daniel-august-1 - Hello Poetry

The whole of my efforts have been, as they say, for the bush outside my house. For whom are you strobing? In tiny white and yellow flowers, there, then gone, and then there again. Whose bud refuse no way farer, hermit bees meander, suckle, and depart in good conscience.

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May 30, 2015

May 30, 2015 at 4:32 AM UTC

Untitled

The whole of my efforts have been, as they say, for the bush outside my house. For whom are you strobing? In tiny white and yellow flowers, there, then gone, and then there again. Whose bud refuse no way farer, hermit bees meander, suckle, and depart in good conscience.

9

I will tell you not of our Secret mangrove tenement, Tunneled through the space behind both of our eyes. A place meant for whimsy and bioluminescent fauna, fawning faux sun light out into obsidian night. Nor will I tell of our soul’s soft meridian, served on the half shell to both kind and prying eyes, distant though unarguably tied— ribbons spun, fastened, dyed For what end should I tell? When your very presence is Heaven. And your very absence Hell.

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Jan 1, 2015

Jan 1, 2015 at 1:01 PM UTC

A longing circumference.

I will tell you not of our Secret mangrove tenement, Tunneled through the space behind both of our eyes. A place meant for whimsy and bioluminescent fauna, fawning faux sun light out into obsidian night. Nor will I tell of our soul’s soft meridian, served on the half shell to both kind and prying eyes, distant though unarguably tied— ribbons spun, fastened, dyed For what end should I tell? When your very presence is Heaven. And your very absence Hell.

20

Sitting buckets of lavender wishing they were their namesake flower

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Dec 1, 2014

Dec 1, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC

Paint

Sitting buckets of lavender wishing they were their namesake flower

3

I want chalance, **** it! Give me your unadulterated caring. I crave the taste of a well formed opinion. Spit bitter the dregs of conditioned aloofness, my children, Turn from your beds that long dawning yawn of complacency, The sickly lacksadaze of comfort and all those uninvited demons posing as house-pets and affordable phone plans. find a flame and fan it! reject the televised red herrings. propaganda’s best honed minion. Careen from the brink of total self destruction, my children, Bite deep into the fleshy face of death, its opaque nascency, filet the present moment at your leisure, for whatever reasons, Make your life a gun loaded with demands.

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Nov 4, 2014

Nov 4, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC

Chalance and other made up words.

I want chalance, **** it! Give me your unadulterated caring. I crave the taste of a well formed opinion. Spit bitter the dregs of conditioned aloofness, my children, Turn from your beds that long dawning yawn of complacency, The sickly lacksadaze of comfort and all those uninvited demons posing as house-pets and affordable phone plans. find a flame and fan it! reject the televised red herrings. propaganda’s best honed minion. Careen from the brink of total self destruction, my children, Bite deep into the fleshy face of death, its opaque nascency, filet the present moment at your leisure, for whatever reasons, Make your life a gun loaded with demands.

20

“We” are potential energy, A book poised at the edge of its case, An icicle dripping to join its kin piled In the sloppy snow seven feet below. Sometimes, in the night, i’ll doubt and liken it More to the crate of eggs, sitting precariously On the back of some travelling merchants cart Bound to fall, cracking in naïve inexperience And even then the local birds would be fed, The pasty shells ground down by the passerby Who’d criticize as they walked, to pass the time, That such a crate should have been properly secured. Then, on those optimistic field trips into the forest of Myself, I feel differently; that such is more like A pair of sparrows, separate but dancing, alight in A mountaintop field of grain, idle hikers Marveling at our playfulness at such heights. It is these thoughts that I prefer, as my Insides don’t feel very yokey, nor my feelings Brittle like those cream spotted egg shells.

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Sep 28, 2014

Sep 28, 2014 at 9:26 PM UTC

Potential energy

“We” are potential energy, A book poised at the edge of its case, An icicle dripping to join its kin piled In the sloppy snow seven feet below. Sometimes, in the night, i’ll doubt and liken it More to the crate of eggs, sitting precariously On the back of some travelling merchants cart Bound to fall, cracking in naïve inexperience And even then the local birds would be fed, The pasty shells ground down by the passerby Who’d criticize as they walked, to pass the time, That such a crate should have been properly secured. Then, on those optimistic field trips into the forest of Myself, I feel differently; that such is more like A pair of sparrows, separate but dancing, alight in A mountaintop field of grain, idle hikers Marveling at our playfulness at such heights. It is these thoughts that I prefer, as my Insides don’t feel very yokey, nor my feelings Brittle like those cream spotted egg shells.

20

I fixed myself a cup of coffee, this morning, taking my time as I poured as the pot’s cracked near the lip and leaks quite badly. I enlisted some creamer for help, as the cups dark depth was quite foreboding; no sugar though, there’s no need. And then in my early morning forgetfulness I left the cup where it was on the counter top, alone, growing colder every minute. Sometime later I walked back into the kitchen finding my old, lost cup, its contents still swirling, in a spiral, And strangely, I felt like god.

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Sep 3, 2014

Sep 3, 2014 at 9:46 AM UTC

Abraham's God, the coffee pourer

I fixed myself a cup of coffee, this morning, taking my time as I poured as the pot’s cracked near the lip and leaks quite badly. I enlisted some creamer for help, as the cups dark depth was quite foreboding; no sugar though, there’s no need. And then in my early morning forgetfulness I left the cup where it was on the counter top, alone, growing colder every minute. Sometime later I walked back into the kitchen finding my old, lost cup, its contents still swirling, in a spiral, And strangely, I felt like god.

