yellow spurting budding
forsythia and finches fly home
chirup chireep chirup, chirup chireep
and golden girls gallop
across paths and grassy places
retrieving jumping frolicking
summer is here
chirup chireep chirup, chirup chireep
at nighttime
silent night no more
cicadas come home again
and night brings no loneliness
chirup chireep chirup, chirup chireep
it's
summer
and
the
sparrow sings
cicadas harmonize
finches flirt feeding
and
yellow spurts budding
The thought of love at first sight
Most believe to be false
The longing one feels
The passion in their hearts
Unbearable pain
From loss of their presence
Churning and tugging
Their heartstrings entwine
Undeniable to the heart
Naked to the eye
We pull ourselves along
Hoping for the thought
Of gazing in ones eyes
As they casually walk by
The heart flutters and aches
For their tender embrace
She used to write in darkness
Darkness which makes
the stars
Shine so bright
☆☆☆
Years passed by
In a distant horizon
A new dawn came
Painted forgotten dreams
with the blazing sun
on the golden Earth
She spoke words of
splendor beauty until
Words were silent &
Days turned so blue
She sang last
When
Breathing-Canvas spoke louder
than the thoughts on papers
I'm ready to leave here.
Her eyes, her mouth, her breath,
they despise me.
They loathe me.
Ready for exile,
I will be pushed from June
and into the arms of July.
I will lay there
until I suffocate,
spores taking over my body,
the ocean of the sighing
forest floor choking me,
waiting in wretched harmony.
I'll be dreaming of yesterday
as the claws of tomorrow
tear my body to pieces.
Grabbing my shades of yellow,
I used to paint the sun,
that peeped up from low valleys
when the day had just begun.
Then I took all hues of blue,
and filled them in the sky
where a lonely tree would stand,
and the birds would sing and fly.
The greens I saved for grasses,
and the reds were for the flowers,
But now in place of all these things,
now stand sky reaching towers.
And I thought I couldn't paint,
for I grew up and lost my art,
but I know my brush still aches,
for the colors dear to my heart.
So bring me blues skies if you can,
and I'll paint from sun to ground.
But the truth is that I cannot paint,
because my colors can't be found.
She was my kind of hopeless
Eyes tired...
No, eyes exhausted
Far past the help of coffee
Exhausted from a world bitter and cold
Exhausted from the place she's forced to call home
I don't think her hair had seen a brush in a while
It was professionally done by a pillow
A pillow with years of experience
Still, when she looked my way, I couldn't help but look away
Wish I didn't
Cause she was my kind of hopeless.
I want you to understand how I feel
I want you to understand why I am the way I am
I want you to realize what you've done to me,
that when I see your face and hear your name, I lose myself completely...
I have tried many ways to think of her but
Astronomy was the only way I could write on.
I've tried to comfort her out of despair, but
I couldn't find the words to take her out of pain.
When I heard he made her cry,
I wanted to take the pain out of her,
put them into his face and my fists as
I hit him into the oblivion space we know space to be, and
him see the stars closer than any telescope had seen.
I wouldn't mind being in pain for a little while so
the sun could dry her tears,
she was trying so hard to hide.
Would it be so terrible for me to remind her
how the stars bowed in her presence?
Would It be so terrible for me to show her
nobody sees the stars
and the beauty of night anymore
because they are afraid of her
and the beauty she brings?
I too scared to ask if she knows
how you left her after class
to scream at the universe for
making her believe
she was anything less,
than the closest thing to perfection
the universe has to offer. Does she
know how you've collected books of
nebulas in your heads that show when
she decides to laugh? Does she know
you how hard this is for you, to sit here
and smile and joke like your heart
doesn't break with hers as you see her
in a pain deeper than imaginable and you
know it. It spans across all universes and expands
further than your love of poetry and your longing to
hug her and tell her it's going to be okay, but
you know that's not true,
and you can never make that true.
So you sit here,
and write a love poem never to be read,
because that means something would die inside you
or her
if you shared how much of the universe you could give to her
how much of the universe
and the stars
and the planets
and the comets
and meteors
you could shower her with
if she knew how beautiful she was....
I am zoned out of a world I thought once to be beautiful because of its simplicities and no amount of complexity could stray my eye away from that simple red rose with budding thorns; and blossoming rays of sunlight streaming across deserts and mountain tops patched in snow; melting away into streams and rivers of rapidly coursing veins down the banks, through trees and massive forests; cutting through hatch and ragged rocks like canyons – beautiful depths and ridges flowing through Utah, Colorado, Arizona; like natural springs and the crisp bite of cold in the Swiss Alps; like the cliffs of Eastbourne overlooking the sea and the lighthouse that protects the coast from crashing ships.
I am zoned out in a world of man-made beauties. The castles of Europe standing tall and prideful with haunting appeal, centuries old; cities carved into desert rocks in the Middle East; the tall pillars of competition and victories in the cities of the United States; even the homes built out of vanity and wealth – beautiful; the carved rocks of ancient civilization in Egypt and their momentous tombs –pyramids, beacons of pride and dignity and leadership; the stairways to heavens unseen in the deep forests of forgotten lands; the plains and their majestic animals disappearing in Africa; the oceans swimming with all sorts of life we’ve yet to uncover, and yet being poisoned by us – those so eager to dominate it.
So, you see, I am zoned out. I have no time for politics, diplomats, parliaments, aristocratic favors and what-have-you. I am zoned out in a world of simplicities forgotten by all but those who remember they’re there; those that explore; those that triumph in a world that is no longer seen as precious anymore. I am zoned out, I am realistic, and I am beginning to realize just how precious a disintegrating world is to a civilization that is oblivious of it.