”
case
strange, how we accumulate
so much worn out baggage
containing a lot of neurotic nonsense,
empty space and clandestine whim
hemmed in
by a musty assortment of personal junk,
and volumes
of deleterious debris
don’t forget the subconscious contraband
hidden in secret compartments
of our emotional linings -
we travel with this luggage,
travel far and near,
fly, drive, and jog with it,
bathe, fuck, and dream in it
keep it in the closet,
unpacked and ready to go
go nowhere or perhaps
‘round the world
then, one day
we throw it away
to make room
for a newer model
of the same old case
internal circumstances
in the womb
life is fairly simple
nourishment
is just a part of the deal
as long as the exchange
is healthy and loving
motion
is limited to a controlled surrounding
suspended in a sea
unconcerned with currents or ripples
dreaming is the main activity
(besides growing)
maybe a vision of a past lifetime
while sucking on a thumb
or perhaps an occasional kick or two
in the womb
there is no concern
with purpose or identity
or the occasional miscarriage of purpose
the world offers as providence
ghost town
water drops
from a broken ceiling
exploding drops
upon a faded tile floor
i stare into a puddle
probing listless ripples
and distorted reflections
(crumbled skyscrapers, tenements,
bridges, trains, and cars
decomposing by time enzymes)
the sun’s rays
mirthlessly expose
this desolate scene,
this cold, discarded bedlam
as alien
as a lost dream,
as lonely
as an empty womb,
as dusty
as a galaxy of stars
here, only shallow whispers
rattle about broken doors
only unsightly memories
roam stairwells
weaving through massive cobwebs
here, billions shared a breath
called existence
where dreams
came to an abrupt end
where shattered bones
decorate fallen bricks
wedged between moldy shadows
decayed carcasses
dangle from lampposts, terraces
and telephone poles
secured by ropes
braided by prejudice, hatred and greed
shower
in the shower
the skin of shedding selves
swirl down the drain
i listen to water songs
as my mind sinks
into the abyss
i close my eyes
imagining my body without its skin,
a muscular skeleton growing older
in the shower, i am immortal
there is nothing
but the art of cleansing oneself
there is nothing
but vapor and heat
to open the pores of past lifetimes
sweating out the poisons
of modern life
in the shower
i am alone and exposed
to the cubbyhole
smallness of existence
recycle
having come full circle
the path is now
extremely narrow
wide as
the will to survive the arena
by declawing the lions
superseding
foreseeable slaughter
by taming the horde -
moving
through collective dreams
with the verve of individual spirit
yet returning
to digging
through pitch-black tunnels
remembering
the light ahead
appearing as a microdot of hope
bright
as hell and elusive
as the stars above
one more time
in the beginning,
the light cradled your imagination
the darkness supported
the shadow of your being
dreams long forgotten
were remembered as you awoke,
rekindled, nourished
and passed along as you slept
only the cycle of night and day
defines who you are
your hopes brighter than stars
your faith deeper
than the space it inhabits
in the end,
you live again and again
one more time
age blossoms
age is always a concern
youth prevails in its staying power
but due to its own inherent nature
is first to be sacrificed
the vim and vigor of expansion
grows and discards
various stages
of achievement and failure
dreams of life
are overwritten
by a subconscious desire of enduring
its own circulatory spasms of breath
cloaked as a spectrum of positive deeds,
succulent successes, frantic failures, inner strengths
and outward weaknesses
all intertwined
struggling not to remain in infancy
or even grow into it
realizing
age is really not an issue
but a seasonal outburst
toward living ahead
not to return
but to blossom
growing grapes
an old man sits in his garden
growing grapes and various fruits
over the years
it’s really a lovely garden
bursting with color,
delicate aromas, sweet tastes,
soothing the soul
memories are always flowing
from the pages in his eyes
he cuts a piece of imported provolone
pouring a glass or burgundy
listening to bocelli
watching the vines grow
attached to those little behaviorisms
he holds so dear
the way his hat slightly tilts to the side
the way he smokes his cigar
watching the smoke dance about the grape leaves
he puckers his lips
and rolls the wine around his tongue
deep within the wrinkles
etched into his face
much experience has taken place
love, passion, anger, heartache
have all made a grove
into the man he has become
i wish I could speak to him
and offer him a glimpse
into the security of knowing
