today the raindrops are sharp,
fine needles injecting novocaine
into the back of my exposed skin,
my breath heavy
from running up the incline
as fast
as
i
can
to see if a wish came true.

and i reach the clearing.
gingerly i step onto a new bed
of yellow-green moss —
soft, springy, cushioning me
from what lies beneath —
and i stoop down,
let my fingertips feel
the gentleness within each tiny leaf
that absorbs the tears dripping down.

and so we finally meet again.
despite the ages that have passed
i still remember your voice
and its mirthful tones
telling me you wished to be reborn
as none other than moss
on the forest floor.

The old man sits by the ocean, watches the waves crest.  Gnarled hands
caress a wooden flute.  He brings it to his lips cracked with age, plays
notes with consequence.

He hears no more.  He feels only the air whistling out, the vibrations
in his fingers that substitute for the sublime he once knew.  
It is a paler form of knowledge.  And so he resolves to teach,
to animate, to find eyes for unseen light.

He knows ripples, the movement of wind and water,
the shivering of cold and pleasure and
of someone moved — no, displaced, by sound.

He draws a crowd.  Lifegivers, he thinks, fertile minds
ripe for the planting.  And no two flowers that bloom
are the same.  He plays a song
whose notes spread as dandelion seed does —
flown, twirling, through the medium of air —
then taking root through the ears,
pushing into crevices,
unfurling green buds.

volte face
pivot away from
the old place
where ***** mirrors
accentuate
cracks in the skin;
too wide or
too thin.

hymns from a chasm
that sits in between
they


and


them.

without turning away
dreams (yours and ours)
will fall limper,
whimper,
simmer under hot sun
as they're hung from the ramparts
gnarled and ragged
like the crest of a defeated army

volte face
pivot away from
the dead space
where bruised silences
accentuated
the cracks in your brain;
too much in
not enough sane.

and you will write a million """Poems"""
and they will be about as useful
as a blind man's reading glasses.

Oh, my Medusa
That piercing, seductive stare
Gets me so rock hard.

"braullw nevae falls"
That's 'braille never fails',
Spelled by a blind man.

Matsuo Basho
Turns in his grave: first, five times
then seven, then five.

The dankest of ****
Floats slowly into my lungs
Oh wait...Asbestos.

hahaha ye boiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
yeyeyeyeye ye boiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
hehe wyd

I hear you in the silence of another lunar cycle
       your predatory stare scares me to death
  the intimacy we share writes like
the history of a "Divine One"
    the Michelangelo of modern times
you promised me healing as you
           studied me intently
  eyes filled
a storm drain overflowing with rain
  your gaze no longer reflected
        in the glass
   you are now stood by

  at just thirteen you held my soul
  on rose pillows of chiffon fabric
you were more than just the oxygen I breathed
    you were the beauty I saw in
    every dark haunting thought
my mother told me that my
    primal wishes were the most childish
  fantasies she had ever heard
a pure example of human interaction
                 I yet again
       misunderstood.

© Sia Jane

The spider, dropping down from twig,
Unfolds a plan of her devising,
A thin premeditated rig
To use in rising.

And all that journey down through space,
In cool descent and loyal hearted,
She spins a ladder to the place
From where she started.

Thus I, gone forth as spiders do
In spider's web a truth discerning,
Attach one silken thread to you
For my returning.