gabriel-a-ramirez - Hello Poetry

Subtle winds flow, threading through his extended hands. It’s almost as if there is a ghost of silk, being pulled in and around each finger. Strands of hair tussle, tangling each lock down to the root, like the long tendrils of grass that dance and sway down in the valley below. Life in entirety moves to the smooth rhythm of the winds. Sloping from a plane, the hill crawls upwards. Going up their is mostly small red rock, getting bulky and stopping at a vertical cliff. It looks as if it were shot in explosion of rock and jagged edges. There is a trail leading around the back to get to the top. He meanders up, indulging in his surroundings. He reaches the top. The boy stands aloof upon the cliff edge. A bare Black Oak tree set beside him. Creaking, groaning, and singing along with the hymns of the earth’s wind around. Pebbles bounce and clack at each movement. Even a twitch from the youth sends tiny boulders tumbling down, causing others to fall with it. Facing the north, he looks up. Stars splatter the sky like drips of paint. Illuminating drops sent out in no particular direction or pattern. He makes out constellations he was taught by his father. Eager to create configurations of his own from imagination. Looking around he finds the moon, moments away from being engulfed by mauve clouds. A silhouette captured by the moonlight. The boy looks down and sits at the edge of the canyon cliff. He dangles his feet over the ridge, kicking them back and forth. Hitting one heel on the back of the rock wall and kicking the other out. Suddenly he stops. His eyes close. He takes a deep inhale. He sets his hands down at his sides, one hand gripping the sand and the other a small patch of grass. Then gently, he loosens his grip, leaving his self to be carried by the embrace of the breeze. The air pulsates. Drafts pushing the boy hard with its invisible hands. The child putting complete trust on the earth he sat above. One gust pushes him forward. Another carrying him back. Other winds a variation of each direction. Now balancing on the weight of a fractured ridge and a rooted tree, he exhales. Gently leaning forward to look down at the rock descend below. He looks up, sets his hands back to his hips, and the crest gives way. Bringing the boy along... The wind was still heavy. The gravel was still loose. And the tree still stood. The cliff will continue to be a silhouetted in the backdrop of the moon. Only now, it is his breath that is being exhaled upon the earth’s soils. He will coordinate with the fields of bronze grass, and the trees will sing to the tunes of his melodies.

0

Aug 15, 2011

Aug 15, 2011 at 8:20 AM UTC

gabriel-a-ramirez

Inevitable Decsent

Subtle winds flow, threading through his extended hands. It’s almost as if there is a ghost of silk, being pulled in and around each finger. Strands of hair tussle, tangling each lock down to the root, like the long tendrils of grass that dance and sway down in the valley below. Life in entirety moves to the smooth rhythm of the winds. Sloping from a plane, the hill crawls upwards. Going up their is mostly small red rock, getting bulky and stopping at a vertical cliff. It looks as if it were shot in explosion of rock and jagged edges. There is a trail leading around the back to get to the top. He meanders up, indulging in his surroundings. He reaches the top. The boy stands aloof upon the cliff edge. A bare Black Oak tree set beside him. Creaking, groaning, and singing along with the hymns of the earth’s wind around. Pebbles bounce and clack at each movement. Even a twitch from the youth sends tiny boulders tumbling down, causing others to fall with it. Facing the north, he looks up. Stars splatter the sky like drips of paint. Illuminating drops sent out in no particular direction or pattern. He makes out constellations he was taught by his father. Eager to create configurations of his own from imagination. Looking around he finds the moon, moments away from being engulfed by mauve clouds. A silhouette captured by the moonlight. The boy looks down and sits at the edge of the canyon cliff. He dangles his feet over the ridge, kicking them back and forth. Hitting one heel on the back of the rock wall and kicking the other out. Suddenly he stops. His eyes close. He takes a deep inhale. He sets his hands down at his sides, one hand gripping the sand and the other a small patch of grass. Then gently, he loosens his grip, leaving his self to be carried by the embrace of the breeze. The air pulsates. Drafts pushing the boy hard with its invisible hands. The child putting complete trust on the earth he sat above. One gust pushes him forward. Another carrying him back. Other winds a variation of each direction. Now balancing on the weight of a fractured ridge and a rooted tree, he exhales. Gently leaning forward to look down at the rock descend below. He looks up, sets his hands back to his hips, and the crest gives way. Bringing the boy along... The wind was still heavy. The gravel was still loose. And the tree still stood. The cliff will continue to be a silhouetted in the backdrop of the moon. Only now, it is his breath that is being exhaled upon the earth’s soils. He will coordinate with the fields of bronze grass, and the trees will sing to the tunes of his melodies.

