paulSN

You remember..
  and you know it

you were  on
the swing
  and I walked up to you

You were too young then—
not yet quite in high school
and I was not yet old enough
  to drive

  but old enough to know better

Still.. I needed you to know
so I walked up to the swing—
the one at the park- on
your way to school

and I stopped you  mid swing
and I gazed into your eyes
by grabbing the only thing
that made your swing,  swing--

          the  c h a i n s.

  They bring  you forward
  as you keep trying
but the they're fastened  too
  tight--

       to keep you from flying..


          the very thing
       you have always wanted to do

Selmhem Naise

Keep writing
about the
indescribable
because your way of
describing it
is a description all its own.

In the magic of your words
you are able to somehow make
the intangible almost feel
as though it can become tangible.
(obtainable)

And for myself-- It takes all
I have to keep from being
drawn-in too deeply into
your words. I do best
by letting the words
all but destroy me; so
that there's not a lot left of me
(my-destructive side)  to
bring itself to the table.

The destruction I feel-  there's
an immediate tearing down of
    despair

and an instantaneous building up
of hope and celebration--

    the true  deeper side of me
    absolutely digs that ****.
Ya true story.

Stephan W

I have seen you there,
standing alone, along the shoreline
    --if you only knew--
Your thoughts- a poetic buffering,
spoken out- onto weathered paper,
through trembling hands;  words
let in to the ocean wind--
the dreams of your heart, the needs,
ah, yes.. the deep needs of your heart...

    among these rocks,
    you are always alone.
    ~

At the tip of your fingers-- the small ridges;
fragmental, yet monumental imprints, etched
in to you, the moment your spirit entered
your temple. They tell the world of your story:
through fine, texture-perception, you feel it--
your trembling fingers grip the pen, expressing,
conveying your truth into a world that does not
hear.. a shallowing, that deafens..

    You glance at your fingertips--
    to assure, you're really there
    ~ ~

(The sea has picked up a bit, now
the waves, crashing against the rocks
rocks, that still won't hear..)

And here also, outlined
within the warm beat of the
human heart,
there is a sound that can be heard--
one similar to the aliveness
of the crashing waves.
Place your fingertips against those
that are real-
the sound blends-in perfectly
with the sea
as the uniqueness of imprinted ridge,
moves up against that of the other--
contrasting, here.. fitting together
perfectly, there..

    Scream, "I am!" to the sea; and see, love..
    scream it out, and see.
    ~ ~ ~

I am everywhere near you-- encouraging,
celebrating.. at times, weeping;  hands
outstretched, the uniqueness of my
own finger prints, longing
Along this shoreline, I have watched you
for an eternity, hoping
that you might somehow take it all, in.
Clouds beckon, asking again for the
earth's moisture

      and I respond,  e v ap o r a t i ng.

      ~ ~ ~ ~

Your small, beautiful feet, now
all pigeon-toed- now, standing
at the water's edge; as the
rain cloud gives up its prize
just beyond the breakers--

    (my imprint remains,
    but I am of the sea now..)

    Wade into me, love
    that I may wrap myself around you:
    Along this shoreline,
    may you never be alone again.

paulSN

Is it asking  too much
to want to hide away  safely?
I never should have met you

yet, I have been  looking
for you all of my life--

  unwillingly.

You are in me now
so deep;  our spirit's gears  perfectly
synced- each gear a pre-honed..
  precision fit--
                even when we clash

                Especially-  when we clash;
                and somewhere,
                in the depths of  my love

                I hate you for that

                
      In a broken world...
      dreams were  n e v e r  meant
      to come true.

      I think I read that  somewhere,
      or maybe someone told me..

      maybe

    
              or something.

Stephan W

My beauty is resisting the worldly pull-- to
slip into lethargic un-consciousness,
in order to no longer feel the anxiety
brought about by non-response to the
primal-question's asking,

But instead is choosing to feel it all-- and in
doing so- it, is costing her everything.
Everything.
She is showing us all what true courage is about,
suffering for the greater good:
for that which is within herself
for her children
for all womankind-- and therefore, for all of man-kind also.
She is the firstfruits of the Universe's
deepest dream; that of a full restoration,
allowing herself to be cut-open, internal parts, rearranged,
heart regenerated, rebuilt through love's magical ways
her mind, being renewed through understanding,
repetition of love's true ways, washing it clean
from the shame unfairly pressed upon her
by the broken, fallen love of man

She is the new Eve-- this beautiful-one,
free from the need to re-create what love is--
she is open, believing.. her beautiful receptors-
perfectly aligned with the harmonic-tones
emanating from the garden, as she walks.

