Saturday, September 9, 2017

A Kindling

I spit fire from the pyres of alters I'm unaware of.
in my belly flames grow and bloat
they spit up to the top and cling to my throat.
As I gulp them up, I let them bowl over me,
like waves before they break,
left fuming and swelling.

I'm unfurling up into some sort of a gathering,
As a blind lightning strike has struck the core of me
While time spirals, i grow in spirals
Gathering them like moss as I roll over myself
figuring which bit sticks and which I can imprint
and paint the earth from this intricate template.

I'm still unaware of the fabric that embalms me
i weave my beliefs into soft silk that is always ripping
and now I sit outside the cloth I once relied on
looking at it as if on a fence below it,
sitting in a wistful bliss.

Whatever this shape has created in me,
I will cradle it with the love of a mother.
For I am all I can be as I believe
in the soft swaying of the currents meander. 


Sunday, April 23, 2017

The Sun and The Daisy

The petals of the flower are closed tight
head bowed,
her heart is cocooned in a womb of half light.

Then the sun seeps in softly, curving out from the night
yawning and growing louder
He giggles slightly as he filters in light
Stretching the shadows smaller

and his giggling tickles the pink of her bud
and her petals stretch a little to look out
and as she peeks she sees the sun at play
and her hearts start beaming
as petals peal away

She spreads out and straightens, revealing her core
at the mercy of his heat and his ability to burn.
But he warms every bit of the flower
as she stands up strongly stretching out even further

And the sun sends his beams to bathe her in light,
to caress every petal and to shade her from night
and for this dazzling moment they lie both entranced
The sun shining down and the flower beaming back.


slkjlei

Squinting into the mirror
trying to reconfigure its dimension
what mirrors me that i can't see
abstracted to its angle.

A flash through flow and I feel its form,
hearing it in a floating note
when I read a line and feel its fire
It fills me with its ocean.
To dip my hand into its truth
no words that cling to air can name
little bubbles blurting endlessly
encapsulating infinite
come up short and float away

I feel it in a tear jerk,
as if this other worlds strings were pulled
like a friend I know more then myself
infinite lingers below this surface
smiling and crying
making love to all these endless parts. 

Ballad of a Dandelion

I lay as a lion, stapled to the ground,
facing up at a topaz blue, among the changing clouds.
Beaming a lonely yellow, against the mass of green,
I couldn't move to meet anyone, nor anyone, me.

As years flew past of evergreen I had finally had enough,
I craved for fellow yellow mains, highlighted by the sun.
Then suddenly a mass of cotton overtook my sight
like a parachute in the breeze, floating across the sky.

Then suddenly, sat down by me, this solitary seed,
amongst the mass of endless grass, it chose to sit by me.
As weeks flew past the single seed engulfed into the ground,
and weeks after that, to my suprise, grew a stem with a golden mound.

Now amongst the sea of green, lies nestled next to me,
a lioness finer than the rest, the prettiest thing I've seen.
I told her there and then that I would do anything to make her mine,
planted prettily by my side, this is what she replied:

"I've been floating around forever, amongst the blue and white,
looking down at a sea of green, nothing more had reached my sight
But after years of looking, I finally flew by you,
Like a golden light in a lonely night, I knew you'd be mine too."




Sunday, March 23, 2014

Sea

In a boat I sailed through the ocean
my hand just above it's surface,
as time sailed on so did the boat
and my hand became the hand of a clock.

Not moving yet in perpetual motion
my hand viewed the world in the ocean below.
The steady stream still streamed on
and the shadow of my hand was all that I owned.

I imagined past poets and artists,
those who described the ripples as they touched them.
And as those ripples were passed out, they had been pierced
with the perception of a mind who had hands and eyes to feel.
And those minds painted its shades of blue,
described the little lick where the sea had been skimmed,
and immortalized that moment where the moment had been felt.

And those little blue moments forever behind,
have been blown up bigger than those moment in our minds,
as our inward eye plants them forever in our view,
I get to get the feeling of what they must have felt,
as I keep my hand raised just above,
never feeling it for myself.

and I will blink,
and the blue blur will be passing under my hand
and I will sink my hand in to it for the very first time
And although the bit of blue that I will dip into will pass,
 it will always last,

even after I do;



Monday, March 18, 2013

If


Imagine if our fate was set 
and we had a year to live, 
Could we live in our own composed symphony, 
etch a sketch of a new perception 
and snuggle up in it?
Disengage in our reality
furling ourselves up into our own subjectivity, 
slowly slipping into the small abyss of our own ideas of intimacy

Could you pretend with me, 
Pretend that we're the only ones who know the facts of the universe:
Conspiring to conspire,
Revolt against past desires, 
Retract our instincts and in an instant
become invincible.

In a tiny shell we'll wait and decay, 
Pretending it's ok to hide away from  callings, 
getting more tangled up in the ways in which we'll sway,
Our conclusions and decisions that will make our doubt fade away;
that unsettling infinite that stops us from believing that we matter, 
just wrapped up in cotton, warping what's important, 
Trying to forget the forgotten. 

Friday, June 8, 2012

Our specialties try ring through their ears,
only to ring out tuneless spiels.
No guarantee of epitome, we all lack our own distinctions.
Distinct in the way people recognize difference.
Different in the way no one recognizes our own distinctions.

And What specialties lay waste to those untrained eyes,
the untrained eyes who gaze blankly at a blank slate,
gazing, never phazed, by what could lie in plain sight,
like gazing at a white page laced with white intricate designs;
invisible to even the most accurate eye.

What is to become of someone who stays out of the light,
who screams silence, and sings in dreams;
When all else is out of sight,
no one seeks something that no one can see.