he asked a question
and without waiting
for a response
drew three cards
from that divinatory deck
usually carrying as little
meaning as a tossed coin
scoffed at and swiftly ignored
this time seemed to tell
a recognisable tale
unexpected in its providence
a fortune perhaps
to favour the brave

the hanging man
with his eight swords
and his eight wands
these cards showed him
the start of a journey
not necessarily a life
turned upside-down
instead that a change
of perspective is needed
the octet of swords
unveiled his cage
of indecision
uncertainty and fear
a need to upset
the balance of the inert
a reasoning for destruction
in order to create
and those upright wands
carrying with them
such signs of movement
a willingness to decide
a commitment to progress

either that or
the pack was simply
reshuffled and dealt
again and again
until it foretold
that which needed
to be heard

Persons who, not agreeing with you,
Will tell you, your perspective is wrong.
That lived experience,
Has clouded your lense of reality.
But they offer no real difference
Nothing so substantive
As to say,
Mine is fixed
And based in a place
Of true, unbiased rationality.

Same place
  same state
  same memory

What if
  its our essence
  no movement
  sanction to experience
  what is
  no motion to distract
  
and within the malaise
        shifted orientation
        acclimatize

Breath reawakening

                                        Nirvana

I wish I could write something
That pierced the wool
Pulled over your eyes.
Your depression, your nihilism;
The things keeping you coupled
To the miserable lense of your life.
Cause there are so many things,
That are just perspective.
And everything else,
We could work through together.
I fear you can't imagine, what
It would be like, to improve.
Walk the world afresh, renewed.
Just so long as you're comfortable,
It doesn't matter if you're happy.
We could be something wonderful,
But you can't see.
That's the real tragedy

splayed limbs and warm sun and sneakers laid to the side and sun on my body and the sound of the water more than anything else

A midday shower to get the stickies off, maybe its all worth it

If I get to spend even a second in the wind, drinking in its cool caress, how could I remember to yearn for the warm sticky touch of another?

If I get to hear the rushing of the water so close to my ears, what phantom chatter of ghosts could permeate?

If I get to feel the sun kiss my skin the way it does, what significance could the absence of you hold?

When I have so much, how could my heart remember to need you?
When I have so much, how could my heart not want to share it with you?

You who I know would love it. You who I wish loved me half as much.

When I have so much, why does missing you take up any room for gratitude in this cluttered mind? I started off alright this time.

This is not a rhyming poem.

****** poetry, maybe 5 is my lucky number. But 5 is a lie I tell to and for myself. I seem to have been briefer to you than that.

The difference is that I say 5, and you do not say.

there is perspective
i see thats pleasing to me
ha ha ha ha ha

the brightest star
of that well-known
oft mistaken
constellation
disfigured and disguised
by the shifting
of Rorschach’s clouds
the temporary flair
of an unremarkable
astral body
burning through
the upper atmosphere
forgotten immediately
as it fades
along with
any accompanying wish
the strobing beacon
of wingtip
or undercarriage
marking the distance
needed for safety
moving through turbulence
restlessness and discomfort
watched with
ill-considered envy
in this overcast
night sky
those twinkling lights
will often go
unnoticed or
simply ignored