The key you´re holding
in your precious hand,
it will let you in

only when

you´re capable
to make me feel
like I can love

again.

the idea that this is as

the webs towing spiders in the winds, winding
listfully
on circuits long ago distorted with mountains

and canyons,
effecting whorls and currents forcing a way around a mountain
for the mists that once watered the flatter feeling
vessel we were alive upon, in books

spaceship earth one. I in roman tongue,

but nothing lasts forever,
everything else changes,

constantly,

be still.
be

---
realms with in reasons,

uni-verse-ity-ifity agregaton setting liquified stone,
some

how (wise) wegsheid sehen Sie veer left

OOPs loops, left from when this was a decide point.

FYI, it was my idea to go through the wall,

I was the one who went through,
not you,

I came out the front door, not you,

but you didn't run, you were my friend,

in this projection of a decider point, we
passed

adaptively, as if augmented with a

allyes promise, ala all ye, all ye, outs in free... message from base

aye, I A-ok a intuitive influencee feeling tugging,

not pushing, gentle pull, slow
and steady

spider woman, grace for grace. let flow this thread
in ever

let it tangle with the wind,
we hold in our fists,

and the thief looses owning his good for use, the joker lifts off,

with a laugh, doing good,
like medicine,
loosed when one hand claps,

without the other knowing,
science-wise.

The girl in the dream will never be seen
An immovable force hides my true self away
Sitting beside her, alone and astray

Our eyes meet, the curtains close
Words from the head jumble into an
inaudible breath
Shadow self weeps not feeling complete

I'm for her if she is for me
No outlet, pathway or key
Just ask her aloud if she's free?
Nothing flows out as I try to connect
but wasted words left for the dead

Words come from thoughts and
actions from words
My thoughts will never be heard
She's the girl from the dream but
will never be seen

A poet's mind
is a whole different world
An ocean of myriad philosophies
A door to world's unseen geographies
This door is sometimes better left locked
For the things you might discover
are bound to leave you shocked.
But for the ones who dare
the key is the heart,
And mind you, they are rare,
For they understand;
To get the key
One must be as crazy as the poet,
If not more.

belongingness: what does this word mean?

i would explain to my son that belongingness is something you can't touch but feel.
eden, my daughter, would get a kiss.

for many years i was looking for people i could belong to; i was on a quest. and this quest went along with fears and doubts. this quest was ******* the energy out of my mind and out of my soul...

how did this quest began, though? on a strange day, i was asked a very intimate question by a professor; a professor whose background i'm aware of; she asked me:

"do you have a religious or a political past?"

her question came out of nowhere. she blindsided me.
therefore, i wasn't prepared for an answer that could have satisfied her; regardless what my past really is about.

at this point of my life i wasn't aware about my ancestors; but the professor's questions caused me to become it.

"do you have a religious or a political past?"

i do know about my past now; but the answer i gave this lady was not sufficient for her. by the end of our conversation she said:

"i am sorry. can't shake your hand now. have to go toilet."

that was it. oh my, was i disappointed and frustrated; because this certain lady would have opened many doors for me; doors for which she administrated the keys.

you know, there are days in your life that want to you to be desperate. and yes: i was desperate. about being rejected. and that i wasn't able to have access to dorrs that lead to important conferences, meetings and to important people.

but you know what? it doesn't matter anymore.

because here, on hellopoetry, i have found a place of belogningness.
and what my real past is will remain hid: a secret in a purple-colored casket i have the key to.

hellopoetry is a place of belongingness. not just for me but for many many kind-hearted people. and i am not stating this from an opportunist's view: i can feel you guys here and sometimes i sense kindred spirits.

Shining on the peak
The sun on top of the tree
for how long will it be
keeping the day floating
on the bright side of the quay
will delight the sight of the bee
before it takes its daily dip?
Back into the night will it flee
there it may have left the key!

trust in the shape of a key,
good god how corny is that?

satisfactorily nonsensical, a Pharisee phrase,
so offal illogical,
it borders on the poetically reprehensible

who has time to state this stuff,
pretend it is worthy of something respectful,
work it into a Nobel Prize awarded script,
nominated for "really bad ****?"

an ordinary hardware key, brass gleamy,
and the squealing grinding noise
heard while a blank progenitor is reimagined,
so so annoyingly ludicrous in this century
of plastic replicators but the noise,
comfortably familiar as a sound of
things being made

run thumb test over the cuts,
as if your thumb should know
what order the points and bevels,
the toothy gap spaces should be,
the correct disorderly order of the teeth

there are very few locks on a farm;
indeed the front door key
has not
been seen
in many a year

what's that you ask?
ok ok - I get it - in harvest time
it is early to bed and earlier to rise,
conclude this mystery key,
red winter wheat needs laying down,
stop your word seeds germinating

there may be few locks on a farm,
everything rusts so quickly anyway,

but stop to comprehend just how many locks
the human body employs  -
at least 613,
maybe many more,
and only one master
for them all

a shiny gleamy thing,
strangely,
its cuts and grooves seem to
spell a word
trust

go figure

1:05am in the city

In the ocean I picture an easier world
Keep me locked in a cage
You once told me I wasn't good enough
How am I supposed to find the key
Around my cage you forced me to build bricks
Now no one can free my escape
Tears burn my tired eyes

Attendees at the game of the gods,
come in three
Pythogorean sorts:
First kinds are the lovers of wisdom,
the second are the lovers of honor and
the third are the lovers of gains. 
----------------
Ah, now, now

There is a demon
of the old kind attempting me
to lashout
my flagella and wipe my competitors from the stream
in this
only race that counts,

first and only, no second place in this race
to pass
through
into the egg, where life, as we know it begins.

All I brought, my entire being
as a cellulate entity with a will to win, is absorbed into
her.

Here, she perfects that which concerns me,
my will is done. I won.

Or did the others fail? Should I have slowed and let
another pierce this egg

and marvel at its works, while I am left useless forever?

Nay, or why would I retain this will to win?
Or this will to
calmly carry on, knowing now, this final phase in the course
of compleat being becoming,

slow and steady sets the pace,

right

up to now, k-pow, push meets shove and I win again,
recalling the joy when
I, the wiggly carrier of all that made me possible,

pass through your attentive staring, sorting egg-eye
maybe,

osmotical magical silliness wells up in me.

I was chosen. Or formed to fit, this
complex knot
lock meet for me, the key
ingredi-ant,

in ever stories provoking old men to grow on.
----------
Strange though it be, true,
Isaac Bashevis Singer inspires me, with words he left behind
for just this reason.

From <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/IsaacBashevisSinger>