mehh Apr 1
some days,
when beauty is abundant,
i feel as though
i could stand at deaths door
ring his bell
call his name
without hesitation
with absolutely no reservation,
in a chipper tone
with a welcoming smile.
and say, "hello neighbor",
"Welcome"
mehh Mar 31
I no longer have words
for a while, It felt as though words passed through me,
acting as a filter between

the ether and the real.
like electricity through a wire,
water through leaded pipes.

now I feel like an empty vessel.
a dead wire
a dry well.
mehh Mar 29
Loudly, I hear them above the rest.
Through the windows of slender sand, which rests in another form, songs of primavera bounce around my head.
I never knew their range or talents of projection; so small and fragile are not the melodies of the small and fragile.

This moment of recognition moves me to adjust that which separates her song and I; to hear more clearly that which I forgot,
truth and beauty, peace and presence.
I feel the thaw of spring which melts so sweetly into the air, sagging with weight as it tenderly brushes the backside of my neck.

These things in successsion cause more than hesitation, they cause more than saintly admiration. My eyes become fixed upon something in the middle distance to avoid and restrict additional visual stimuli; to allow this focused moment a place to stay.
to sit in appreciation of the fresh-chilled air and music of our returning spring that sings in natural melodies for we.
the birdies have returned and I hear them through my window; closed or open. they call for my attention.
mehh Mar 5
I used to read poetry here because the poetry was good.
The words connected together to form some richly defined emotion or some experienced lived and passed,
Now this place feels dull and full of surface skimmers that know not the beauty and puzzlement of language tied to emotion.  poetry is not merely an expression of emotion but an allusive beast.
Poetry can bring the grass and sky together with sensations of touch and vibrations of color.
Poetry should be a cleansing drink, pure or distilled, that leaves one refreshed and intoxicated with the mystery of life.
I don't read poetry here anymore, not much at least, because all I see are fountain drinks, fizzy, sugary, tooth decaying drinks. advertised with some cliche hookline of emotionless melancholy written by some social media addicts desperate for attemtion. Here's a hint: poetry does not grab attention. It is not placed on billboards in bold font and bright colors. It is not found in the crystal clear illuminated aisles of your nearest convenience store, ready for consumption. Poetry is that dive bar with an old man slouched before while the barkeeps radio quietly hums talk of politics and opinions. Poetry is that speakeasy behind a chain of doors you can't recall entering and couldn't map the route if you tried.
Save your teenage titles for that Taylor Swift pop song. Save your words for when you have something to say.
Until then, drink water or spirits.
Bahumbug
mehh Jan 29
it's only three feet and two inches from falling,
crashing into a million bleeding pieces,
holding momentary glimmers of tungsten
and shimmers of electric wealth.

it lay there, placed just hours ago,
maybe by the hands of a mind
with these thoughts contained therein.

or maybe it lay placed by the hands
of a mind that could not restrain itself from
flying away with that fluttering cardinal, outside
the window, bouncing from tree to tree.

with either if-so, omnipresent is the hand
and the crystal that lay still, just on the edge,
three feet from whole and no longer still.
mehh Jan 22
the echo i chase sounds from the siren which bends my ear.
summer clouds in springtime plume while soft silt bunches on the riverbed.
the shadow in the mirror looks like what i once knew but
from around the bend and above the break,
i hear her without distance.
like a hornets kiss on the back of my neck,
throbbing like a geysers sulfur surface,
welted like a rolling hillside,
i cannot ignore such persistence.
beauty and the burden knowing;

knowing she is a burden.
knowing she will change,
become something i've not known for others,
and unfold her beauty
in ways i'll not be blessed to know.

she remains that echo of thunder deep in the ravine,
she remains the shadows in the mirror i cannot shine upon.
mehh Jan 5
if i were a tree in winter
my bark would praise
the bright light and warmth of sunshine
and scold the treacherous and bitter wind

but my roots would shout from down below
beneath the blue and white earth,

"we are safe within the dirt
where our source of being remains;
drinking, growing, absorbing more of
what provides us for this life"
Next page