46

...of a pen one letter falls. The blank cotton white paper a canvas in it self. It's waiting for an artist to grace its presence. Starting with one letter and sometimes followed by another. Then connecting fragments of lines and scratches. Creating what our culture describe as words. Words that conduct emotion, Which in response leads to separation; gaps and spaces. Continuing the sentence with set ideas of left overs from the past. Some hold no worth, and others hold all truth. Depending on your preference they will inspire or conduct. The simplicity of a word can get as complex as a sentence. No matter what the message it carries. The beauty is in its essence.

0

Jul 28, 2011

Jul 28, 2011 at 3:16 AM UTC

gabriel-a-ramirez

With a stroke...

...of a pen one letter falls. The blank cotton white paper a canvas in it self. It's waiting for an artist to grace its presence. Starting with one letter and sometimes followed by another. Then connecting fragments of lines and scratches. Creating what our culture describe as words. Words that conduct emotion, Which in response leads to separation; gaps and spaces. Continuing the sentence with set ideas of left overs from the past. Some hold no worth, and others hold all truth. Depending on your preference they will inspire or conduct. The simplicity of a word can get as complex as a sentence. No matter what the message it carries. The beauty is in its essence.

13

"So have you forgotten?"... Those words you muttered so softly from those blushed lips. "I have yet to lose grasp of the severity those words held" Making the connection from the depths of your vocal box, to the cusp of your tongue, and out your lips. Traveling through the atmosphere, into waves, down the tubes of my ear and rattling the drums within. What we once shared is now aged by the times. Times we've spent silently mesmerized by the deep darkness of our pupils. Ignoring the fate of our actions and its outcome. Silently giggling, we explored the delicacy of the human body... and of the mind. The world aged as we sat timeless, centered on my sheet-less bed. As if we were curious children who have yet to be exposed to the harshness of the exploited world. We have explored the realms of living nature and continuing the adventure. We must continue onto different realms of perception and thought, in which we can't question the kinship of our spirits. My words do no more but go to waste as they fall on blind eyes, which are recited by mute mouths, and are silenced by deaf ears. But those words we spoke, silently into each others ears, later encrusting in our minds. Those words... They will resonate.

0

Jul 25, 2011

Jul 25, 2011 at 10:38 PM UTC

gabriel-a-ramirez

Words That Resonate

"So have you forgotten?"... Those words you muttered so softly from those blushed lips. "I have yet to lose grasp of the severity those words held" Making the connection from the depths of your vocal box, to the cusp of your tongue, and out your lips. Traveling through the atmosphere, into waves, down the tubes of my ear and rattling the drums within. What we once shared is now aged by the times. Times we've spent silently mesmerized by the deep darkness of our pupils. Ignoring the fate of our actions and its outcome. Silently giggling, we explored the delicacy of the human body... and of the mind. The world aged as we sat timeless, centered on my sheet-less bed. As if we were curious children who have yet to be exposed to the harshness of the exploited world. We have explored the realms of living nature and continuing the adventure. We must continue onto different realms of perception and thought, in which we can't question the kinship of our spirits. My words do no more but go to waste as they fall on blind eyes, which are recited by mute mouths, and are silenced by deaf ears. But those words we spoke, silently into each others ears, later encrusting in our minds. Those words... They will resonate.

18