#ceilings
The wood and stone and plaster we will share
Is unknown to me at present time
But like the stars we will look up at them
And ponder all that was here before
And the time that's been left behind
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 9:47 PM UTC
High ceilings breathe better
Walls of nothing or all
Speak loudly without ever having to scream
With balance hinting at perplexity
And a defining edge to rest your head
Surrounded by most of these
Just as the minds eye needs a self reflection to see
And the breath within needs also to breathe
Outward
Honest
And openly up
And such high ceilings are perfect for these
Mar 17, 2019
Mar 17, 2019 at 1:02 PM UTC
You... me... both of us and two cups of coffee,
a sweet, red wine and a scented Yankee candle,
our eyes are whispering to each other, as sweet toffee
love can no longer be delayed, but handled.
In the background, Zamfir's famous pan flute,
dropping lava in my blood, not on the roads,
wherever I go, just rose petals in their suit
our hearts beat in tandem until they explode.
We are the encyclopedia of abundant feelings,
we are the actors of an interesting start,
life resembles a tragicomedy written on the ceilings
at the thought of being followed by a kiss from the heart.
Me... you... us... and a beginning of a love story,
we have to be patient and take care not to crush
the butterflies I annoyed on my wall from the dormitory
not to lose them in the labyrinth of love in our rush.
There will be feelings that maybe will grow,
for we are always running after eternal love,
or maybe they will fade, for the fear of saying hello,
and then we ask for more time from the mourning dove.
But let's give to Time what we owe ... time.
Time is you... Time is me... we are both,
this season wouldn't starve us, it would be a crime,
palm in palm we'd pass through waves and take an oath.
We inspire love and we expire a naive passion,
the past would be just a small curse
dazzling us with many kinds of affection,
whispering our names through its silent verse.
It's your wave... my wave... it's our wave,
we only have air to breathe abruptly while we ascend,
we haunt our own thoughts while we crave
for the expiry date to never come to an end.
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 5:59 PM UTC
No buttressed vaulted ceilings here,
or monkish men in robes of cloth,
a space where things are sold and bought
and yet, there is an atmosphere:
A cloistered hush outside of time,
etched in rows of words, wooden,
the self’s restrained demarcation
seeds this scene for the sublime.
“In the beginning was the word”,
nothing before that differentiation,
in the assemblage of imagination,
a whispered restless breath is heard, as
marks on paper command the motion
of eyes and thoughts across a texture
in which silence is a rapture,
the echo of yearning and union.
Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC
How can I write about motionless, unfeeling, empty white walls?
You write about your unchanging, cold, blank mind
How can I write about slammed, unrelenting, locked white doors?
You write about your crushing, unobtainable, closed-off heart
How can I write about falling, unstoppable, restricting white ceilings?
You write about your deadly, unfair, judging mouth
How can I write about a room that doesn't hold me?
You write about your past
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 4:21 AM UTC