Humanity is at the ****** of connection
Connection is plastered to our bones
It’s on our wrists dinging reminding us to take our steps that will apparently make us one with nature, it’s latched to our arms so while we are so spent attaching ourselves to nature that we don’t have to attach our phones to our hands, it’s our sun rise, it’s our evening prayer, heck it’s the only thing reminding us to wake up in the morning and connect with these people that we can only reach through these dull technological connections. Facebook says we’re here to help you connect! The Bible app dings remindign you, “keep in check!” You’re surrounded by connection, it immerses you and embraces you with its WiFi streamed arms and blue tinted light
But shouldn’t you be embracing the connection? Shouldn’t you be the one to swallow connection? Shouldn’t you be the one to amplify connection?
Humanity is at the ****** of connection but we are disconnected.. Shouldn’t the rate of depression fall not rise with every purchase of an iPhone. We are disconnected
From ourselves from nature from the spiritual realm and from each other because we connect our souls to these arguable objects of connection. Seems like we need an intervention from connection.  Shouldn’t connection flow within our bones and not simply be plastered to it? Connection is around us, but we’re not making the connection

Taos Pueblo fashion designer Patricia Michaels returns to New York City for “Style Fashion Week NYC”on September 10th to present her latest 30 piece collection at aspecial RSVP eventat Hammerstein Ballroom, 311 West 34th St, Midtown Manhattan.

Michaels was a finalist on season 11 of the Lifetime reality TV show, “Project Runway”, and “Project Runway All-Stars”, gaining thousands of admirers as the media world followed her success along with an excited and proud Indian country.

Michaels will present her trademark PM Waterlily line and her latest collection for Spring/Summer 2017. Known for her use of Native-themed fabrics, hand painted or hand dyed, cut and fabricated at her Taos, New Mexico studio, Michaels says she is inspired by nature walks at Taos Pueblo among the trees, wildflowers and water plants, and “seeds” are important symbols of her designs and concepts.

The following description is from the website, speaking of the “Modern Native” who inspires and wears her designs. “Patricia Michaels...will have a few pieces for colder climates as her woman travels to regions where during the summer the climates tend to be cold. She is a world traveler so one may made need that special look to freshen her palette.”

Those living in or near the New York area that are interested in attending can visit toEventbrite to RSVP for the September 10 event. Seating is limited.

We wish Patricia Michaels and PM Waterlily success in New York City and beyond.

According to their site, Style Fashion Week, producer of globally recognized fashion events, provides top designers a world class platform to showcase their collections. Each year Style Fashion Week presents the season's must see shows, unforgettable performances and exclusive installations. Our expansive Style Marketplace immerses guests in fashion as well as art and design. Guests directly engage with brands throughout the week.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane | www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses

The quill immerses into the inkwell,
and pulls out slowly, careful not to drip.
The hand trembles with excitement to spell,
it moves across the page with only the tip.

The author breathes deep, the muse speaks softly,
words come easily, flowing like water.
The muse commands, the scribe follows blindly.
The words appear faster, the hand a blur.

A smile plays at her lips, her breath catches.
The ink like a tattoo, leaves a dark trail.
Faster, her hand, Fire, leaves only ashes.
The muse completes the symphony, hands fail.

The quill falls, the author breathes out a sigh.
The black spreads. This writing can satisfy.

so many words and still
the essence is trapped
in the discreet quanta
in this autobiography
of milk in my tears

no wars to fight
nothing to prove
the ancient love will find me,
the unknown you
the right verbs
the earth of home
the cycle of life
in my dreams

the round present immerses me
in gratitude for all my selves,
the depth of coherence
the bottom of the sky
in this simple truth,
my heart is my home

Gazing into the abyss 
Of life's immutable Absurdity; 
He feels that emptiness, 
Which taunts all humankind, 
As it immerses, he is smiling 
With a sweet, sickly repose, as 
He is certain of uncertainty. 
He sees the people all around him,
Pining for a sense of purpose, he's 
Freed from their hope, and its duress,
From all their visions of success, 
The kind which taunt so many men, 
Through sleepless nights, as they obsess. 
Now he's laughing to himself, and 
Thinking "who must we impress?" 
"...and for that matter, why?"
It's this pretension he detests,
"Why this needless apprehension,
Living life at the behest, of 
Foolish men, with feeble minds, 
Who vainly strive to be 'the best', and
Only to awaken, a few decades down the line,
To find that life was insubstantial, 
In those years they left behind?"
"I can only search for meaning,
It can't be prescribed to me, and
Perhaps there isn't one, but then
Why does there need to be?"
The corners of his mouth curl upward, as
Dead leaves fall from a tree, and 
Are scattered to the wind, 
"Ah, such is my mortality."

