"clearings" poems
♪♫♪♪
Your beaded snakeskin loincloth
strung beneath humid palms
cool rippling breeze that calms
our hammock hung under thatch
what a catch . . .
your Amazons running into my Congo
lost track of my bongo
back about one mile
from the sources of the Nile:
your jungle smile.
Restoring all celestial things
deep within your tropical clearings . . .
flowing slowly, going loco
at the mythic mouth of the Orinico;
shake your nut-brown biospheres
and banish all my worldly fears.
Dusk is nearing — clearing the hill
insects trilling a sinuous thrill;
the yuca half-mashed in the clay ***
the witch doctor hungover in his hut
while our little fire smolders
near the mountains of the moon
—or are they only boulders?
Come soon
Jesus, Lord of the Jungle . . .
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 9:22 PM UTC
I imagine this midnight moment's forest:
Something else is alive
Besides the clock's loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.
Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:
Cold, delicately as the dark snow,
A fox's nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now
Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come
Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business
Till, with sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.
4.6k
scavenger bride,
she counted periods
before the children came along,
but never suspected
eyes like bottles
beginning to blue,
a tangle of scars
hermetically sealed,
the new order of
a broken romance,
dead love cassettes
in the glove compartment,
her cold and empty
constellations,
like cold breath
passing through a beam of sunlight,
grid of points, pendulums,
the ratio of freckles to stars,
no subtle countenance,
martinis and bikinis,
soft ******* and ice cream,
slight, elusive things, on a beach
with no more meaning,
the repeating pattern of
her mistakes and reliefs,
a preservation of decay,
sustained by the tiny
human fault line
in that oneiric hinterland,
between dreaming and waking,
she draws around the noise
and the clearings,
she creates within that sightline
the way her sadness can feel
comfortable,
an extension of loss that turns
her ruins into a home.
Aug 1, 2022
Aug 1, 2022 at 2:48 PM UTC
Inspired by George Ella Lyon's poem Where I am From
I am from cul-de-sacs
From skinned knees and seven speed bikes
I am from the bewitching perfume of the osmanthus bloom mingling with freshly mown grass
I am from the familiar music of the bubbling creek and the cardinals song
the swish of a golf club and the thud of a soccer ball
I am from hot pavement on bare feet, the taste of honeysuckles, and reaching pine tree forests whose invisible trails and clearings became my secret empire
I am from airplanes and home cooking
From Mary and Mark
northern accents and southern hospitality
I am from "use your manners" and "Not enough month left at the end if the money"
I am from sunday school and patent leather shoes that pinch my toes
from a prayer before dinner that is carved into my brain
I am from poland
from poppyseed kuchen and kielbasa
I am from my grandmother forgetting baking soda in the bread
and then... years later, forgetting me too.
I am from my grandfather's sense of humor
and his unwavering stubbornness.
I am from too many cousins to count
from pinched cheeks and "How you've grown!"
I am from piles of unfinished photo albums
brimming with new adventures, frozen faces, and old memories
I am from the path I carved for myself with tools that my parents bestowed upon me.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 1:14 PM UTC
They run and run and run
It seems, with little time to feel the sun
And yet, what they have begun
Is something that can easily be undone.
Dodging the trees here and there
They run through this thick and heavy air.
An end to this overgrown forest do they give silent prayer
But little do they know that they’re on the path to despair.
They hide from the sun’s bright
For they know not of its delight,
And instead they run to the darkness on the right
Thinking they will find some light.
However, their path is crooked and steep
As they run through the forest deep.
They are like lost sheep
Not realizing they need to awake from their sleep.
They see others running passed the trees
Dodging them with ease.
They wonder what makes the others so pleased
To be running through this breeze.
The others also fall down,
But they get back up and help those around.
While they run through darkness abound,
The others run through bright clearings round.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
Most mornings are spare,
Like the spaces between the branches of a spruce tree.
Most mornings are clearings in woods
And bare bark.
