The space between the Mallee roots
is where the fire breathes in the grate
it slowly stirs and shifts
and shows it is alive
and full of nothing more
than its smoky-scented heat
and blood-red glowing coals.

© M.L. Emmett

It's like a catalyst
Where I'm running out of words
Because the words I can't say
Aren't there
It's the
Feeling old while I'm drinking coffee
Feeling young absorbed into a book

Almost feeling me when I
Reach that space
In between

There's a moment staring at the tv
Excited because someone got kissed
Seconds when I write a sentence
Knowing it's nonsense
But there's a pause
And falling to one side
(My back acting up)
(Giggling while I run)

Searching for a domestic peace
Being pushed to the side
Searching for

Growing up
Maybe

It's hard

Tensions that shouldn't exist
Tensions that aren't seen by anyone else
Pulling away in an effort to walk the line
Searching for a balance
In between the tension

It feels like a catalyst

When I view a sunset,
A burning bright red sunset,
or look upon the horizon
between the land and water,
I am reminded of Ancestors’ stories
of the betwixt and the between.
Neither one or the other.
Not this one, nor that one,
But the place in between.

The Betwixt and the between two different worlds
Betwixt and between waking and sleeping.
Betwixt and between dusk and dawn.
Betwixt and between the upper and lower.
Betwixt and between Heaven and hell.
A place of intrigue, mystery and wonder
If you dare
So much as to take a peek.
But it’s beyond most people’s imaginations
To ever go as far as
The betwixt and the between

Between life and death, there is only a tiny thread.

Between sorrow and happiness, there is only a door.

In between love and hatred, there is only a gap.

That remembered is not of present, true the fact.
Self in name, but person no more, a note is played and heard intact.
Resonation fades through fault or purpose, and plucked again a new key to nurture, sound or noise, felt or heard, possibility given but no outcome occurred, perhaps another.
Pick and focus on what comes to mind, and what was listened for can be pure to find, for sequence in health the song will give, a symphony of life in truth herewith.

the thin line between poet and:


******* artist
is so thin,
it is almost,

almost,

invisible.

oscillating between extremes

the seesaw tilts, slamming the body into hurtful,
no genteel daisy picking, nope, love me, love me not,
the mind playing warped ideologies, you, tossed about

I want her; all men do; the rapture is coming, her eyes,
preach to the converted and the soon-to-be; join her,
her semi-colon smile, represents a hell of near-completion!

discourse, pleadings, all for naught, she, teacher/grader,
A or F, frenzied thrown to the ground, her lips say oops,
but we know, a throwing intentional, a mastery of reminder!

barbs of  batting eyelids, whipping tongue tips reveal daggers,
woe is me, whoa I plead, there is no mercies extant, instead, we
oscillate up and down, tween extremes, I need her, can’t have her!

I hate her! and myself, for myself, I love her so, my hate for her is less
than our mutual mocking of me...

————

we oscillate between extremes, at least, we are together...