we promised each
so we mowed
Screamed at the cat,
thought he toppled the cage,
turned out to be the shelf,
didn't have enough time,
to rinse my hair.
Powered to work;
enjoyed the brisk excersice,
accompanied by grotesque ambience,
"What is that shit?"
From the arrogant.
Three man close,
ends as slow as it started,
the ride home had a sidetrack,
acoustic grassland band,
self proclaimed leader was a real A-hole,
wouldn't let me play,
when I finally did they liked it,
but I didn't give two shits.
Accident on the freeway,
as the faces passed by,
none of them saw me,
but the whole congregation was there,
police, bus driver, Metro insurance man on the side,
in full regalia,
witnessing yet another,
one of those days.
the moon shines because it reflects the light from your eyes.
the leaves & the wind dance to the rhythm of your heartbeat.
the moon follows your thoughts, and shines brighter at your every attempt to understand the glowing trail of a thousand fireflies.
i sketch your movements from above a tree, and confess to heaven. i said, ‘Lord, thank you for taking your time’.
the flowers of the night delineate your captivating rhythm.
rain clouds gather. raindrops entwine your thighs, and oh my, what a deep waterfall. your soul convokes the sparrows of the deep, convivial spirit.
free spirit. not even the law of gravity can stand you, angel. even though your wings are invisible, i can imagine you fly.
heavens confession: they took the time to mold you. create you.
and you glimmer in a graceful grassland, and the roses listen attentively to your voice.
a voice made up of beautiful dreams & broken promises.
heavens advice: never leave your happiness to someone else. otherwise you’ll be left broken.
only time can explain your he(art).
a pen & a paper are not enough to describe you.
they ran away from your words, they couldn’t understand but i do.
and i will with every ounce of my being, try to decode you.
i’ll stay light on this one. angel, you’re beautiful. you’re real.
heavens advice: stay you. stay true. you’re beautiful.
these words were not adequate to describe you.
you made a pretty good first impression.
p.s – this was heavens confession.
nothing lives at 14,000 feet.
on the high pass the last land
the grassland we'd drag our sheep
to briefly graze between the valleys of
colca, and puno.
focused in motion, heads low
wrapped round in many layers when we'd sleep.
in dens, in dark, in distrust of stars
and worn old men of mists each night,
that toothlessly bite,
at broken brown stone, gums
hopeless, hungry, salivating and desperately white.
nothing lives at 14,000 feet.
but rocks dreaming cold rock dreams.
remembering when babel fell...
fists first thrust from young rubble, to find
that hands are hands and hands can climb.
nothing lives at 14,000 feet.
but the livestock we'd drag
and keep alive, tireless
because towers are brought low
but hills only grow
and there are coats to stay the snow.
but to pass through this place we
knowing tempt death, incur
the wrath of Abraham blaspheme
the Word and the Way and
the rich air and pastures,
from which rocks are raised
to keep us from the heights for which we lust.
in old history, obvious.
forgot. spoke only in folk songs.
ritualized in rote laws.
but in secret, memorialized.
as solitary, at the highest point
each passerby takes pause...
stares down at the earth from the sky,
kneels, in the dust, picks up
three, four, not more, small brown rocks
to place at maras in defiance and triumph.
superstitiously stacking little stones.
as if to say,
here is something you can knock down.
here is something you can bring low."
Surrounded with flowers and natural theatre
a field of wistless grassland and florescent orchards
I travel through here with countless aspirations
forming my unrequited desire to catch her
the prima of this land's attraction
elegant butterfly roam boundless and graceful
begging the question of my intentions of capture
She is in my sights now, exceptional
how was I to know the impact of discovery
of her perfect and sensual beauty presentable.
As she wanders through my vision so comfortable
I ponder a preoccupation of her awesome attire
consisting of blissful geometry ascending and descending
frolic through the fields shy of responsibility
my imagination beckons for her presence in the sky
Nearing the point of my net's range and distance
I lean in towards the flowers to find
and what is this I see but a vessel
nor hollow or abandoned, a shelter of insects
exclaim your repentance and gaiety
This quest shun a light forbidden
revealing the impaired recollection
of my eccentric gallery empty.
to dye the sky dark
on each roof tile
to let fog
to separate us
to solidify a wall between
Under the falling tree’s leaves
we persist in waiting
the sprouting grassland
would live through the season of frozen branches,
creeps to our
when turn over
The small grassland hills are dancing.