Most mornings sound of violins
And Torquil Campbell’s voice swooning in and out of Bach’s Suites,
Leaving you empty,
Hueing you in gray,
And sketching you, lightly, onto white notebook paper.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC
these faces on the wall that have no eyes,
the young children with blood escaping from their hands
as they pick up a mound of the Earth and throw at genuflected roses.
these battered men in parks searching for light
and my woman is no longer with me.
it’s all vaudeville: this obnoxious working of continuance,
these redundant flutings, these unprecedented fluctuations.
opening the yellow gates to death
as the automobile churns the last of its exhausted snarl.
we are children peering through glass cases
as death laughs at his hopeless clientele,
sad, desolate progenies in working-classes,
in parks, in factories, somewhere along Mendiola,
or just treading the waist-high hellish froths of Dapitan,
there’s always death in the nooks of the quiet
and from where birds stir in sidereal circles, death
with his hands resting on the cage, chases us back to our homes.
death the changing of the gatekeeper.
death the telling machine.
death the dentist.
death my next door neighbor.
death, this boorish broken-winged Maya twitching in front
of my dog’s shadow shot out of the Sun’s shameful recoil.
death, my loud and loutish muse,
death the truant,
death, the copious fog somewhere in Kennon Rd.
death, in my hands through darkness and light,
death through troves of enigma,
death through undisputed clearings,
death the long line of red beads in EDSA,
death the gates of Plaridel,
it’s the moon following you, trailing your measure,
i hold my woman’s used shirt, pick up her photographs
and there’s no tender movement left but the still-seeking lion
prowling the jungles of my heart, seared by lovelorn undoing.
through the bottom of the sky and the unchanging roof-beam,
the weathervane ceases to a sojourn and the wind is trapped
in a place where we cannot utter any word between the gnashing
of our teeth – through the wasted years, through the sleeping in and out
of homes filled with beatings, to cathedrals swollen with tribulations,
and to the vineyards wrung out of wine, my lover, walking through fire,
sound silence.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC
“When people move-when they travel-they look at where
they come from,
not where they’re going.” -Martin Amis, *Time’s Arrow
*
Let us now take this chance
to praise those dancing demons
of ambition,
whose feigned clairvoyance
of fortune
and exactitudes of fame
burn as the smell of smokey fallow
to the new-retired mare.
Travel, and all its takeoffs,
all its energies in skidding towards
an unopposed truth, makes its mince
by outlining all we ever look for
but leaving the chalkdust prints
of what we fail, at first, to find.
Yes, spaces contrary to the familiar exist
Carnivore cities of grind and result
cascaded above the floodwalls that save
the vagrant’s midnight search.
Coastal clearings of pacific civs,
best kept secrets where trees are still planted
and further kinds of nowhere that you never expected
to simmer with all the prospects of bored and implacable youths
who pine to efface the status quo, which ,after all, is quite the average,
is quite like “HOME”
Though I suppose, we eventually find
whatever space can be considered our own
when everyone grows up and stops
pretending they read Burroughs,
have a lot more going on, or are a lot less busy
than they make out over infrequent coffee meetings
(where it is also admitted
that they brew their own hot beverages,
or tell their own jokes)
Somewhere in the near-space continuum where Travel has
become for us what essentially differentiates
the commonplace in nature from
that most human of neuroses,
the acceptance of a willing to improve the conditional.
And so to Ambition, and its fiery fops who make us refute
steadiness, accountability, the routine of the resolute
Who let our ships of sanctimony attack
implied with the luxury of steering back.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 5:29 PM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 12:55 PM UTC
We are but a fleeting plume of dust,
We are but a withered patch of rust,
We are but an aimless wind, whose gust
Is drifting, through the dreary twilight's must,
Awaiting, the new rising of the dawn,
Awaiting, the dewdrops which glaze the lawn
Awaiting, the quick prancing of the faun,
Whose dancing through the fields might lead us on
Through streams and forests, far from where we've strayed
Through pastures, where the lilies rock and sway
Through clearings, where the sunbeams pierce the gray
Of the foreboding clouds, to light the day.