And I.. Adam, love her deeply.
There is an ache with in my side-- a reminder
of my consent of its removal
so that I would no longer have to be so alone in all this magic
and as I struggle, taking in all that is beautiful about her,
I see now that she was not produced from me,
the man

But that I was the oyster,
and she, the beautiful pearl--
the one beyond all price,
the shimmering diamond-- formed,
within this lovestrong lump of coal;

over millions, and millions of years.

I sit in awe as I watch her
she has been worth every moment
of the wait.

"What,  you just love me
and then move on..
is that what you do?"
They weren't steps away from her
they were paces

and in an instant, the arrow flew

There is a seam,  
if you are able to see
as there are terracotta dreams
from which

we were  all  meant to be freed

Broken shards  fell to the ground
and inside of every single piece

     is all of the 'hers'
     she thinks that  she needs to be

Not sure if it is the aim
or  the flight  of the arrow
that brings about the aloneness
of an unspeakable,  heart sorrow
and these.. the sufferings of hell.

     Chloe is not dead--
     because  left standing
     when all else fell
     is her spirit's core,  now glowing;

     ..no longer hidden  
     within the confines
     of her terracotta shell.

Ah, beautiful Chloe
baby, there were times..

                remember knowing?
      The water-well;
      ..its  never-ending flowing.

      Believe again in that, my beautiful

              not  the shell.
--Anything is better than this hatred.

         I'm looking forward  to
         an eternity, spent in hell.

the forming of substance 07
Stephan W

Radiance.

Within the void  are
the greatest mysteries of the universe,
as matter and anti-matter clash;
only to create a newfound energy..
un-owned, unaccountable, unconcerned--
the energy emerging from the clash negates itself
through mutual annihilation; leading to an increase
of space between what it is that is lit; and in
the accelerated rate of expansion of this space,
Illuminated/illuminating  matter takes on the risk
of being removed from participatory perception,
or better said-- to a place beyond retrieve..

and so it is also-
within the void of space that exists within us;
the galaxy-within--
ever-swinging in polarity between the gravity-pull
of illuminating/illuminated substance,
and the ever-distancing properties of
an unowned, unlit space...
dark Energy-- a repulsive force,
attempting to quantify the space between
all that truly matters--
yes.. creating space,
and therefore more room
for it to engage into its ever-increasing
chaotic activity.. quantitatively participating in
its fine art of distraction, dilution
and extortion of time
through nothing other than the negation of matter,
and therefore, the negation of potentiality--
of substance, and so also
the transmission of light.. luminosity:

      parts within the heart, lit up with
      and by the infusion of our own spirits,
      through the beautiful act of volition,

of which, the countless galaxies in the universe
exist as a type, given.. (what-if)...
if only to encourage us through amazing,
mesmerizing example--
surrounded, each.. by a circumference of support
of the dark matter of potentiality--
providing the gravity of containment,
solely in and through its belief in its own possibility,
giving way to its utter inability to deny itself to
what has become already lit,
becoming then.. not only a defining part of the galaxy,
but also a gravitational-formed hedge of protection
against the everpull-entropy of the repulsive force--
of all that is unaccountable-
in its velocity-based separation from volition.


      And, so it is with the universe,
      so, also.. the universe-within;
      Having left its glass-globe sphere,

      this spirit-centered cosmos
      now unfolds, within skin.

the forming of substance 06
Stephan W

the true nature of the beast

~
It  c h o se
to consider itself
made complete--
in its own self--  apart
from relationship,
from connection..
a p a rt  from   a n y
attachment to glory

And so,
it found itself
from with-inside itself
made complete

in its own,  utter incompleteness.

~  ~
Beings-- created for
growth- back in to into glory
were built to be
made complete
and so it roams
the face of the Earth--
looking for ways to
complete itself..
an attachment.

~  ~  ~
Life, in itself
has a built-in safeguard
hedge of protection
in every-thing on Earth.

But we,
who have undergone
severe trauma
at a young age
have had that  h e d ge
torn from us
as the  d i s m em b e r i ng
of our souls took place--
and so that which roams
searching for its
addiction--
for its attachment...
then finds.

  and then attaches

lying to itself each
time--
that it can gain
t h e   f i x
the indwelt-access-
back into perfection--
the one for it
that never-was
that never will-be--
its way back into glory.

It knows that,
so it attaches
with a vengeance.

~  ~  ~  ~

You, quisling--
only the power of
deception do
you have, ******.
You do not grieve
the loss of eternity--
because, for you-
it is unobtainable. ******
You do not feel the need
for Redemption
because, you  o n ly
know the word contempt.
And yet, wholly
unable to feel self-contempt,
you only know one action--

d e v o u r.

