to observe the observer
is to love and to serve her

as her bottom lip secedes from the top,
i still my thoughts til they stop

To belong to the observer
is to long observe her

It is to experience her analysis,
brushing her hair in wait for her synthesis

Covered in logic and reason
her critique or thought comes out
and though it can bring painful change in season
hearing it is the only righteous route

To listen to the observer
is to be challenged by her

to take her challenge is to listen with humble ears
to take her challenge is to gain wisdom for years

This is what it means to love and to hold her
to observe my beautiful, sweet observer

Since life is not always easy
and abject failure is abundant
your gaze may begin to capture
ideas beyond the finishing touches of beauty
and your thoughts may start to fall
off the planes of (what is considered) “sanity”

at such tumultuous hours my friend
look to the trees not the flowers

I still have hopes.

You stare at your book through your circular spectacles— carob eyes hinted with specks of caramel hidden within the fragile glass as your fingers daintily flip through the parchment-colored pages. Your pearly teeth sinks mildly onto your bottom lip, lightly chewing on the soft flesh as your eyes trace every word. With your nose crinkling, your cheeks rubicund, and your messy hair slightly falling just before your eyes; I realized that you were such a wonderful thing to observe so thoroughly, and I realized that maybe, just maybe, I was falling for you harder than I intended to.

I still have hopes that I may be able to tell you how beautiful you are; how you seem so oblivious of my admiration for you— but for now, I could only stare at you and drown in the thoughts of not being able to call you mine.

I put the paper in the printer every day
I put the paper in the printer every way
When the ink run low
And they jam the envelope
The boss man call me up and then he say

MARIA! MARIA! THE INK RUN LOW
MARIA! MARIA! I JAM THE ENVELOPE
MARIA! MARIA! I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO
JUST PUT THE PAPER IN THE PRINTER AND THEN I PAY YOU

And in between the ice and the fire we created,
And the creations were poor but some we used,
And those we remembered,
And in our best moments built upon them,
So in the time between the ice and the fire,
We became those creations,
Because they were all we were allowed to be,
As if something would not let us move beyond them,
For some reason or perhaps for no reason,
For it may be blind and moves without knowledge,
Other than the need to move to the next ice or fire.


© 2016

The sea does hate the land. For I tell you
   under a white full moon that lit the break of horrid surf,
   under cliffs of changing rock and hard sowed grass,
   I saw the sea strike the treasurable earth with vengeance.


© 2016

Restless
She paces
Lioness in a cage,
But there are no locks
No doors
No prods or anything to hold her
It's all dreams
Whips of desires
Chains of need
For a change of scenery
The feral tempest calls
From within her
The soul seeks
And her mind yearns,
Wide plains
As far
As her heart can see,
To run amongst
To leap free,
What no hunter
Can understand,
Love her but leave her wild...

APAD16 - 022 © okpoet

She brushes
Up against me
But I am not the canvas
She seeks,
The colors I bleed
She cares not for,
If I carefully hang myself
She will not notice
The light that breaks
Upon my surface
Will not illuminate her face,
She has but a few strokes
And those she reserves
For the likes of him,
Priceless art
In the exhibit halls
Of her mind,
Spotlight
She guides
Her thoughts
Through his texture
Retrace every layer
That came before me,
I will sit empty
On this easel forgotten,
Unfinished masterpiece...

APAD16 - 020 © okpoet