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Beneath every grass meadow,
sun dropped slowly as night.
littlest, bitterly hacked, rises.
begging and glittering,
it wanted to drink each cloud as I emptied any fearing between two psicodelic forests and left this sailor dance under high stars.
Watashi no nagai natsu. (my longest summer.)
in the beginning of words
there were two
by the dark moon
they travelled to scattered
papers
hushed by wisdom
lost by elders who
closed the curtain of
creativity
words became one
alone without the other
and sara faded away
on a boat made of
promises..
 Jul 2012 Barton D Smock
Wanderer
Cardboard etchings of black roses
Floating fish eyed weary in amongst the rot and ruined
Soft humming echos off filth-water calm surfaces
Mirror and smoke coalescing into desert mirage *******
Those words must be salvaged
Baiting me into lyrical euphoria
Sharp edges cutting deep into the leathery, narcoleptic hide of my soul
Easing warm and quiet into all of my dark, secret crevices
Anxious to keep them safe
The walls sag and teater on the brink of Titanic tragedy
Watching it sink I pull inside every memory
Every taste, touch, bite of young, untrained teeth
An empty space where just gray shades reigned
Now growing cardboard black roses
a dream was never held
within the heart like this;
to caress and mimic make
the metamorphic yields
no image to allure, on swell of
blissing ribcage breathing:
field-horizons seethe for
gaze to set upon a focus-fix,
a cough subsides to utter sweetness
in the air, the intake of a blanket joy
to sweep the skin entire me
for being free, electric nexus-winds
to soften stances, slowly vibrate
perspectival nodes, and deeper nests
of echoed intertwinement
through the hall of gathered newness
breathed, breathing insight
sounds beyond the worlds imagined--
to sing the choice in serpentine,
throat cascades galactic chirping
carved flight of nimble-cover quickening
shines higher, pitching lust and thought
behind my ears revealing awe
ambrosia waves from sigh-blown
relics of a leafy launching,
spinning dust of nebulaeic tones
on ancient sprout-soul holding
true for humble new beginnings green and blue.
heave this newfound beauty
axis wing upon that giant
spiral booming where
imagined whims are gentlest
of all transearthly greatnesses--
simply sphotal sounds
on winds of changing colorflow--
sending quivers in the dark,
a smile-fire scree of charms
i've known along
us even while alone
sphoṭa (Devanagari स्फोट, the Sanskrit for "bursting, opening", "spurt") is etymologically derived from the root sphuṭ 'to burst'. It is used in its technical linguistic sense by Patañjali (2nd c. BCE), in reference to the "bursting forth" of meaning or idea on the mind as language is uttered. Patañjali's sphoṭa is the invariant quality of speech" (wikipedia).
Birth:
the long,
clean,
feathered
pen,
dipping into the
just-filled cup of ink.
Life:
the deft,
curious strokes,
lying,
breathing
into the canvas
all the wonder
of emotion.
Death:
the splatter painted handle,
the feather-losing fray,
the crippled wrist of occasion,
with the upward stroke, instead of down.
the blot of black,
in the all white nothingness.
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