warm weathers with a warmer heart:
i stretched out my arms
and embraced her with all i am.
this girl threw an ocean of words,
of images, of emotions, and even of silence at me
over a mango shake, kimchi fishcake,
and a pair of hot matcha lattes.
she challenged me to a doodle dare
when i told her i don't draw humanity,
as much as i wanted to draw her right there on the spot.
let's draw those people on that side of the cafe
ah, a people-watching activity!
just our kind of hobby that immerses us within society
while being in our own little world!
i noticed she draws people first
then the background according to the proportions of the persons;
yes, a people-watcher observing another people-watcher
unlike me who starts off with the walls and furniture of the space.
she drew the ovals for body proportions;
her pencil marks done gently, focused and magnified,
much like how she holds herself up.
thus we were satisfied with unfinished sketches
and incomplete acapella song covers;
and it definitely was a finished day–
complete with her presence,
photographs taken with cameras and our memory's eyes,
inside jokes about boys and talks about life outside.
the sun is getting lower
as the hour hand is getting higher.

Time continues but we paused.
So I'm up for another round with you, Lou.

Before her the open laptop stares
At settled coffee shop young lady
smart appearance nice hair.
Phone close, to hand for just maybe.
nowhere in particular she looks here and there,
as she shares short glances between
coffee shop phone and screen,
An image created of controlled serenity,
around her the tidal increase of customers ebb and flow.
Laptop screen, a document shines out, I'm here.
Momentarily her phone blinks me too
then returns to outward inactivity.
An embryo smile flickers, perhaps a thought
of the fleeting communication, perhaps not,
voices sway back and forth then, spike of a laugh
quickly swallowed by the ambience to give way
to hisses, gurgles of music coffee machines  play.
Young men perch and slouch in fervent conversation
They leave, talking, passing Dad with daughters so pleased
when discovering window side seats, wait in anticipation,
where delivers Dad , then into newspaper immerses.
Girls silently survey the scene, hot chocolate cupped
shortly paper closes, a look, chocolate speedily drunk
to join dads exit swift, wordless and abrupt  
past headphoned staff in crockery recovery.
Incessantly tables change coffee treats enjoyed again,  
The coffee shop laptop lady alone but not lonely
chooses to be, just maybe, happy in her own skin.

scorsby

MICHAEL C CROWDER         1st January 2019

As she stands before the body of water looking down
the reflection of a woman emerges from her past
always wondering who she is and where she is going...

As she immerses her body in the water, washing away her days desires
tears fall from her eyes, tears that come from the depths of her soul

The empitness that comes from years of not knowing who she is,
is washed away, cleansing her of all sorrow

The woman in the reflection comforts her
Her eyes filled with such love and passion
She realizes that she can find her way back...
back from the past and carry her on the journey
of her souls desire....

Sandwiched through
two cloudy loaves
made of breath
I observe
the purest of blue

one nudges a sharp line
gently from below

draws her dream silhouette
an imaginary residue of slopes


she
the one who allows me
to miss you now
when I am away from mystery
and because I am mystery
lives in there
uninterrupted as a dot
where planes cross
to create dashes
same color as the mare’s tail

the one above on the contrary
is as unpredictable as
the contours of the flowers in cotton fields
where you would be the breeze
to jolt the atmospheric

as the indigotic immerses languidly
she gets bluer than the blue untouched
thinning
at the end of the suggested tail
deeper and fiercer so as not to disappear
but leaves an echo
of its trail
in your mind

soon that will also be shut
the port to and of another realm

the whitening molds subtly the shapeless
pales the light to an analogous fluid
all sharps – lines – flowers - fields melt
into an underwater blurring sea life
where creatures are so small or just hide
not from us but from contrasts

slowly darkening  we forget
about ourselves and the girl’s dream fades
she forgets

the you and I  
becomes tuningly unimportant
we know so well now
it is not for us
illusions of light
of reflections
are just about
other worlds far aways
while
night falls
along the earth’s curve