We will transcend
your attachment

your usury..

       your devouring--

Gnawing our bodies away from our spirits..
  a   d i s m e m b e r i ng--

making us believe
that is all we have ever known;
And making our bodies
a d d i c t ed  to you-
in whatever form
that may be
as if they were
built for nothing
but  y o u--

to prop up your own emptiness.


We will  f i l l  back up
with Love.


    And then you'll be the one
    who will be ******.
    ******

the forming of substance 05
Stephan W

"But I will not drive them (the 'inhabitants') out in a single year,
because the land would become desolate
and the wild animals too numerous for you.
Little by little I will drive them out before you;

Until you have increased enough to take
possession of the land."
~Exodus

.
Within the sphere- formless and void,
there was all but nothing to inhabit.
Existing within the eternity of the moment,
unable to retain--
it could only experience.

It could behold perfection,
but not hold on to it;

No need..
perfection was ever-present--
In full view of the sphere
and the precious spirit- encased within,
now, wrapped within a living, breathing skin-
this body- for the spirit,
and the spirit for the one body

each part of the heart-- a city in itself.

.  .
Reaching across the chasm,
there is an almost symmetry in
the layout of the cities

     but their inhabitants are unruly

and the spaces between far too great
for any kind of order to become able to
break through the chaos--
there is no longer communication
between the cities.

There is a yearning for consolidated-Sovereignty,
but the cities have long forgotten themselves-
Strewn about.. in the pain of it all,
they no longer know each other.

.  .  .
But the spirit within the body-- it remembers.
There is a gathering back into wholeness-
waiting..
and so we learn how to wait also.

Parts, and pieces-- members rebuilt-
little by little
Not too fast- take it easy;
70 years, maybe more.
Which way will it go-


There is a promised land;
waiting to be taken--

    one city at a time.

the forming of substance 04
Stephan W

"For years I’ve wanted to live
according to everyone else’s morals.
I’ve forced myself to live like everyone else,
to look like everyone else.
I said what was necessary to join together,
even when I felt separate.

And after all of this, catastrophe came.

Now I wander amid the debris,
I am lawless, torn to pieces,
alone and accepting to be so,
resigned to my singularity and to my infirmities.

And I must rebuild a truth–
after having lived all my life in a sort of lie."
~Albert Camus


~
Worlds apart,
there is a tension
an alienation--

now, strangers-
in a not so strange land

So many parts..
fighting the glow
fighting each other-

These parts, hiding--
From having to be seen- when needed,

From the pain of
having to need the other parts
who also are so unable,

From the visibility--
from having to be asked to join in-
to the process of
an integrated internal functioning;
the metabolizing of things.

From the pain of it all-
and the despondency that will come
from any attempt
         to even try.

~  ~
The spirit--
its dimly-lit distant memories
of a wholly different time

now afraid to ingrain itself
into a body- that is as of yet
wholly unable to even know itself--

Fragmented parts of the heart;
broken spirit,
a lonely longing-

There is a division
a separation
immersed in a dank mist of fear--

Parts-- nearly touching
but, so unable to see..

or even feel each other in the dark

And the greatest loneliness
becomes the one that is lived within oneself--

An unlived-living
within the broken internal-world
of fragmented parts-
now huddled into remote corners
with such large spaces in between;

parts, isolated from
other parts.

~  ~  ~
One day they will no longer be
so afraid of each other--

Even in its dimly-lit state of being,
the spirit yearns for a cohesiveness,
a wholeness--

      a re-integration of all the parts;
      a reassembling.

Until that time, everything will be partial;
dis- assembled


                  fragmented.

the forming of substance 03
Stephan W
(fallen  from grace)
~

"I have just come back from a party
where I was the life and soul.
Witticisms flowed from my lips.
Everyone laughed and admired me—
but, I left,
yes.. that dash should be as long as the radii
of the earth's orbit ———
and wanted to shoot myself."
~Soren Kierkegaard
~ ~

It is not enough...

It is never enough--
we need too much

But, here on earth
we have to make it work
so we call good-enough, "good enough"
and with gratitude, we
learn to take in what it's available to us.
But the truth behind it all remains--
the fact that we need so much;

Where is one that is complete..
and if so, complete--

compared to what?

There is a perfection- cloud-hidden
within everything that is human
The spirit within the body that carries it--
b r e a t h e s  out perfection's truth,
though- we may only experience it
in the moments between awake and asleep-

the human psyche is bent on survival--

and in a broken world, the thought of an
inherent perfection brings on too much--
our own condemnation even.
In our minds we fall too short of even the
concept of it.

Or do we?