when the end of this growing season will occur
maybe, in his garden
in the height of winter
when the leaves have fallen
and the trees are all bare
and the stars are transforming into angels,
i’ll say hello and whisper good-bye
drive
you asked me to kill a little time
by the ravine
where we met so many years ago
and dare not leave
until i could see the bloodshot haze
of your deep transcendent eyes
arrive upon the nocturnal landscape
waiting for midnight
i stare into the endless fields
reminding me of the vast expanse
of your mythical presence
as i count misty mountaintops
congregating under the moonlit terrain
you arrive in a coupe
and i stare into those fiery red eyes
and lick those starry words
pouring from your budding lips
liquefying into poetic ramblings
drive me
take us far away
where dreamers gather round and round
performing wild acts of creative mischief
and structured positions of pure folly
are safe once again, to risk the radiance of behavior
composition
ah, these days of aged wine,
salty breezes
and smoky words
walking along piers of far-off dreams
emboldened onto silky stones …
ah, how they celebrate
an opus of inspired emotions
reserved in depths of intoxicated waves –
atmosphere
it is a usual afternoon
the workers eat lunch
watching each other eating lunches
the children play in schoolyards
their teachers counting down the minutes
the bombers keep bombing
either the infidels or each other
the dreamers take a snooze under shady trees
dreaming nightmares of sunny days
the stock market rises then falls
forming a wave of panicky jellyfish
their long greedy tentacles
whirling into the potential profits of everything
the politicians and leaders
regulate their ruling heads
up each other’s asses
i sit by the bay
smoking a cigar
writing letters
staring into quantum ripples
and then with a good heart
and clear intentions i recognize
all seasoned ships
exploring new horizons
are really tethered up to a growing sky
as they tow it
sunlit
the universe is expanding,
toning mystery with variation
an unfathomable composition of beauty,
growth and collision
mingling with the lawless law of wandering dreams,
budding design of life’s most graphic mind
within the soul of a bottomless whole -
is there more to existence than mere perception?
living the way of wayward thinkers
deciding where to go from here?
it is disappearing into a sunny landscape
growing up
all over again,
ascending under the tapestry of a distant shade
impression
that look
that fleeting stare
i am surrounded by
is destined
to descend upon me
drowning me with visions
imagined
under this nimbus moon
where sea winds cool
evaporating beads of sweat
and raise me once again
from my own special death
lackamore bridge
the wind howls along lackamore bridge
beckoning my shadow
to peer into the depths of a furious river
bellowing beneath my static footprints
the roar of a freight train
accompanies the pounding waves
rushing along steel caissons
growing louder and louder
into the distance of my thoughts
are miles of track
and a train vanishing into the horizon
surrounded by a symphony of bridge mist,
i realize life is becoming stranger than it ever was
and i, more unresponsive to its actions
am i coherent enough
to remain in touch with my “greater” self?
who knows?
perhaps, this is how the twilight of dying feels
along a bridge to nowhere
where dreams lose identity
and the origin of destination goes on and on
perhaps, this is how it feels to be reborn
emerging from a darkened tunnel
into an unknown light breathing locomotion
-
diner
please don’t tell me
i‘m “just unbelievable”
or my intentions
are ostentatiously opinionated,
we both are aware of my roots
please don’t suggest i’m a sly fox
hunting in a forest of shadows and dreams
i’m already aware of my inadequacies
and my taste for inspired blood
disguised as reticent behavior
in a dimly lit room
we sit by a table
dining on a spectrum of possibilities,
feasting on tasty morsels of idea
please don’t suggest i am at all enlightened
for your presence is more than i will ever become
please just sooth me,
for the night sky is both ominous
as well as breath-taking
and my neurons are aching for relief
spell work
- dear god of dreams
set free my recollections
of what i already know
- liberate me from the mesh
of the world’s synaptic suspicions
- rearrange my preconceived
paths of perception
- reshuffle the neurotic notions
howling through the mass of brain cells
- set free my emotions,
hopes and desires
from the giant pool of collective think
- exit me into the light
via the electric fury of my soul
- please, please
discharge me from all that is known
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