Hot steel
The tighter your big and **** muscles, the stronger the ****** tension in me, from your mega powerful beauty of brutal sexuality. The sculpture of your perfect body was sculpted by the gods of eroticism, rock and rap. **** but hot steel that melts from the heat of love and arousal. You awaken in me the brutal call of lust, the animal that dominates in my mind, heart, soul, *****, passion, mixed with sensual tenderness of an endless stream of love and lust, my whole body is scarred from your claws of passion after hard ***. I am completely bound by a passion for you. An unstoppable hunger for *** overwhelms my mind when I examine you, cling to your body shapes like a **** pillow. The whole nervous system is full of love and irresistible attraction. With sincere tenderness, I reach only for you alone. Light as a snowflake, tender as a feather, dreamy as a flying fluff, an ideal barbie goddess, God is so hot, how hot, unbearably **** is so beautiful that I am embarrassed to look into your gorgeous eyes for a long time, as if a sultry lioness is looking at me with the terrible hunger of lust in the soul, with the royal face of arrogant greatness. The **** car of my dreams, with perfect shapes like a super sports car, the speedometer of love and excitement, and makes *****, just rolls over from speed hyper, everything melts and spreads, everything except your perfect body. Well, just mmmmm) well, just wow. I want to start a slide show with your photos or videos and watch the whole day on the span you are my **** hot fetish, you are a song that has been loved all my life, my whole consciousness and subconscious mind is saturated with love for you. Losing you is like losing life itself, my soul moans with pleasure from looking at your body, I get internal ******* from love, my brains don’t even think when I look at you, the bewitching endless bottomless depth of beauty immerses you like a powerful magnet in deep hypnosis lovingly ****** obsession with you I see nothing but you, the magic of your pleasure for my eyes and psyche and glistens in the light with a sugar sparkle and beckons to caress you for days on end I would have had *** with you until the elders , you are next to me, my brains and ***** are just mega excited and *****, it’s getting hotter like in a sauna, and you are becoming more and more sultry and hot in your eyes the fire of debauchery is burning and this makes your eyes super ****, you're sexier and hotter than the temptation, sultry, torrid sexier than the feeling of lust. You are more beautiful than any queen of the empress, actress, singer, **** actress, alien, goddess. For me, you are the goddess of the Internet, media, the queen of any beauty contest, fabulously magically beautiful. When I see you I just have the most powerful ******* explosion of the psyche from love and excitement, my libido just aggressively growls from your body shapes, billions and billions of men fight for your love, your beauty is above blue bloods, any aristocracy, thoughts about you are romantic, sweet sweet eroticism of true love - ****** fantasy from the perfection of your beauty. A passionate cat who sleeps sweetly only in my arms of love, covered like a veil by my wings.
Author: Musin Almat Zhumabekovich

The petals lay on the marble table top in the garden patio droplets of rain bejewel the petals
Moist as the mourner’s eye she now immortal is beyond my knowing it as if you write with a
Lead pencil of strains of gold the steerage of a great ship slipped beyond earth’s earth bound
Harbor the lights are dim these peeping tiny wonders contain the exactness of the richest soul
The voice was textured velvet it spoke and then lingered longest on the heart’s ear where it
Reverberated gently down the corridors of the soul in quietude she can still be heard it’s heart
Felt there is no agony just pleasantries assuage with tiny burst of light that vanquish the dark
You can feel the softness of her soft free flowing hair you stop in amazement and realize you
Don’t have a care there is nothing to compare it with love bows down it pulls earth and sky low
You feel yourself slowing to accept these bestowing gifts the tangle of nature so rare leaves you
Left staring this uncommon daring life proceeds beyond the vale the void immerses you in
Liquid joy the window rattles in the wind blown storm and you find comfort in this uncommon
Character you spill out the door and follow the wondering wind her essence imbibes your
Conscious and unconscious knowing you have found the spring of everlasting water it gently
Flows from Heaven above and she rides its crest intact in the total entirety of being and
Thought the wasteland dissolves as paradise further advances at each place it touches magical
Electric vibrant and alive all you have to do is walk to the table and with mortal fingers pick up
And tenderly handle the petals and the cage of death will open its dark closed door will
Immediately brighten with the soul immortal you will stand at the threshold of glory there you
Can commune with lost love

Vancouver Bay, viewed out the front
window, as out the back door,
the snowcapped Olympics loom..
A beautiful ocean breeze  here
in Port Angeles.. and amazing
warmth,  in the sun.