Yet, here we wait, with eagerness and zeal,
Yet, here we lick these wounds, which never heal,
Yet, here we churn the spinning water wheel,
Which drips a fatal poison in our meal.
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 2:16 AM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
Across the blistered gibber plain where flies die in the sand
Through swamps of prickly sago where rotting death is planned,
To stride in windblown tussock hills where wind vanes carved their say
To saunter groves of green tree fern where moa giants did play.
In clearings cut with alkali, tusked elephant would loom
With crevassed hides, Methuselah, once aged in terms of doom.
Whilst high above the rocky crags of ancient mountain high,
The keening screech of kestral soaring up to deep blue sky.
Heavy boots in crusted sand where tiny lizards flee
Amidst the rust red rubble of volcanic rock and scree,
To clamber up the ignimbrite, great Vulcan's steps of stone,
Encrusted with thick epiphyte in lichen's mossy home.
Up into the altitude where dark cloud clusters here
And the threat of rolling thunder indicates that rain is near,
Torrential in it's downpour with sudden squall of gale
Surmounted, all quite suddenly, with a blinding blast of hail.
Staggering to shelter in a tiny alpine hut
To find hot coffee on the woodstove and a curvy, hot young ****
To find us frollicking together beneath a patterned patchwork quilt
Was quite beyond my imagination's comprehensions built?
And afterwards in slumber through the curtains of our room
I watched, in fascination, at a hanging, frozen moon
And wondered, in amazement, at the doings of the day
And speculated, sleepily, where tomorrow's prospects lay.
Blearily I stretch out from the covers, nicely warm
To nullify persistence of that alarm's intruding horn,
Yawning into morning I remove myself from bed
With panicked realisation....all dreams evacuate my head.
Vanished are the alpine hut, the dolly bird, the caves
The crash of rolling thunder and the plunge of mighty waves,
Gone are those phantoms which dwelt inside my mind
Devestatingly dismissed until re-dreamed another time.
M.
Pukehana Paradise
13 December 2014
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 10:09 PM UTC
In ancient woodland
this child roamed,
lost in nature,
briar & loam.
Mapping clearings,
badger setts,
the places where
the deer had slept.
Picking berries
hops & flowers,
lying under
stripling bowers.
Until evening's
amber gloam,
with twiggy hair
racing home.
Jun 3, 2019
Jun 3, 2019 at 1:22 PM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 4:04 PM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 1:29 PM UTC
what was it that the wind said?
what was it that the wind said when it
ran itself through your hair and
pressed its face against yours;
a foreground to the watercoloured sunset?
was it the poetry whispered by
lovestruck boys and girls
who kissed, forbidden,
in the clearings of enchanted forests?
or was it the hissing of embers
setting eachother's souls alight
in an **** of crackling fire wood?
was it the ***** chiming amongst
divine silence; only broken by
the tears of joy in a stained glass cathedral,
as she walked towards you in her wedding gown?
or was it the morning rain
as you woke up to an empty bed
with the lingering scent
she left the night before?
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 6:03 AM UTC
Flesh adventures in noon-lit meadows
Wrapped deep in the brushed embrace
Lips plant hushes on pale moaning skin
Coupled love locked up in soft asylum
Crushed together, lost, looking for more
Banana slugs and innocence
Wooden figs carved into decadence
Forgotten clearings now overgrown
With brambly memory and seeds long sewn
Another chapter, the page now turned
Only photos remind us of bridges burned
Set-down love poems can't be unmade
The ink may hollow but it never fades
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 10:00 PM UTC
Hiking in a musty wood,
A path is laid in mulch and fern,
Dark and canopied, rung evergreen
And deciduously rooted. My one goal
Set to plateau, reach of hilltop meadow,
Others had told me, lay a pond in the sky,
Was there to experience a peek, where tall
Grasses and dry luster of flowers wild, sang
In highland clearings of golden lace and tarn,
Set with sun to fly and by sharing the long ocean
Straights, beyond the wildest, white horned mountains
Of the moody pacific and with eyes casted once more of
Youth, after sanded sleep and then to steep in wandering
Cloud, as eagles, robed in light and gleems of night, drift,
Careening wistful and free as running dream or simply roam
A foot as the wise, bearded, mountain goats sure and snowy
As they ruminate and forage.