The gravitational pull towards Muse
borderlines on that of addiction;
its stirrings touch what is primal in us--
once-inexpressible words, suddenly find expression;

And a Beethoven finds musical notes
that lead to a symphonic masterpiece.

"Words from Heaven" is not saying too much
concerning the poet, or lyricist.
"Music from Heaven" is easier to say,
when concerning a Mozart or Beethoven.
Or a Tchaikovsky.

Perfect reaching into the imperfect?

How about 'imperfect'- feeling, and then
expressing pieces of its own long-forgotten
perfection--
things experienced within the sphere-
made tangible again through the flesh,
simply in a moment of remembering..
and also that of a temporary forgetting--
of limitation.

The beauty of despair is in the heartbreak
of finding out that what is right in front of us
is never truly enough

or worse yet--
possibly even harmful to our own true needs.

What we need most is all and everything
that helps us remember--

That we came from perfection,
and were loved there first,
and now, within the imperfect-
are unable to be denied by the perfect that is
forever inherent in us--

It is completely unable to deny that
which is of its own.

If we were to never despair over what is in
front of us, we might never be compelled
to find the strength to remember-
flashes of the primal--
that of our own history, of perfection.

And if there ever were ever an evil,
or a Darkness-
it would be hell-bent on keeping us
from finding that very thing.


Sometimes.. just sometimes,  death
looks just like love.

~paulSN
(in exile, for failure to rise on the third day)

~

There is a spectrum of light
so deeply embedded into darkness,
that it is no longer discernible
as light to the human eye,

And so it is beyond the scope
of certainty; the realms that
this spectrum of light operates in.

And there is an observation point, wholly
outside the realms of human introspection;
as is there is an enduring nature of
the spectrum of light  that transcends
even the fire of judgement;

(in the simple fact that it will remain
after all else   is burned off);

Yet, until that day comes,
it will remain suspended; in
an almost uneasy uncertainty--

even  of its own salvation.

Yes, it is a light that transcends it all, yet
being no longer discernible
as light, to the human eye,  

it  is subject to human judgement.

I have seen those familiar with that
spectrum.. and with things, real.
I am overwhelmed with sadness

   --wondering how very lonely they each must be.
         I hope to get to know more of them someday.


And, as for their spectrum of light--
   I would trust it with all of who  it is
        that I am.

the forming of substance 02
Stephan W
(fallen, from grace)
~

It is with the finest of graces  that
lips were seared into a silent forgetting;

    the burning coal was a gift--

The newly-born cries,
but with a long lost forgetting.
What it witnessed from within the sphere--
what it saw, no longer a menace in its perfection

And so, trust and hope
enter into the young child's world-
not as an unnatural occurrence
or that of chance,

but as a natural attachment into the primal,
residual imprint left on the spirit;  pre-birth--

That of perfection--
needs met before they were ever expressed..
before they were even felt--
The spirit-- wholly encased in being Loved,
in being fully known.

Hope and trust, a gradual remembering
of that perfection- an aligning into what is
already imprinted into the DNA of the spirit,
(when attached to and within a body of skin)--

    by being given a chance..
                        just a chance.
~ ~

Warmth, and kindness
is Love's re-lighting of the candle--
flickering dimly at first, but- if not abused,
always received-
much like one would receive an old friend.

The hope and trust of a child
is Love's way of introducing Magic into the world-
Through the spirit's own remembering  of
its own primal instinct--

That, of perfection;   fully loved..
within the  presence, of absolute perfection.

the forming of substance
Stephan W
(stepped out to get some air, and never came back..)


It presses its face
against the inside of the glass-like globe,
It is vaporous, unformed; globule. It can
experience the moment.. but, formless--
it is unable to hold onto the knowledge
of that experience.
It is  k n o wn  by Glory-- referred to as; being
~
There is laughter in the newborn baby's sleep..
dreams- present-moment flashes--
of funnyface smears, left there-
on the outside of the globe by the angels;
Left only to a startled jump, and then tears--
the initial shock.. the aloneness of being born-
into the imperfect world of potentiality,
and into the new and as of yet unfamiliar feeling
of unmet needs.
The glass encased Perfection gives way into
the only true access into love--
found only in the movement towards volition,
as the crystalline-like glass
that once encased the spirit
is now traded for skin.
And so that which once experienced Glory
from within the protection of the glass sphere
now enters into the world of participation--
first, though- as an infant..
wholly dependent on those
who (hopefully) will give
who will nurture.
~ ~
Perfection gives way to incompleteness
made perfect again only through love--
Touch brings love right up to to the skin,
baby takes it in.. unconditionally,
yet, in a way
still pre- volitional-ly--
It is outside the globe, now-
and spirit is participating in its own needs;
the little baby cries.. no longer 'complete'
and protected within the sphere
Now wholly dependent on love and care-
from the outside.. taken in, solely
through the repetition of warmth
and the primal longing for its own gift--
that of volition.