Hours long visits with my Mother
yesterday and today.. and then us
finding a long lost cousin  on
ancestry .  com  when we get  back
to the house. Pictures of dad there
when he was young before the war.
Stories and memories  from Mom
about before  and after, everything
went bad.

And pictures, pictures, pictures
of before it went bad..

      but none after.

I feel the distance  of the memories
but not the pain. I hold Momma close
within the knowledge  that nothing
whatsoever  has a hold on me. Elaine
is serving meals and catering to
our mother in her Rainman-like
attempt, to keep all her pain at bay;

    She is flesh of my flesh..
    blood.. of my blood.
    There with me  from the beginning--

    amidst the horrors  far beyond
    a child's innocent vocabulary
    to describe.

Back home she opens up
ancestry . com again  as Harlan talks
about his adoption  and attempt at
reconnection with his blood family,
once he finds out who they are.  Few
even want to acknowledge his  existence.

   The distant cousin of ours
   wants to tell Elaine about Dad
  right after the war.

After she responds, I **** on her
leg and then wave another, directly her way.
She's trying  to keep from laughing
as she fakes throwing up.

   I **** on her one more time
   just to show her who's boss..

She's like a machine  in her need
to take care of Mom. We take pictures
when again,  back over there..
I keep messing the timer up
on my phone's camera,
I think Mom wants to be left alone.

I don't think Mom ever
wants to be left alone.

She straight-arms me when I try
to help her up from the table.
I step back,  
but don't take it personally.
Back on the couch..  she's
she's cranky now, because the
current New York times  arrived
with a tear. She opens up the
business section and I tell her
Warren Buffett is my new boss.
She's very pleased with his ownership
of our company, and then immerses
herself into her newspaper.

   Elaine says its time to go.

She will ask Elaine again tomorrow
morning if I was really here..  or
was it her imagination. I will show
her again tomorrow that I am very
real. There have been horrors  beyond
description. There are years and years
and years,  of my letting go.

Back at the house, I sit on the front
steps and stare out at the bay.
Victoria Island is beautiful.
The Olympic Mountains are breathtaking.
Time with Harlan and Elaine  as the
sun goes down. I wave a **** one more time,  
her way.. for good measure.  
She brings me Rocky Road ice cream  
because she remembers its my favorite.
I muster up one more **** her way
before heading off to bed.

She comments about my strength.

Back down in the guestroom,
you are on top of me--
your beautiful thighs  straddling my hips..
You've been working out, beautiful girl
that firm ***..  feeling so incredible
in my hands..
You ease your beautiful, warm wet
slowly..  down on to me
in your desire to  bring about
   for each of us..
   the most beautiful,  deep release.

You kiss me deeply,  as our bodies  writhe
in deep ******--
Beautiful ****,  to my chest
as I pulse the warmth  of my *****
deeply,   in to you..

"This is the death  of all death, beautiful girl"..
I whisper into your weary spirit
as your beautiful *****..  gushes deeply
all over my warm, pulsing  flesh.


..And suddenly  we are *******
in the warm,  pouring rain--

https://www.pornhub.com/view_lala-la-la-lala-la



       You are overcoming, beautiful girl.
                         ~xoxoxo~

His arrow of ecstasy strikes thine heart
Bathed in this state of euphoric love
Apportioned to they every core part
He immerses me my dashing darling dove
We shall not fly from this nest so sure
But gather even more tightly together
These days will remain with most splendid score
No clouds grey can blight out fruitful weather
He has the fullness of wonder to yield
This he shall impart to me every night
So thine be bursting with flourishing field
There be adoration to carry delight
Supreme the delivery of his sweet dart
This he fires to the pith of thine heart

Losing control of the brighter things
that sit and smirk at me as
the twilight immerses itself
in the faint glimmers of reality.
Hold that fractured frigid shock
to myself so tight
it breaks and shatters
vomiting sterilized pom poms
laced with chocolate sticky kisses.
Struck me, Lick me, Luck my
humble circumstances as they dance
on the roof of my mouth
chilly strange deadly
turns to muck in the shmuck
at the corner of my brain.
In one moment I’m there
the next, I’m insane.
Minutes switch by slowly as the
natural drugs kick in
enlightening my sense of well-ebbing stretches
into a glass of string.