At elevated breaking point,
Of storied, pristine clearing, a smoking, lone marmot knotted
His voice in plead and alarm as I was about to breach,
As brigand, the sun clad forbidden, citadel unbidden,
Home of pious souls, of cerulean still waters, intact
Peace, untrampled sanctuary. As made, that day,
Unwashed interloper, I gazed through threshold
Ends of trees and respectfully circled,
Reverent in spectacle and joy,
Back, down, earthwards.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 6:48 PM UTC
.
Hiking in a musty wood,
A path is laid in mulch and fern,
Dark and canopied, rung evergreen
And deciduously rooted. My one goal
Set to plateau, reach of hilltop meadow,
Others had told me, lay a pond in the sky,
Was there to experience a peek, where tall
Grasses and dry luster of flowers wild, sang
In highland clearings of golden lace and tarn,
Set with sun to fly and by sharing the long ocean
Straights, beyond the wildest, white horned mountains
Of the moody pacific and with eyes casted once more of
Youth, after sanded sleep and then to steep in wandering
Cloud, as eagles, robed in light and gleems of night, drift,
Careening wistful and free as running dream or simply roam
A foot as the wise, bearded, mountain goats sure and snowy
As they ruminate and forage.
At elevated breaking point,
Of storied, pristine clearing, a smoking, lone marmot knotted
His voice in plead and alarm as I was about to breach,
As brigand, the sun clad forbidden, citadel unbidden,
Home of pious souls, of cerulean still waters, intact
Peace, untrampled sanctuary. As made, that day,
Unwashed interloper, I gazed through threshold
Ends of trees and respectfully circled,
Reverent in spectacle and joy,
Back, down, earthwards.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 5:42 PM UTC
that's how you came,
and that's how you'll be
paint on a canvas
wild, in front of me
mind clashing and
dancing, feelings
from up above, or
from the deepest dark
gutters of endless belows
you are something else
and I'm nothing of the sort
you'll have me in shackles
and bandages in short
but a bruised up
toothless smile
will rest
for a while
on the drifting
dreamer
Crawling for miles
protons smashing
mingling, mingling
Receiving
in space made
in randomness
and darnkess's embrace
but there's no sense to
make of what's happening
to me
I could go on
for hours
and you still wouldn't see
these things come from
nothing,
these things soon to be
from dimensions
unknown,
from foreign clearings
a fraction
of seconds
For fractured
Moments
suspended in
time
in existing randomness
we can't control
how we came to be
but it's your choice to
make,
it's up to you to hear me
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 4:03 AM UTC
The wood was looming tall
miserable and old.
I too, was sad and felt drawn in.
The path wound and wound, past
clearings, over fallen trees until it split.
The feeling rose inside then, the feeling
of something bigger than the wood and me.
Round the corner they waited,
round the corner I came.
Three beings cloaked in black
and dark grey. Hoods covered their heads and faces.
shadows slid from left to right.
Dust, decay, smoke, dirt
burned my nostrils, I smothered a cough.
The central one stood straight,
thin and tall
old yet still strong and powerful.
The one on the left concealed large wings,
once white and full now brown and balding,
poking through large tears in the cloak behind his back.
A golden beard glinted in the limited light.
The one on the right was hunched over
clutching onto a staff to keep upright
and an almost white beard flowed to his knees.
Their faces, from what I could make out
through the blurry haze of shadows
marred, scarred
battered, from wars and fights perhaps.