Yes..
a small baby has now become
a little higher than the angels.

M Vogel
(et inpaenitens boheme, infidele)

When your worst horrors have come to pass
     and you did not die
and sleep  is actually a comfort,  
instead of a curse
Because dream-themes are no longer hauntings
but  instead,  flow in and out of consciousness
as random acts of grace
And the death that should be coming

becomes, instead
a replenishment of living cells--
a surprisingly-unexpected regeneration,  
this bracing for a Fall that never comes.

Winter is coming,

and this death, has a warmth
that will carry me through
And though the ground will be frozen soon,
there will be no death this year
above the frost line

But below,  in what is still warm
there will be a death,  that brings life--
encased in fear, yet floating within the midst
of a subterranean stream..  an ocean, of peace

Winter's chill is coming;  
there is a strange feeling in me
that tells me, I am ready.

A funny thing about forever..
--it never, ever ends..

and so   neither will we.

The spirit is free from
all of this-- it will  always
remain lit..

only the flesh goes dark  
as we  leave  its earth-laden husk, behind..

But the core-heart of Love's true ache  will always,
always Remain.

A skyrocket across the horizons,
she is carrying her pain with her
everywhere she goes..

but my beautiful is owning it
and therefore, suffering  into the real..
into true substance, formed.

Within the realms,  
the entities know this--
those hellbent on harm,  they shudder
while those for the good

oh, how they celebrate.

Sweet Jane us truly kickin'
as the Clock of Love, keeps tickin'--
tapping out its sweet message
in quarter tones, so pure.

The swing of this little wild-one
throughout the whole universe
will bear the most meaningful,
of weight..

The beautiful girl, really  c a n  hit--

     oh man,  
     that is for sure.

~M Vogel
asleep  at the wheel

A smoothe sail, set
a body of water, deep
brings about the greatest need
for trust

And who are you to me
as we float?
And I, to myself  whether under full sail
or land-locked,
the waves.. as they roll, will not scuttle
whether  within a depth, beyond fathom
or a curbside built dam, a child-made puddle

there is nothing that can pull, down
but the weight  of my own, bitter keel
and there's nothing in the ocean, lower
than the way, my own actions
can so often,  make me feel
In this ocean, floating
there is a world of un-doing

                            and re doing

The water, being a conduit
pulling from me, nautical miles
of the, unforgiven--
an ocean of changing emotions
under late-evening skies of sometimes, torrent
pulling me deeper into the need   to contain
the containment,  of the need

The dark skies, are where I go
within  the allowance of the need, to become freed
of all  of these obligatory-vestments.
This ocean, so deep--
the one  inside of me

carrying me away  

to a place called, containment.

One fine, postdiluvian day,
God glanced down on Noah and crew,  midfloat..



((ding)) "NOAH.."

                        
                          ­  "Hmm..? what is that?


((ding)) "NOAH.."



                            "Oh, ****.. its the boss.. everyone, ****** chill"



((ding)) "NOAH.."


                               "yes Lord..?"



Noah, now concerning being fruitful and.. uh..  whatever
you know-- lala,  and stuff.."


                                 "Ya..?"


"Ya yourself, Noah.
Hast thou considered the howler monkey..?
That wild-assed little pair going at it up there in the crowsnest
are tantric AF."



                                 "Dude.. you should bless those cute, hairy
                                   little love-machines with the most *******-sounding
                                   lovehowl on the planet.."




****.. I wish I was the one who thought of that..  
    :(

Aw ****,  another apology
for what it is she hasn't done
there's a coat,  wore
a done, done--

one,  never to be undone

And she'll wear it, yet can't share-it
but with something like this
it can't be helped
but, to share it

It is every where.

They say they care
so why in the ****  are you  pulling
out all your hair.
Maybe they just don't care
about anything
but what it is  you'll wear

so they don't have to.

~M Vogel
(sequestered from the status quo)  


Sitting here in front of this screen
my Artist Peppino, across my thigh--
[the greater (for the time being)
giving way to the lesser]

One day, I will be able to breathe life
in to your strings, my love..
the way I do words, on to paper

And on that fine, glorious day
I will no longer need these cheese-****
stupid ******* online poetry sites
to bring forth the music of my soul

Nor will I  continually  need to wade through
this never-ending barrage of classic  hiders
and their bastardization-like misuse of poetry~
in order to hide behind the very words
that should be  given the permission  to make them
become, truly known.

There is no alone-ness within the magnificent  resonations

of the perfectly plucked string
of the most perfect,  of guitars


     Like this one, sitting  right here  
                                             in my lap.