20

Why do I crave that terribly monstrous hunger? Some feminine form to devour my poetry. A lumbering beast shrouded in curly brown hair hidden under supple skin, wearing Birkenstocks. Kali in all her frightful intricacies hell bent on destroying my word through consumption, pregnant with my verbose imagery, craving, forever, one more line of verse, one more syllable to wet her tongue.

0

Aug 29, 2014

Aug 29, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC

Kali

Why do I crave that terribly monstrous hunger? Some feminine form to devour my poetry. A lumbering beast shrouded in curly brown hair hidden under supple skin, wearing Birkenstocks. Kali in all her frightful intricacies hell bent on destroying my word through consumption, pregnant with my verbose imagery, craving, forever, one more line of verse, one more syllable to wet her tongue.

9

I am thankful to this moment, for you are not here. You are not weaving your fingers through mine nor are you kissing the center of my forehead. And yet I am thankful, for each moment you are not here implies a moment in which you are.

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Aug 29, 2014

Aug 29, 2014 at 1:24 PM UTC

Not here- here

I am thankful to this moment, for you are not here. You are not weaving your fingers through mine nor are you kissing the center of my forehead. And yet I am thankful, for each moment you are not here implies a moment in which you are.

9

If I had had a pocket for every time you came in the form of a misty leaf, (sticking to the underside of my misbelief, drawing attention to every old logical fallacy that was, blissfully, missed) I still wouldn’t have enough to hold the amount of change we’ve set in motion, the density of our meaning, nor the emotions you inflict on me, from your place on that mountain. (as if through sorcery); And I can’t help but imagine you as some metaphoric fountain, forever spouting pockets— The seeds of your actions sprouting in neat rows of goodwill, and decisive Indecision, your face half hidden in some fey magic of mythologized memory your hair ridden with peaceful fire and emptiness, your lips set in a quiet compassion, ashen from the song of my phoenix lyre, content in uncontentedness, knowing that bliss is also not-bliss, and that every moment spent apart is a melody of separation: this— the crafting of some divergent art, spooky action at a distance, these shadow figments mere resistance to our own true nature: the heart’s desire, sown in every field, every stable, this very word, and all the fables that persistently insist that perhaps there’s one more thing I’ve missed. So I’ll look once more (through that gateless gate, perceptions door) at your sleeping face, the oceans floor, clouds weeping, that distant shore of sandy grace: outside time, inside space.

0

Aug 27, 2014

Aug 27, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC

Some Fey Artifact

If I had had a pocket for every time you came in the form of a misty leaf, (sticking to the underside of my misbelief, drawing attention to every old logical fallacy that was, blissfully, missed) I still wouldn’t have enough to hold the amount of change we’ve set in motion, the density of our meaning, nor the emotions you inflict on me, from your place on that mountain. (as if through sorcery); And I can’t help but imagine you as some metaphoric fountain, forever spouting pockets— The seeds of your actions sprouting in neat rows of goodwill, and decisive Indecision, your face half hidden in some fey magic of mythologized memory your hair ridden with peaceful fire and emptiness, your lips set in a quiet compassion, ashen from the song of my phoenix lyre, content in uncontentedness, knowing that bliss is also not-bliss, and that every moment spent apart is a melody of separation: this— the crafting of some divergent art, spooky action at a distance, these shadow figments mere resistance to our own true nature: the heart’s desire, sown in every field, every stable, this very word, and all the fables that persistently insist that perhaps there’s one more thing I’ve missed. So I’ll look once more (through that gateless gate, perceptions door) at your sleeping face, the oceans floor, clouds weeping, that distant shore of sandy grace: outside time, inside space.

39

You drew, quite adeptly I might add, a comparison between me, (or your thoughts of me) and the billowous smoke drifting, softly flowing, from the flame charred nostrils of some old dragon. I would, if you’d allow such a poetic intrusion, add some minor details (As I enjoy the image immensely). The first is that the dragon be a figment, a glimpse of mountainous countryside conspiring to be, from one angle, A dragon of momentous proportions, its nostrils the dual chimney of some familiar house, its occupants keeping some stoic dream alive, stomachs slightly less full of asceticism, feet full of soles. The dragon’s teeth an old picket fence, a relic to an outdated conception of “living” and perhaps that scaly plaque at the center of its forehead is not armor, as I would have insisted in those years prior to our meeting, but is rather a patch of dense forest not yet explored by tiny pittering feet, not yet absorbed by the eyes of children.

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Aug 19, 2014

Aug 19, 2014 at 8:07 PM UTC

A dragon

You drew, quite adeptly I might add, a comparison between me, (or your thoughts of me) and the billowous smoke drifting, softly flowing, from the flame charred nostrils of some old dragon. I would, if you’d allow such a poetic intrusion, add some minor details (As I enjoy the image immensely). The first is that the dragon be a figment, a glimpse of mountainous countryside conspiring to be, from one angle, A dragon of momentous proportions, its nostrils the dual chimney of some familiar house, its occupants keeping some stoic dream alive, stomachs slightly less full of asceticism, feet full of soles. The dragon’s teeth an old picket fence, a relic to an outdated conception of “living” and perhaps that scaly plaque at the center of its forehead is not armor, as I would have insisted in those years prior to our meeting, but is rather a patch of dense forest not yet explored by tiny pittering feet, not yet absorbed by the eyes of children.

26