Lita's ice blue eyes peer into my soul
as my fingers strum along an acoustic guitar.
Cautiously, I match its rhythm with the beat of
her heart -- swiftly then slowly, until the harmonious
chords filling the atmosphere still the rapid
vibrations of my own heart and the silk strings
beneath my fingers slip into her enigmatic allure.

"Wounds heal over time," I say to no avail.

Each empty note immerses into her pool
of toxic thoughts. My eyes become lost
in the nihility of her eyes as her lips form
an unconvincing smile that quickly fades.
To soothe her internal pain, I strum away.
My guitar and Lita are the same --
hollow.

A little girl stands, 6 years old looking in the mirror while playing dress-up. She wears a fake tiara and a little too much poorly applied lipstick. She has the biggest dimples when she smiles and eyes as bright as the joy that’s in her heart. She runs to her dad when he comes home from work-he laughs and says “you’re beautiful and lovely don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” She doesn’t need a mirror to believe his words.

Suddenly 6 years turns quickly into 12. Her smile that once stretched from East to West is now nothing more than a forced grin, with worry that fills those big blue eyes. She has thoughts that confuse and attack her and fill her with a paralyzing amount of fear for anything. She knows she’s a little different than her friends. Her dad tells her she’s going to be okay and that God tells us not to worry because he takes cares of us. It was the first time she began to doubt him.

12 years soon turns into 15. She changes her hairstyle and spends hours in front of the mirror wishing to feel comfortable in her own skin. Her best friends all have boyfriends now and she begins to question herself, why do boys notice her friends beauty and not her own? Her dad tells her she’s beautiful and guys aren’t worth it, she doesn’t believe him.

Years go by…heartbreaks and disappointments become a routine. She immerses herself in the depressed girl because she doesn’t believe life for her will ever include joy. She is afraid of herself and the monster that grew inside of her.

She has hope that things might get better when she moves away for college that people might notice her there. A few did, but none stayed. Which was infinitely more painful. Rejection began to trump invisibility and she didn't believe she was worth the happiness that her friends found. She knew God could fix her but doubted that he ever would. Her bright blue eyes seared red from crying, were extraordinarily tired and her smile was as much of a stranger as the person she once was.

What happened to those eyes that once shone bright with passion and joy? Where did they go when life happened and the world broke in? Are our eyes buried inside us? Deep within the lies and hurt we've built up over the years? I believe so. Our eyes are now saturated with suffering and wisdom and are all the more beautiful because of it.

I am in this predicament I am compelled to write with this overriding desire and guiding force
Speak to them problem it’s three in the morning being sleepy is the least of my problems the
Problem is for once what to write three different things are bearing on me but where to start
And then loaded at the end of heavy doses of extra strong pain killers believe it or not I have a
Strong will that can over ride that but a dark mood prevails brought on by the reality of a
Woman distraught at the loss of her husband and no one comforted her all she could do was
Bend forward hold her arms against her own chest and cry that’s bad enough but this has been
Shown to me several times in the last few days the great alone that so many are suffering in it
Needs to be addressed if God would use this to reach even a few and comfort them so to that
End my thought was to address the very wind and prescribe a message therein oh wayward
Wind that I could curb your listless passing bridle your tempestuous force with hands take
Charge of you even to hold in and by my fingers that breeze that is highly noted and is known as
The evening breeze to place it sweetly and gently and let it rest on her head her hair enlivened
By it the stirring is the secret element it can arrest even the spilling of tears it’s so superb in
Measure and quality it immerses the mind to such a degree that a smile appears unbidden it
Awakes secret joys they hang as great drapes in the soul in the beginning they were solemn
Gray and with the concern and love of others mixed with this night air that sets as a crown on
Her head a beaming of enlightened pure understanding flows and swells she becomes
Intoxicated fairest wind in you all of our hearts ascend to great sea bluffs the going of the soul is
Enriched as it makes its way down to the beach below the waves bestow hope that was lost
Now renewed we walk on the crest of waves of love we will have and know for ever never
alone we were cast in the streaming of all things that makes dreams possible and you are the
Greatest dream of all for eternal stormy winds of the spirit gave and made you as a rooted tree
That will and always is renewed by the prevailing wind that is guaranteed by blood
Indestructible your assurance secure all that you love will never fade from existence

When the sun sinks slowly out of sight on the horizon, taking with him all the buzz of daytime in a happy sigh, the moon begins her climb up into the sky and it’s in this moment that magic is nigh. With the sunlight now vanished from the heavens, the sleepy town is draped in a veil of grey. The stars twinkle in fixed constellations that have watched over the Earth since the beginning of time.

