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"

mehh Jan 4

While gazing wintery white
The only thought that came to me was,
"It's summer in Argentina,
but I don't speak Spanish"

mehh Nov 2017

just as a painted landscape, dimension and depth disappear
before my eyes, and like the slide of turpentine,
movement slowly ceases 'till the fragrant bead dissolves
into the tightly woven weaves. visible no more,
the aroma remains profound, as though there shall be no end.

i can't seem to find the mark where preservation placed its hold,
a naive attempt at keeping age so young.
a barrier between the world of quickly passing glances
with ever changing tastes, and eyes of failing foresight
which cannot find their pace.

composed of sacred balance, aesthetics defined
by what we can not know, sable and squirrel,
or some other mammalian hair, delicately define the strokes
that hold impossibly stable forms. they remain nothing more
than the anticipation of change.

i hold dearly their ideals set before me.  
worlds not yet conceived, sonnets of they eye.
immaculate conception of material, geographies of a mind;
i know to kneel and weep. i know their end is near,
while framed and draped in hammered sheets of gold.

unfurling cracks appear, sounding cries for renewed youth.
howling dearly to hide their hidden truths.
i listen within earshot, the call of dying lies
and feel no remorse. no guilt. no sympathy. their backgrounds protrude abruptly, like mountains from the sea.

although, their time is not like mountains or
the falling and rising seas. they remain only for our pleasure
and contemplation, when money and interest build into cacophony. confusing onlookers to believe a misplaced value, not an artists intention, to become only what man makes their purpose.

this is about visual art, i think; maybe more.
mehh Nov 2017

Our lampshades at midnight shine like amber moonlight,
like late august and amethyst; brief pulses of electric-cotton bliss.

They brand our bodies like opium poppies
in the newest blue before the sunrise.

Dear, lay still as we shelter inside this warmth
Stay silent through the night, lest you need to speak.

If so, then whisper with your palms cupped 'round my skull
So i may feel your syllable kisses dance past the hair of my ear

To feel and know that this not be a dream

mehh Nov 2017

there's a fire on the treetops
that burns a yearning glow
projecting sounds of tremendous whirls
as it passes through the windows we left open.

just ahead, beyond these sights and sounds,
sits a peak, between here and the horizon,
where birds curiously soar
above this thing i've come to love.

these middle thing reek of sights and sounds i've not yet seen.
they sit silent, hidden, beyond the peak;
In the ashes of the burning trees.
this i know too well.

But I want to know those things,
I want to hear the whistle of wet wood
and the wings above my mountains peak;
to know a new horizon and

and feel new ground beneath my feet.

mehh Nov 2017

be little with me
as the sun rises and sets
and seasons become
our way of keeping time

be little with me
as if our nights will never end
and dreams are seen
as interruptions to this existence

be little with me,
while the world turns
another day old,
seemingly unfamiliar to itself

be little with me,
like an ant marching toward the edge of a finger,
feeling its way to knowing
a world yet so unknown.

be little with me
while some earthly feature holds our lying bodies
and the sky above busts with colorful clouds
and the breeze sweeps clean our toes

lovely, be little with me
today, tomorrow, and the next thing
before time reminds us
we are little no more

mehh Nov 2017

50 minutes of moonlight fills me
with fragrance of cinnamon and spores.
shadows and decaying tree tops
fall on an illuminated floor.

my breath will remain full
as the night falls to end,
while the fear behind each tree trunk
grows with moans and croaks and woes.

my sounds, they echo, as if to live another life and
my heat expels as if to warm the earth.
i may die unknown, dark and cold within the forrest
but at least i knew the forrest

and the forrest knew my woes.

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