The sky is blue and the breeze is long,
I reach out, I touch and I look—
Into your eyes, my fingers in your hair.
So here I am,
Sitting on a Everhard Rock
Minding my own Personal Business
Riveting my Eyes to the vast, distant Grassland
And withered Trees shaking for liveliness.
The Wind, flowing free and gay
Rustling Leaves in every same way
Tornadoes of small sizes spin them round-and-round
Till every last Sheet of them is never found.
As my Sight continues to scan every Natural Being
The Sunlight's spectrum heats my forehead's gleaming.
Summer if you may say,
But I do not:
Breezy Atmospheres, Falling Leaves
Make it all Impossible
And Animals in terms of Dying Grounds
Begin to rot.
In all Sudden Time
I felt quite bored
Maybe if I raised my God-Given Hands
I could sing to your Praise, O Lord.
Then I stood,
Breathing in that precious Air
Filling my tender Lungs with Fresh Feelings
And my Brain with Shattered Flares.
Trot, walk, trot, walk,
There was a Time that I didn't stalk
My Progressive Mind began to accumulate Stoney Thoughts
Something...That involves my Nature
Without getting caught.
My Back felt that forceful Breeze
Thinking of me as one oppressed Stone
And pushed me towards the Lowlands
With its Frosty Whirls that made me freeze.
Herds of Cows mooing
And Cockrels cock
A Menagerie of Sounds
That I never tried to mock.
For in those Sounds
Symbolise Nature's way to auduce
Those Tenacious Vibes wiggle my Eardrums
Making my Restless Heart feel Joy.
My Humiliated Uncle
Always seeks Help
A Thank You is what I get
Whenst helping a Whelp.
Father, my Noble Roots
Dig-up for Space
For our Everyday Food
As we carry them as Loot.
Mother, my Beloved
Cooks for our Family's Meal
And calls us Everyday in Time
Reminding us that Supper...Is perfect Mead.
Cousins, Brothers, Sisters and Babes
Become my Best Companions
Never leave me alone in Misty Loneliness
So they asked me to Play; so I joined
And accept their Loving Tenderness.
These are all my Boons
Of the Mother's Greatest Gift;
Nature: For she is a Mother too
And Family - thank God - do I have one
Which I promised to bond with them like Flexi-Glue.
In this Still Day my Heart sings
The Beauties of our Lord's Greatest Creation
In One, Holy Ring.
This Supple Mystery
I haven't known
Since the Final Preface of It
I am content with what God has given Me
In all His Merciful, Holy Time
He made me what I am to be.
I Myself, in very frank Thoughts
I realised are Part to what God has given me
The Difference from Others is that I'm Immortal
Which makes me rich in Everlastiness.
All Things, in Everyone's name must die
There is a Great Beginning and a Despairful End
One which a Soul cannot escape and lie.
We People, even I
Cannot be delivered from Death.
Our Bodies will soon find itself in Decaying Matter,
Leaving our Precocious, Material Wealth.
Will always last long.
Bodies may die in vain,
But our Souls will always be FREE.
Sadness may exist in Triumph
But Joy will still come in Glee.
Nature too, can be called to the Reaper's Scythe
Grass proudly swivering in the Wind cut-down,
Heaven and Earth can be called to Time
But God's loving Hope and Peace can never be called to Death.
In a bleak and dusty grassland,
where nothing seemed to beat,
a single blood-red flower grew
amidst the tawny wheat.
And passersby, though put off by the knots of weeping hay
would stop and gaze a while at the elegant display.
Let us confirm,
It's been a rough winter for us all.
We live in the valley,
And What was once (I'm assuming)
Is now a concrete jungle,
With a few scattered suberbs,
a plethora of crooks,
And a growing amount of graffiti.
But it's okay.
Today, the sun is rising.
Today, I am breathing.
Today, I look out on all the wrong,
And somehow, we are all right.
We're just trying to live.
Trying to survive.
I don't belong here.
But I don't belong anywhere else, either.
This is the place of origin.
Or lessons learned.