Darkness blankets the forests and hills where nocturnal activity begins to stir; a steady heart beating in the dead of the night, as creatures from the shadows begin to emerge. 

 The bats and owls, the scorpions and snakes, blink open sleepy eyes from a long day of rest. Pupils dilate, taking in the moonlight that helps their night vision as the hunt begins.  In the heart of the forest a drumming is heard and a soft hum of singing and laughter and fun. A closer look reveals faeries dancing in circles, bouncing atop mushrooms, flowers and stones. Ethereal bodies spellbound by the music move and flow freely to the pounding of drums. These glowing creatures sing songs of ancient lore; of Avalon mists and dragons of Old. Songs of witchcraft and magic forbidden to man, so unearthly and sweet beyond human conception. Their silvery voices in cadence and rhyme rise in child-like revelry to the firmament above.

Perched on an old oak, branches crooked with age, sits a lone raven in stoic contemplation. Its beady eyes shine with unnerving cunning and its back is hunched from the burden of knowing events that have not yet transpired. A sudden gust of wind ruffles its feathers, sending one flying up into the air. It twirls and dances in the gentle breeze, glistening a midnight blue under the pale moonlight. It glides silently, suspended above the ground as the raven caws the witching hour. The feather lands gingerly in a bubbling stream where a river nymph surfaces and fishes it out of the sparkling waters. She sits on a stone on the edge of the brook and weaves the black feather into her shimmering hair. Then after admiring her beauty in a pool of still water, she makes her sweet way back to the river. Wading into the currents she knows oh so well, she dreamily sings to herself as she immerses herself completely into the dark depths below.

In the distance a fire appears to be burning, below a large cauldron that is smoking and bubbling. Above it, a maiden in a black velvet cloak busies herself stirring and flipping through a large, dusty book. She stirs and she stirs and adds herbs here and there, making a brew of protection made more powerful by the waning moon. In rhyme she chants her incantation; weaving her magic of darkness and light. She invokes the elements and her Goddess and God, under whose proud gaze her spell has been cast. Removing her cloak, she prances around the fire, sky-clad and mirthful in the eyes of the Mother.

Nighttime is laden with magic and mystery for those who’ve retained their childlike wonder. The death of day gives rise to enchantment and the world becomes filled with wonder in the eyes of those who choose to see the incredible in the ordinary.

She likes the cold
Its the most open form of honesty she has ever known
She never liked being friends with girls
They are fake
Boys abuse her tragically
Yet she runs to them unconditionally
All she knows is a broken home and a false reality
Actually she doesn't mind for she is a poet
With a strong head and heavy heart
She immerses herself in the unknown and painful
Because she is the soul epitome of what it means to be human
And we can forgive her for that

She gazed as the sun retreated
Behind the distant mountains
Revived scars, her will power defeated
Little, if not none, remains

The steam rises up hugging her frame
Highlighting distanced, painful, memories
Door locked in fear and shame
But it won’t keep out her worst enemies

Trying to affirm that she could
Grabbing the knife with vitality
Crying an ominous red flood
The river of the misunderstood

Her intentions are altruistic
In her mind it's the sane option
Sadness that defies mystic
Impotent to endure the internal corruption

Not a matter of Life and Death
Like a star she's already gone
Sempiternal and bereft
Promise-less like a ghost of the dawn

One last breath she immerses herself in the water
It's not suicide it's exhumation
The minimal butterfly paid homage at the alter
Not her swan song but a ballad of elation

From clouds above,
High and massive
Things are falling
On vast green plains
And dry deserts shaded yellow and orange.
For some, the falling brings smells
Of cleansing and new life,
And fresh new mornings filled with opportunity,
But for others the falling brings only
The stench of destruction
Of environments and lives.

The rain immerses one in a state
Of taking the long cold streaks
For granted, as it’s just another inconvenience
To the already somber day.
Rainbows are dreams
Hidden behind closed eyes
Of those forgotten,
Whose existence consists of turbulence
And tremors.