The tall one spoke
with a voice, smooth and light yet muffled
like somebody who had been recently crying
“Try not to look at what we were.
We used to be creatures of importance.
Significance, magnificence.
The elite of the highest races on and off earth, but
now our misery has become our religion
and who we are.”
They pleaded that I join them
in the misery and the acceptance of
misery.
They handed me my own cloak and hood
but before I would put them on
I had to think.
It’s true these things have offered me
a way out of the pain of
pretending to be satisfied.
Here with these creatures, life
could be easier.
Being able to be miserable without the nagging
“is there something wrong?”
“you seem upset.”
these questions mostly asked without
care, emotion,
sympathy, empathy.
I thought for a long time.
They waited, dark and creepy.
Garden ornaments
motionless, emotionless
lifeless. Just staring,
more through than at me.
No names. Nothing
about them could say who they were.
a life without identity. A life without goals.
a life without purpose.
a life without…
Would I end up like them?
Unable to die but continuously getting older?
Scratches on my face and hands,
the shadows covering everything
that brings light to a life.
All these things I pondered while they
waited…
but could I reply with what they longed to hear?
May 6, 2012
May 6, 2012 at 9:00 AM UTC
The storm of life surrounds me. I didn't ask for this.I stepped out in faith, but am left with no faith.I see two clearings. One behind me where I came from. One ahead, but I have to go deeper into the storm to get to it.My body is tense with indecision.If I go back I know I can find peace for a time. Contentment in apathy.What lies ahead? Do I want to know?I'm tired of the storm, so weary. I'm also tired of all the apathy and disobedience.All of the sudden I hear a faint call."Find me." it says.I'm frozen in place. "I don't know, Lord. Help me.""Trust me." the voice whispers."But I did, God. And this is where you brought me." I cry brokenhearted."I trusted you God. I know you will never leave me or forsake me. I don't trust myself to be who you want me to be."I'm on my knees now. The storm beating against all sides of me."Trust me!" the voice is yelling now. "Forget about yourself. Find me. Look to me and then you will find both yourself and me."I start to stand. Unseen forces try and push me back down. The clearing ahead is so far away.I tear myself free of invisible chains.I'm running faster than I've ever run.Head bent down, arms pumping, legs straining, gasping for breath.Then it stops.Everything stops.Everything is white. I made it.I fall.Hands and knees hit first. I stay there trying to breathe evenly."God." I gasp"Yes child." He whispers."Save me." I choke out."I already have. You are free." He says gently but firmly.Tears streaming down my face I raise my head and look up.The clearing has changed. It's not white anymore.It's filled with buildings and there are sidewalks and people.The people are everywhere. Cars too.The smell of the city hits me.I'm on my knees in the middle of a crowd, in the middle of the city. In the middle of life."Now go and tell others of me." God says.I smile, bow my head for a second then stand up.Brush the grit from my bruised and ****** knees and start walking.Walking in faith again.
Feb 21, 2010
Feb 21, 2010 at 3:09 PM UTC
Love gives wings to fly.
I find myself beyond reach of gravitation .
Love.
Is it a bird released from a cage,
colorful wings of a butterfly
or moth following the light?
When I say your name aloud,
I feel as if all the stars twinkling just for me.
In the spirit I whisper to them my longings .
I wish to look at them through ages.
Love is exquisite flyer,
although she met a routine.
Intricate hours are peering into us
through the windows of our house
but like everything in life they will pass away.
Embodied we will rise in the air in unison,
although we are different rays of the sun.
You are the one that broke through the clouds,
I am the one which remained behind.
Hot or cold, dry or moist
I will fly over seas,
over tropical rainforests.
I will migrate thousands of miles to discover
clearings dotted with romantic desires,
garden thirsty of your admiration,
uplands of your filigree body,
oceans overfilled with affection,
aurora of your thoughts enchanted with my poetry,
oranges tasting like your lips,
violets with the scent of your body.
Love gives wings to fly.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 12:06 PM UTC