And from the abyss
of an un-owned, nothingness
rises up the majestic image--
supremely crafted,   from
well-smithed words;

this something..
formed  out of nothing--

this counterfeit  substance
this ancient, hide

this cowardly, self-formed answer
to the Universe's primal core question
this childish refusal to grow up..
to own up,
and face the music

This fooling of the whole world..
this glory  of the moment..

and then, one final  pirouette,
before your unavoidable death-scream
at that final  moment of truth..


Ah truth, baby.. what a concept.

Lost  into the wonder of it all:
The Realms, in their entirety
and every single one of the elements

hold, fast..  in their deeply-syncronized
                                 longing,  for the shift.

Watch her now-- appear out of nowhere..
feel her breathing in,  deeply
all that encompasses  the word,  hope

My heart, races
I stumble around, alot..
trying not to dishevel
my small corner of the Universe--

The one she dances in and out of
so beautifully...
as if a whim, on the wind

Shifting- everything, within me
that forgot
what it felt like,  to believe
That forgot

what it truly means to breathe..

Your beautiful heart's glow is so often hidden behind the clouds of stubborness--  your lack of ownership within pretty much everything that is about who it is that you truly are. You ride.. skirting on the edges, never truly committing to much of anything that is inside of you.. putting pieces of yourself out there, yet never truly taking ownership of much of anything that truly is of you. You may feel things in their fullness that is of you within certain, contained moments, but the glow of those glimpses into your own self is far too often short-lived-- within something in you that almost completely washes it all away..

The nearly predictible pendulum-swing now so far the other way, almost completely denying those very real moments of connectedness and inner clarity within you..

And I am not one to want to live and operate between the swing's extremes, as it is there at that place that you expect others to pick up all of these un-owned pieces for you, and it is there also at that place that you have a whole string of men-- now.. and in your past, who all tumble and orbit in your wake in their desire to put together for you things that were never theirs to put together..

They were always things for you to take ownership of and become accountable for, but you will have no part of that, and so here you now float within all of your unaccountability, and will continue to float- as long you continue in your choice to not fully engage within yourself.
.. And you go on and say that I do not care about your heart, but you do not own much of anything that is about that amazing heart that is within you,
so how would you even know?

You don't..  but even if you did,
it would all but become buried once again within all that is unowned within you.

Loving in to a system like that, is not a good stewardship of one's ability to love.. so if there is some remote form of goodbye embedded within these nearly indiscernible conveyances..
then I thank you in advance for its  gracious release. You are not getting any younger, my beautiful.. one day this beauty-laden, cloud to cloud game of hide and seek is no longer going to work quite so well

You are screaming at me and I'm in tears
your face peeled back
in deep contempt of my need
I am just a little boy and my head hurts and it
is a sin to hope that my aspirin could be cut

because I can't swallow the pills and they get
stuck in my throat, burning. My head is
spinning

and I'm falling down, a shaken baby
syndrome..
black around my eyes--
which one of you shook me?
Who did this to me, I'm just a little boy
peaceful in heart,
yet horror stricken; and the anger builds
Unexpressed words defining injustice, are
swallowed

once again, deeper:    evil excels in its clothing
a child in shame, within the denial of its own wrongdoing.
Years of hard work, dismantle the shame..
remove condemnation's heavy, mantle;
but this rage.. this deeply embedded injustice-scream?

A lifetime has not enough years to  undo
what the locusts have eaten

And I am only half of it...
a ***** in my armor, and I fall
A cheap shot, my hands now empty
the fire of my temple, now dust..

Lay me there, beside her--
she, that tore me down, she who I now
forgive
a beautiful boy, a broken son
in death, makes his peace with mom
his burial place, once again
back, in her arms

This is the home I choose
I forgive you, Momma, be my resting-place now,
my home--

my anger, my hatred.. contempt
purged, by cremation's holy fire
all glory and honor,  now yours

as the once-broken little boy
curls up safely, in your arms
Your beautiful son has returned,
back home:

     God.. and a mother's love,
                             rest his soul.

And it was at that time.. in group..
when I realized that I had attained
enough healing, and could now enter
back into the normal   every day, world
that I looked back at her..
she.. who I had struggled alongside in
the trenches with for over two years
now-- each of us struggling just to hold
on.. in a crazy, ****** up world, that
just did not care

Yet still, she struggled to hold on to
who she was-- her spirit, coming and
going at will, as she attempted to deal
with the depths of her trauma..
her beautiful blue eyes, turning to dull
grey in those Ichabod-like moments,
when there was nothing left,  

but complete emptiness.