Resting minds are forced awake
Elsewhere tired eyes stare out windows,
Anxiety filling them both,
As the thunder rolls in ever closer
Until it is at last upon them.
An all encompassing roar
That some believe to be directed by gods,
And some to be brought by man themselves.

As one looks out,
Gazing on the horizon,
The sun lighting the sky in an orange haze,
While the rain, gives off a haze of its own
When it strikes the ground,
Leaving a growing terror
On a face,
As the baleful sound
Steadily approaches,
From the rolling thunder.

April showers conjure memories for some
Of time spent in the comfort of a warm bed
While raindrops pour steadily outside the window
And of running through the grass
As a carefree child
Until a flash of lightning and a roll of thunder
Send them running excitedly to the safety of home
But it’s because of no small privilege
They are able to think this way
Showers are not the same only half a world away

Usually seconds are counted after the sound,
To tell the distance,
But the distance is closed
In an instant,
With the barrage of shells,
And the shock of thousands
As their mouths open wide
With no audible sound
From the crushing wave
Of the falling rain.
Run or hide,
Both choices
Are alike in the outcome,
Only apart by placement.

Across the world a child that’s different,
Only because of where they were born,
Is hiding under covers,
In a country that’s been torn;
The thunder doesn’t scare them
Simply because it’s loud,
But because it’s not lightning that causes the sound
And it came from a drone, not a cloud
While one splashes in puddles happily
Without a care in the world
The other lives with seeing many they know
In pools of their own blood

Rain, oh rain, go away

You're in my songs,
You're in my dreams.
Every memory reminds me why I need you.
But I don't want to be wrapped up in you.
You consume me,
Filling me with images of you.
I hate how your face fills up my thoughts,
The way you look at me.
I am lost when you hold me.
I say I won't let you get close.
But when you say my name,
I run into your arms.
You make me give up my illusions
Of what love is.
Being with you immerses me in a bubble,
You're all that exists for me.
You invade my memories,
I can't remember life before you.
You lead me down a narrow road,
Where all I see and hear is you.
I only feel when you touch me.
I don't know how to go on without you.
I don't want to start if you're not here.

Tonight I’m just sitting here with the rainfall

and with the risk of sounding trite,

I’m tired.

I’m not happy with who I've become, a mask has also started slowly creeping up my own jaw, putting on a disguised facade. Each day can start with a smile. You hope, you wander, but sometimes it’s forced and in vain. I’m not sure how to dodge or end this. And as the light falls to eclipse and engulf the air in a shroud of darkness, apathy immerses sensation. I dream of a world where I am taken in my sleep. Anything that will save me from this monotony.

to trust in nature for it is the only truth,
in it's savagery find what is pure,
for only what is innocent can spring forth that which is truly untainted,
as blood drenches the gums,
truth and death
to trust an agony,
crimson lifeless cubs at the feet of the alpha lion,
to wallow in pain,
the taste immerses the wolf with joyous delight,
a nurturing provides
young with bone, mother with milk,
so that the solitude may go on,
the trees span,
to trust in one and only one,
for what is love if not trust?

It sounds
And I am compelled to listen
This is beautiful
Now that I've heard it
There is no turning back
To the point of no return
Experiences pile up
The hold never dissipates
At times it immerses me
And I remain motionless
It sounds, squeezing ***
On its bonds with male
And female on fresh waves

Lounging load
On a backseat toad
As the sky corrodes
O’er the Titan of Rhodes

Sanguine smile
Immerses the child
And leaves him beguiled
By a life so mild

I was born
Without a doubt
Heeding scorn
Through paper pouts

Destitute *******
I only sell tape
Twofold swords, crass salutes
Deep heart and minds agape

Losing the point of life
To a sleek carbon knife
I am not saddened
I will be hardened

Cheer for whatever comes
And you will be deloused
In the swaths of kingdom’s sums
Amounting to a mouse

These days float on
With nary a thought
Marmalade veil on the dawn
Keeps me from the rot

Nothing will keep you
Don’t marry your hands
In a prayer so shrewd
To be as small as sand

Easily blown over
Into aloof waters
And sent away sober
Into the mile-old clotter

Perhaps I am a child
In the way I was defiled
But I was not soaked
By time’s stalwart cloak