It is not somewhere over the Rainbow
Beyond Mother's breath or
In the devices of ancient
Or modern hands bereft

We touch it in our pathos
And empathy from
Time to time
Through a shallow fading
Gravel bed
Filtering a bitter water table Perhaps

Whilst the tender leaf of spring
Feels it
In the autumn of unconditional
Acceptance of the inevitable
Morning frost
Cold relentless rains
And colourful leaves
falling to their death
In beauty

So far removed from our bipedal Posturing
And upright positioning at the Computer
Desk knowing there is no mystery here
No wild cry in the night
Only electronic and organic
Bleeps and drones and

Aw! there… I heard it again

A lost chord
A missing link
That the wild
Creatures understand
Of what we sometimes feel nearer in our shared limbic
Brain seldom penetrated through
Our domineering eyes planted Firmly in front
Of the gray dross from an eternal Fire

We spend our given time on
This planet trying to douse when The rest
Of creation knows the need for Its
Purification and leaps willingly Into its
All-consuming heart as we
Live in fear of the unknown
And of fear itself

Keeping us estranged from the Cosmic mysterium which Provokes us to awaken
To the wondrous eternal
Which will
Alter our deluded consciousness
To see what has been seen Through the
Unknown eons to help us take to The fire

We only catch a whiff of in the Twilight
Of our hopes and selfless dreams
So we will rise through the
Dry brown leaves of our once Tender
Green vision of an ever-changing Universe
Which whispers louder and Louder in our darkness
Until we cease our chatter and
Learn to listen to the serene Silence
Of an eternal vibration Heightening
Morphing

Less organic much more
Ethereal
spiritual

Crawling further and further
From the pulse of the earth
As we shed thickened skin which
Once replaced thin soft Unprotected flesh
Needing protection from Extraneous
Sources to cover what should Have been

Eternally naked bare to the Elements
Not limited to a frail carcass Which
Will ultimately be left behind as We
Transform into our individual Eternal temples to
Join in worship with the rest of Creation
To be the living offering
At the foot of the
Eternal voice ineffable
Not waiting to be obeyed
In mass procession but

As individual as one spark Igniting
A plot of trees newly released as Mystery
Revealed ever so slightly in the Wake of
The burial of earthbound mind Steeped in
Temporal ancient tradition Fermented in
Oak casks which were made to Remain
And grow in their ****** state

As we hear distant yet distinct Whispers of
The origin of our human calling Above and beyond
Thoreau's distant drummer’s Near silent tremors of the
Most ancient rhythms Now mostly echoes as we
March to
And follow our own drummer
Leading the way back home

As we at times seem to distinctly
Hear original rhythm's calling
As we try so earnestly to
Respond like a dying sea
Longing to once again sway
To the beckoning moon

Often keeping in step
With our
Own inner drummer who
Is always trying to keep
Time by asking

"Are we prepared to give
In to what we will
Inevitably meet in the end?"

Twelve.
Such a wonderful age.
The human is still young, yet beginning to gain more knowledge.
But my twelve was different.

My twelve wasn't playing with toys
Or reading books all day
No.
It was about working a hard job under my stepfather's violent hand.

About crying out for help
Yet too quiet to be heard.

My twelve was about finding the power of
Turning mental pain into that of physical
About the box of pills in my drawer
And a bottle of water helping them get into my system

My twelve was about going to sleep
And hoping i'll never wake up
About my mother not knowing her child tried to end his life
At its very beginning.

“It’s all your fault,” her mother spat,
the words curling like smoke
burning holes through the film
as the reel of her life sputtered,
frames melting, memories blistered.

“Are you ashamed?” she asked him once,
but the answer was a rooftop of ravens,
black and fat with fury,
their wings heavy with arguments
that scattered like dandelion seeds
on a storm-bitten wind.

He adored her—or so she thought—
until his chats told otherwise.
Still, he guarded her like stained glass,
jealous of each gaze that lingered,
each stranger who feasted
on her church-window eyes,
shards of color sharp enough to cut.

Her mother’s lies
coiled in her throat,
a banquet of bitterness
she could never swallow.
She needed a scapegoat,
an alibi for the twin
flickering inside her:
one a saint of silken dreams,
the other a sinner
digging graves for every tomorrow.

Why is it never enough?
Not the apology, not the tears,
not the hollow space where love
once curled its soft animal body.

She punches the mirror,
and it blossoms like her pain—
a thousand fractured faces staring back,
none of them hers.
Her reflection weeps
as she stands alone,
the only guest
at a feast of glass.

delicate moths wish
to kiss
  your oxygen-eating fingers,
   as you gently consume
    sun-dried limbs
     of monster-trees.

     your dear children,
    born of the plant flesh
  you disintegrate,
dance on the whistling breeze.

should one of your young
  dare to tiptoe
   on brittle blades
    of winter-deceased grass,
     she will grow
      more impressively
       than you,
        her mother.

    she will indulge
   in tender gluttony,
  softly swallowing whole
the homes
of woodland denizens.

conceived of woodpecker houses,
  her own daughters
   enter the world,
    spread their mother's warmth,
     just as your sweet baby
      did with yours.

and forever you burn.

All the men that stare, they don't have to stay
They don't **** , but the **** is conveyed
Eyes have power they say
is that why they hate the gays

eyeliner , eye shadow , lipstick
This is what makes em ick ;
doing drugs
having ***
that's cool isn't it?
looking at the hips that gave you birth;
staring at the ******* that quenched your thirst
maybe the gender is a little cursed
this is the fact that makes my heart burst

**** is a powerful word
a tool for women to onslaught the turds
isn't it a little to late to test the bees and the birds
maybe its better to have a gay son or a thot daughter
then to have a son that rapes his own mother