And as I announced that I was leaving
the group, she gasped..  I saw those
beautiful blues  go grey-- her small
hands, reaching for me..
her once, cherub-like face, now ashen
and tear soaked,  quietly pleading..

and it was at that moment, that I sat
back down-- putting back on once
again, death's skin.. all past dreams of
normalcy, fading away in to her grey..

the color, blue.. the most beautiful
thing I have ever seen..

(note~ This is a rather lengthy story about trauma and brokenness..)

I have a patch of skin on the back of my left hand, indiscernible to the
human eye as being any different than any other part of my skin.
It is my heart of hearts.

Five days a week I am not with my little ones.. there is a place I go.
A broken one awaits me there; Unknowingly. On 'day one' of my
non daddy-time, I go where the longing of my heart leads me.
When I am not with them.

There is a vertical shaft-- hidden in the tumbleweeds at the base of the
mountain's foothills that leads down beneath the surface. There are
rusted rebar steps in the shape of hoops, embedded into the hardened dirt
and rock of the shaft that gives me access to what lies down below.
With each ten steps, the shaft becomes noticeably darker. After thirty
steps, there becomes a pungent smell in the air that begins to cover my
skin, and a dank mist that enters my lungs and begins to coat the
inside of my skin. As I continue to descend down-- all becomes covered--
everything.. but the 4 inch square patch on my left hand.

There is a foul 'burning' in the permeating mist that wants to place a
film over my eyes and cause them to water, but as I descend I grow a
new pair of eyes over the top of my old ones, and though it is nearly
pitch black now and the pungency completely fills the air;
I can see.
Faintly, but I can see.

Directly at the bottom of the shaft is a room barely lit by what little
light has made it down the shaft through the mold and musty mist.
I get a strong sense that this room is the antechamber. Dirt and rock
line the walls as if they had been there since the ancient days. There is
also a black mold and an unavoidable saturation of the wall. There are
two doors in the wall, but I sense that both lead to the same room, so I
take the door on the right and slowly enter into a windowless and
nearly pitch black room-- old and partially torn up asbestos-tar tiled
floor-- filthy ***** with strewn about rags and used up things. The
pungent mist would be completely overwhelming had I not already
been fully permeated in it and received the new set of eyes in order to
be protected from its permeation and also to be able to see through the
darkness and wet, fine dust that floats throughout the air.

On the walls, there is a saturation to such a degree that it almost moves,
and there is a permeation of mold throughout. Mold on the walls, floor,
ceiling-- everything permeated in the mold.. and whatever it is that has
saturated everything. I have now entered so far into the room that all I
can see is shadows.  It has become that dark.
There is a sense of movement.
It is large-- behemoth even, methodically slow in it's self caught-up world.
It is perpetrator. Abuser-- And it only knows one thing--
destruction of anything of life for its own gain.  It cannot see me
because I am permeated in the foulness of its own perpetual emission--
The walls.. they are *** soaked. The air is filled with an ever-evaporating
mist of pungency. The only life form attached to it is mold, a fungus
which covers every square inch of floor, wall and ceiling.
I am not afraid, because I know that what I want is in the room also--
and I know that the only thing perpetrator can see is what hasn't been
permeated by the filth-- and so as I move.. remembering to place my
right hand over the back side of my left--
covering the only part of me that is not his.

Protected by the fact that I have become permeated in and with the
outcome of his abusing ways, I am hidden from all that he is,
as long as I keep that part of me covered.
I begin to move slowly around the room knowing that I cannot be seen,
but needing also to make not an ounce of sound. I am looking-- searching.
In the corner is a small discarded pile of ***** rags, and there my
eyes focus as I slowly move towards it. Perpetrator has begun to
shuffle off towards another smaller room that I have just begun to
become aware of. I head towards the small pile of rags.
I can feel him-- someone else in the room. The one I came for.

I move towards the rags on the floor there in the corner of the room
and I can see him-- just a part of his hand sticking out from underneath
the pile of rags; he is face down. All my focus is on him now, as I kneel
down next to him and sit alongside him-- pulling the rags off of his
head, revealing the side of his face. He is face down with eyes closed,
barely breathing-- barely a pulse.. only kept alive by the perpetrator to
serve his purpose. I am with him now and his brokenness takes over
me. I cannot touch him with any part of the permeated filth.

I reach out with the unaffected four inches of skin on the back side of my
hand, and touch it to his face. There's a slight movement, but he
remains face down. He's just a little boy, but because of the horrors
he was subjected to, I knew not to try to move him--
the trauma of just the slightest movement would **** him.
And if I were to look directly into his eyes, the light I had brought into
his broken, dark world, would have burned the back of his retinas and
ended what little pulse and breathing he had remaining. This is where I
want to be, even if the only thing that I can do just let him feel the
warmth and cleanness of my skin through the back of my hand against
his face.

