"That's something poetry can do for you, it can entrance you for a moment above the pool of your own consciousness and your own possibilities."*
Seamus Heaney

it is not enough
the eyes, the ears,
the ebb and flow
of calcium in bones
of iron in stars
sometimes silence pours down
like a blessing
some left their offices
and they're now deciphering
the eyes of thunder
some inner power turns me around:
the tribes of air
the shapes of a child's wonder
the involuntary rehearsal of words
this passivity of language
like jazz phrases
the wrinkles of that woman
imprinted in my heart
(by her murderous fingers)
spring gives me rose-like mornings
(because of my bedroom curtains)

and there is something else
this feeling of oneness
the cedar and the flowering river
motherly care, exhaustion, or not knowing
and the hues of morning skies
countless fleeting little gestures
and the cries of birds
tearing solitudes
my complete abandonment to him
in the sea of time

I let the window open
every day is a declaration of love
even when I hate
the dance with the unknown
the inextricable
the polyphony of laughter
and darkness

you live in me during the day
and I **** your name each night
anew

I take the long way
along the way
to find my home
I pass the old place
where I used to play
once upon a yesterday
I walk down the sidewalks
avoiding all cracks
Oh ! my mother's back
It's a long way from yesterday
to everyday
and back down to here
And one is the number
between zero
which is nothing
and eternity
which is everything

^¡^

/\^/\/\^^/\^^/\/\


like a wraith your smoke doth rise
into sulphur yellow skies
a fiery raptor... awesome sized
where the sultry brimstone lies.

from the ash... so grey and dry
erupting with a piercing cry
as volcanoes steam and sigh
dancing on the sparks you fly!

the devil mounts your back to ride
over molten rivers wide
his golden spurs dig in your side
on the thermals... up you glide!

then you turn and make a dive
into the flames
where you may thrive
born of fire you survive
you were dead...

but now ALIVE!!!


soulsurvivor
(c) 2014
rewritten
(c) 3-17-2015

"It's good to have a schedule, 'cause then you'll have at least pseudo-legitimate excuses not to do things you want to do even less than what's scheduled. It can also be nice to have a regular rhythm in Life other than your heartbeat and breathing, which, if you're like me, go overlooked enough as it is."

"If I need more rhythm in my life, I play drums."

"You fancy yourself a percussionist too, eh?
Well, for a fellow clock, you're pretty **** sharp!
What the hell you talkin' to me for? You got it already."

"Just finish tuning that guitar already. 'Open Z minor,' right?"

"It's 'drop go-****-yourself,' actually. Your mom's favorite."

"Funny, your mom loves it when I bang with my eyes closed."

"Alright, both of you: shut it before I leave both of your moms beggin' for more. After last time, they sure as **** know we bassists go deeper."

"As the frontman and vocalist, all I have to say is that worthy ladies appreciate the guys who are confident and good with their mouths, so y'alls gotta be sure to get in on those backup vocals! Also, before I forget: please ask your moms about my Funkadelic records. When things have gotten a little too freaky, I tend to be in a hurry. Whips, latex, chains, *******, ball-gags, belts, oils, sandpaper, rubbing alcohol, vinyl, blowtorches, candles, wine.. you know how it is: it can be hard to remember everything you leave in the locker at the end of a long day at the gym!"

"Hah, I'm sure. But, like I was saying.. we need to schedule more gigs."

"I already scheduled some more with your m-"

"I know. She told me."

Black & Yellow
                                             – for Wiz Khalifa  ✌

                        “Stay high like I’m supposed to do, that crown
                        underneath them clouds, can’t get close to you.”

On the first day, he was pushed.
Robust in stance, the other forced,
this boy down the marble stairs
of the Catholic church, the school
renovated the Summer before
Khalifa began his studies,
                  in junior high.
The ballet was his passion,
Latin was the language that so
fluently was spoken from
his lips. The Professor smiled,
another victory accomplished.
Khalifa’s mom was so proud of
            her blue eyed boy.
Rapped in a ball, he waited
for all students & halls to clear.
Rolled over, picked himself up
took to the washroom, knowing
he needed to be presentable
for his mom stood at the school gate,
           brimming with pride.
All of his dreams, mystical.
Don Quixote & The Nutcracker,
fluid streams of poetry;
Elliot, Poe, Wilde. The love
letters of Ludwig van Beethoven.
Born to dance all Principal roles,
                  a lovers’ prose.
By four, he was ready to
leave school. Tentatively walking,
no predators in sight, out
the main door. Leaving behind
a haunting first day. Listening to
Tchaikovsky; his release, his home,
                 his saving grace.

© Sia Jane

I don't seek your permission...
To write about the what, why and how.
It could be a haiku or come in the shape of a cow.

I don't need your approval...
When I don't sound the least bit poetic...
In my mismatched metaphors or ill-rhymed acrostic.

I'm not asking for your blessing...
When I pen down and put up what I think...
Be it in cloying cliches or in tear drenched ink.

I don't crave for your understanding...
When my 10 word poems weren't filtered through your poetic lens,
Or if my contributions in collaborations lack in sense.

I don't hope for your likes...
If my content does not tickle your fancy,
Or if my words just rubs you silly.

I mean no disrespect...
But don't be too quick to click on the 'comment' button.
Private messaging has been put there for a reason.

I don't mean to cramp your style...*
You're entitled to your own opinions of course...
But if you've got nothing good to say, please save it and shove it up yours.