That sweet breeze
I know you've felt it,
it comes about only during those times,
that particular cool breeze that you feel so much more pronounced for it chills the trails,
those trails left by drops they trickle, they run, they drip,
they find their way to the little windows of your soul, and they collect,
they swell they shine they overflow
like an uncontrollable salty dam.
And then it breaks
you bleed but not red
they spill over from soaked eyelashes, they glide over your face and you taste the salt in your lips,
a moment when the truth has erupted out of you, for to see a truth in someone is perhaps one of the most beautiful things,
and in the darkness in the despair
like the hand of an angel it caresses
you'll feel that sweet cool breeze on your dripping face
as if to tell you it is going to be ok.
Mar 25, 2020
Mar 25, 2020 at 1:12 PM UTC
But it continues into my sleep into my dreams, this grayness, a colorless drape that starts to bleed into it all, freezing all motion, and when I think of you I no longer see your vibrant red
lips, the yellow flowers behind you, the green hills, the blue sky, all variants of gray, lifeless artifacts in the archives of Time, claimed by the great destroyer, into decay a ruined acropolis in my memory of a glorious Time past.
Mar 25, 2020
Mar 25, 2020 at 1:05 PM UTC
It's such a shame those eyes have never seen Paris,
a shame those fingers have never touched the ruins at Pompeii
a shame that they all still insist on treating you like a child
inside you a woman screams, a woman I can hear.
Mar 25, 2020
Mar 25, 2020 at 6:40 AM UTC
but you see my dear, my sweet,
you always stood so far away,
I've not a bow to reach you like he,
not one arrow or a sight for aim like he,
I've only this stinger which even then,
needs you to be very close to strike
but what I lack in range I gain in what lingers,
a toxin that seeks your rivers of blood,
so to be inside of you, to traverse all within you,
to pump into your heart
as you gasp from pleasure, from pain and all the realms in between
as you slip out of consciousness,
I watch you as your eyes close.
Mar 25, 2020
Mar 25, 2020 at 6:39 AM UTC
I. I often look at your beautiful face, but that isn't why I love you.
you are looking in the mirror forty years from now,
and you have long surrendered to time,
your beauty will betray you,
it will betray us,
this you already know,
the heavens and hells tug at your flesh
slowly carving wrinkles
at the pillars of your youth.
II. The Ocean Blue
For on the surface they swim, and on the surface you look
but few so ever dive where a madman would go
to the dark chilly solitary crevices,
of where true beauty lies,
that is where I found you,
in the deep darkness
that is where I saw you,
alone, so beautiful, pristine,
cold in the dark.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 12:44 PM UTC
And so it is, the silence. For which is all completely mine,
the blank,
the nothing, neither structure, nor a void,
a solitude so profound, so great, it must be achieved,
not bludgeoned into,
A blank landscape in which I paint what I may,
undisturbed by your words I embrace your nothingness,
and I wait, and I breath,
and know,
that you do not remember me,
but I remember you,
I hold in total pristine,
your blank canvas and ponder what I may mark,
what I may paint,
what uninhibited freedoms I may to take to fulfill all things, all desires, all wants, because I know you so heartbreakingly well,
an exhaustion,
but I dare not disturb the silence,
not for a cry, not for a roar for it must be birthed of you,
But please understand, I remember you,
not your face, not your touch, surely not your voice,
the feeling you give me, I cannot bring forth through our sounds, our symbols,
it is not an understanding, but a realization,
if you only knew how the wind feels when I think of you,
you would resurrect , you would remember,
the feeling you gave me, thousands of years ago,
there is no memory of this,
only the essence remains,
the latent vibrations that exist only in the frequency that you flood me with,
a sensation only wrought forth in the breath and the stare of an old soul,
a tired soul that has loved much,
a soul has hurt much
and is all but one percent gold
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 11:16 PM UTC
God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
Then walks with us silently out of the night.
These are the words we dimly hear.
You, send out beyond your recall.
Go the limits of your longing.
Embody me.
Flare up like a flame
And make big shadows I can move in.
Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don’t let yourself lose me.
Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness.
Give me your hand.
-A poem by Rainer Maria Rilke 1875 - 1926
Translation by Joanna Macy and Anita Barrows
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 10:07 PM UTC
Today I saw a homeless man with a very long beard,
filthy,
sweating in the hot sun.
He rode a bicycle with a tall flag,
cars sped by him.
A mother waited at a traffic light;
her daughter far, far away,
yet they sat side by side.
Driving.
Hot was the air,
and full of smog,
In the midst of the traffic the small orange flag fluttered,
as to signal to all,
that this man too carried precious cargo,
behind him a cart he pulled, he pedaled,
he towed;
a friend, a tired friend, and old friend, a friend in need.
In the eyes of this friend,
I saw an appreciation,
a happiness that glowed, radiated at the friend ahead who so dutifully pedaled on.
"SEE MY FLAG!
I too like this mother have precious cargo".
The daughter’s thumb glides up the glass,
then the thumb arrives back to the point where It started,
the thumb glides back up again,
with each glide that drags up the glass she further drifts from her mother.
The mother stares forward ,
she waits for the traffic signal,
she lets the passing of time flow through her,
it reminds her how the only thing all her years have taught her about time is that it is
subjective,
fleeting,
and that she must kneel to it.
The daughter smiles for the glass has pleased her,
The mother does not smile,
for she is not of the glass,
the mother, remembers when the daughter was 4 years old and all the daughter wanted was to be with her.
An eternity ago,
Yet less than a decade,
but she now knows the knack,
for even now she can feel it,
time is subjective,
she knows her daughter will learn as she did,
the realization and worship of TIME.
There is a solitude and loneliness that a homeless person must endure,
I cowardly imagine a world
where I had no one,
no one who cared enough to be anyone in my life,
to live in the street,
to be nowhere.
When the entirety of the populace pays you no mind.
When you do not count.
The daughter's thumb dances,
it quickly glides up the glass once again.
Her head has not yet turned to her mother,
The person who loves her more than anything in the world is next to her,
yet the unstoppable hourglass of days seems so plump,
so plentiful,
thinks the daughter,
as her opposable thumb does nothing for her evolution,
secretions of dopamine trickle through her brain,
and the heart in the glass now shows 263.
The homeless man tows a friend,
a friend who has accepted him despite his stench,
his addiction,
his lack of home,
food,
money, car, hygiene;
The homeless man pedals on,
burning precious calories from the food that he doesn’t have,
I see a relationship in them void of judgement,
but full an unconditional love that we ever very rarely see,
outside of our Father;
our Mother.
The light changes green, and the cars begin to move,
the traffic catches up to the homeless man, cars begin to swerve around them,
I hear a bark,
the homeless man turns around ,
to check ,
to see,
what his only friend, his most trusted, his only bond, his reason for existing needs.
The daughter has not yet looked at her mother,
Driving driving driving.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 7:25 AM UTC
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?
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 4:00 AM UTC
death and decay
and we sink
sink
into the soil,
into mother,
deep in her as she shreds us apart,
she meshes us,
so that we may we sprout once again,
be torn once again,
***** eaten, consumed, and tossed into the dregs of the most unfathomable wastes,
we sink,
sink
into into the soil.
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 12:43 PM UTC