I feel him quietly breathing it in.
He never opens his eyes-
face down still-- pain.
It takes all the energy he has;
just to survive.. to breathe.

And outside of the warmth of my hand, I know
that he may never again have the chance
to see the light of day--
he is broken, abandoned.

This is where I want to be.. but to be near the broken-one of my heart, I
have had to wear the 'full outcome' of perpetrator, and know full well
through what I have learned when young that I'm putting myself at risk--
of forever being banished to hell for what I have 'chosen to wear'.
I will stay with the broken one wherever that may be. This is where
my heart is most at home (the times I'm not with my little ones).
If heaven doesn't want to let me.. or the broken one in,
then I don't want to be there.
I will stay here with him, and if hell is his final resting place..
then it will be mine also--
perpetrator cannot see me here-- destructor will not see me there,
and I will sit with broken-one forever.

But for now I must return at the end of the five days-- climbing once
again back up the shaft and receiving the washing that happens once
daily life sees the four inch patch-- I am clean again in order to play
with and love my little ones.. holding them and protecting them from
the daylight-perpetrators as best as I can.. and as I love them and look into
them, I look into the broken one also. He is with me in my heart even
then. I will be with him again soon and also once again with my little ones.
    I am both.
They will grow up and become responsible loving adults with children
of their own. Broken one will always remain young and broken.
I will remain with him forever--come hell or high water.
He is me.. and every broken-one who has ever had to suffer alone.
It is with the broken ones that I will always want to be.

I live within the four square inches of my skin.

From the sodden, trundled forest floor the trees reached higher
than he ever imagined possible-- pine needles from the conif,
blending in  perfectly with those, broadleaf.. a strange, almost
absurd-feeling; symmetry- in a world, nothing more than
cluttered and confused--
           in the eyes of a small-one, now subject..

And now as a grown man,
I return to the disenchanted forest..
       in order to bring enchantment.
At the edge of the rustic, one-room
cabin, I pause..
choosing to peer in, rather than enter--
my world-hardened hands,  now pressed against
cracked window glass--

opaque, but still..

           I can see..

Inside the small room is as if a cosmo to itself-- there is a large
ring of dark water, surrounding what
seems to me to be a small island,
     yet still, I can feel her..  
           sense her glow..
And magnificent   within
her solitude and silence..
she is strong,
and firm-- her war-torn heart, gathered and secure..
all boundaries, seemingly intact--
        but there is a teeming..
        a never-ending movement
        of some form of life-

..in what I had once thought a ring of dark water,
but can now see as if some kind of a fear-hewn moat..
and the movement within, none other than that
           of those trying to reach her.

She is the prize,
pulled away from the threat of harm
       by her intricately created world.

And there is this black movement above her..    what is that?  
Moving in rhythmic synchronization..
             like a flock of starlings maybe..
The wings that give them flight, are bat-like and sharp..
and only varying sections at a time  of the flock's movement
alight on to her..
as other ones take flight and rejoin the ever-moving,
          ever-shifting flock's shape..

..and as each changing of the guard takes place,
the inhabitants of the moat change color--  

the light, now reflecting through the small window
and bringing a matching glow to my arm..

And though I remain unaffected by the color of light,
I see the whole nature of the moat, conform to each color's change..

And it is then that I realize
that the birds  are the pieces of her fragmented heart,
and the changing colors,  her perceived reality..
based on whatever portions of her heart are inside of her
at any given time.

The moat provides the distance,
yet one without its inhabitants even knowing
they are in it--

changing color in order to fit in to
              her ever-changing reality.


I will never enter into the moat..
and the color change is hers, not mine.
I am more distant to her now
than even those, of the moat..
and my refusal to change color
will always be a point of contention--
but for her, I am the only one who sees,
I am the only one who knows

about the island, the starlings.. the moat.

She loves me so much,
she hates me.

My prayer for her is that one day,
that whole flock of starlings will alight on to her..
      and never, ever leave.

Maybe on that day also, her moat filled with
Mona Lisas and Madhatters,  will finally, dry up..

and that her color perception  
will become  the colors that truly are,
            rather than those, of her ever-changing, shift


A disenchanted forest--  enchanted, once again.

A plunge,    into the wonder of it all
eyes wide open
(and then, shut again)
there is a survival  that thrives
but, only in seclusion.
Deception and evil,
and every form of illusion

(things, once clear..   made opaque
                      within the confusion)

         can exist  only here on earth
                  Of that  cold hard truth

                     there can be  no other
             logical  form of conclusion.