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codex painter
have your hands rusted
is this world not  as vivid
as the one centuries ago
the one
that bore the same tint,
rich in intent to serve,
to devotedly work
head inclined
over the flaming light
and the celestial stars

pictograms
are what I now reach for
from the vessels tucked behind my ears
from the smell of copper
and the tastes of adobe pots,
simmering with memories,
to the corneas anchoring my vision

because I must have a vision
the "it" becomes what we intend
and I intend "it"

give me your codices
unfold the fibers of the agave plant
and let me paint again
this world
larger
this lifetime kinder
for I have always been a scribe and
a painter
and my heart rejoices in service
to an existence expanding
to meet itself in the eyes of all
who I dare draw
Work as in the work you are put on this earth to do. Working towards your unfolding not the capitalistic definition associated with work.
Star BG Apr 19
Half fairy
+ Half human
______
Full Costume.
(rounded off to Full Life)
Inspired by Kate Pruneau - a gift of a poet.
Smoke Scribe Sep 2018
let the lying begin

first, it's ***** - not *******.
don't pretend its scientific,
like geology, physiology.

It's just ***. raw and without boundaries.
you watch. you fantasize. you deny.

then when your conscience questions,
you lie, first and foremost,
to yourself.

what's your favorite category?
got a favorite site?
or you like to explore,
never satisfied, more?
more.

Let the hunger games begin.
who can lie with straightest face?

filter me off of your list,
unless you ready to follow me,
to where truth rules,
no punches pulled,
raw is real. *** is raw.
real is ***.

otherwise, why would you still be reading this
poem?

gotcha.
I  know who you are...
Smoke Scribe Mar 2015
Got 0 followers, but one tongue, and that's perfectly ok...

cause I got
two eyes
two nostrils
two hands
two ears
two ventricles

they all
follow me

all riders
on the one tongue
that speaks my piece

that finds poetry
on ***** streets
in closed places
and in the
if's of our lives
that makes writing
in one common tongue
so **** desirable
Smoke Scribe Feb 2015
not especially social,
just a couple of friends,
so our interaction qualifies,
special, very,
with sincerity I say,
fancy seeing you here

come and gone,
come back again,
restarting an engine,
that been redesigned
to be as simple as
you and me,
reader, writer

quit, here, brevity here,
but say out loud that word,
fancy
one mo' time

part fantasy,
special, very,
a poem read,
a fan friendship established
here, where words and eyes
intersect, a very fancy place...
Smoke Scribe Feb 2015
can't imagine it ranks high up
on any list of any deity,
*** and God ******,
probably don't make the cut,
on a relative basis,
but ya never know...

looked around,
couldn't be found
any mention of who he roots for,
or if it's ok to ask for intervention


but
if you ******...
if you behead...
claiming with perfect
human vanity
his name as your own
for justification
in ignoring
Thou Shall Not ****,
know this

you're a commandment breaker,
having taken god's name in vain,
vain like vanity,
the sin unique to only humans

we cannot divine the divine,
sure wish it was my NY Giants
were today bowl-occupied,
why he chooses me to suffer
someday will surely be explained
or not

but you murderers,
easy rest assured,
taking his name in vain,
you won't be forgotten,
cause and effect
spelled out clearly


*“the LORD will not hold him guiltless
who takes his name in vain
Smoke Scribe Feb 2015
crazy idea, silly notion,
then again,
come back, circle around,
why not, you ask yourself

now prior to posting hereon,
every word with extra care reviewed

sharing, checking in
with my beloveds,
here, those gone/disappeared

telling myself
telling anyone,
talking to you
letting you know
my grace, your grace,
one and the same,
my face, your face,
my child, my son

know you're
checking in,
checking out,
the comings,
the goings,
knowing full and well,
I see you,
my face, your face
everywhere and everyday

our conversation never ending,
look for me here,
at the intersection
of memory and what's up,
you see my messages,
responding in a thousand
different ways,
our dialogue unending,
formally organized
Face to Facebook,
your face, my Facebook
my child, my son
Star BG Mar 21
I keep writing cause I continuously see visions
that my heart wants to scribe.
Cause my mind finds seeds
that blossom into poems when picked.

I keep writing cause as long as moon shines
there is a topic to write.
Cause a readers eyes begs for something to do
and I am willing to oblige.

I keep writing cause my writer guides
whisper endlessly urging me on.
Cause every blood cell
is filled with letters, and I bleed words.
Inspired by Joel Frye question Why do poets write? Thanks
I weave words within
an ephemeral
tapestry. a seamstress,
or a scribe of sorts.
either way you hear it;
the song remains
the same.

I understand and I do
not: a simultaneous
quantum superposition
(or superstition) for
an unutterable blazon of
infinity, encapsulated
within a granule of sand amidst
the eye of a great tempest.

I cannot claim a prophet.
no. I do not merit
such bravado.
no testament to my
works and days,
nor presumptuous air
of religiosity.

my fingers sketch out a
tempo through the
       c  
          u
             r  
          v  
        e  
          s  
of letters,
a form which
sings and dances
for those who cannot.
(unfinished)

tuesday, january 8th, 2019

© kalica calliope
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