Thin, white bones watch me from under the skin.
They stretch and crumple it in movement, that transparent membrane, the net of veins and nerves sensitive to every touch of the breeze in an unusually cold night of late June.
Bare shoulders rip the wind of dense darkness as if they were sharp white arrows, cowed, waiting, determined, for the first rays of sun that are still far on the brim of the night, far away, further than the stars.
Some sounds break the stillness; some lonely cries of iron beasts somewhere in the darkness, some echos of lonesome laughters evaporate in the small, lost streets.
We are the night shift, we are the guardians of the night air and the slumbering breaths of closed eyelids, we guard the dreams so no one can steal them, our white arrows and determined eyes fight the boogeyman that hides in the dark, for a few more hours of serenity, until the morning sun chases away all the monsters back into the very depths of the darkest shadows.
And the next night, the battle continues...

“Moby ****,”  Herman Melville

<•>

~for the lost at sea~

after a year of saltwater absence and abstinence,
return to the island caught between two land forks
surrounded by river-heading flows
bound for the ocean great joining

the Atlantic welcomes the fresh water fools,
bringing with them hopefully, but hopeless gifts of obeisances,
peace-offerings endeavoring to keep their infinite souls

sea accepts them then drowns the
warm newcomers in the unaccustomed
deep cold salinity, which
sometimes erodes
sometimes preserving
their former freshwater cold originality

I’m called to depart my beach shoreline  unarmed,
no kayak, sunfish or glass bottomed boat needed,
walk on water and my toes, ten eyes to see the bottom,
no depth perception limitation,
reading the floor’s topography,
millions of minion’s stories infinite,
many Munch screaming

god’s foot, heavy upon my shoulders,
a daytime travel guide, hired for me,
not a friendly travel companion,  nope,
God a pusher showing off a drug called deep water salvation,
designated for the masses, can handle large parties

my in-camera brain  eyes,
record everything for playback -
the lost and unburied, bone crossword puzzles

walk shore to ship, on soles to souls,
is this my new-summer nature welcome back greeting?

puzzled at the awesomeness of vastness,
conclude this clarification for me of the occluded-deep,
is a stern reminder of my insignificant existence,
my requirement to walk humbly, spare my sin of vanity, and
forgive my trespasses upon the lives of others

perhaps then the infinite of my soul perchance restored,
older visions clarified and future poems
will write themselves
and sea to it my predecessors
be better remembered

Memorial Day 2018

Standing on the precipice of what was
And what could be
I am terrified
Tongue tied
Visibly shaken
And somewhat uptight
I am lost in translation
The channel between the stations
All static and no feed
The words between the lines
That no one ever reads
All black and white
Total absence of color
I’ve given up the fight
Remembering my mother
And her always wise words
That I consistently wrote off
And outright called absurd
While in the corner she cried
Over the disaster that was me
While on the road
I was off calling myself free
Trapped in the self imposed cage
The scorching depths that I called my rage
Unexpressed and explosive
Waiting for a steady target
The one that it could get the most of
And you just so happened to be it
Ready aim fire
The missiles of preaching to the choir.

Avenging activity among our society
Based behind our bravery,
Centered in our controlled community
Dances our dimes distantly,
Eating the Economy entirely,
Freeing some family’s from financial stability
Giving the Government full guidance to “Give willingly”
Help save history and fix the hired hereby diligently
Isolating the problem Indefinitely before another civil war breaks out immobilizing us internally,
Jacking up jumping prices to live within our jungle of commonality
Killing Kids futures by leaving them in debt for keeps of knowledge to secure their vivacity
Living our Lives in stress leniently because we are your servants dwelling down here in the low depths of poverty.
Massing out our Money on your table tops feasting morbidly on fattening foods while millions suffer from malnutrion
Nobody speaking nervously now
On the open opinion’s on our governments greed
People pacing the streets for a piece to eat
Quiet our questions or riots will quake the streets
Rage ripping through our roads radiantly
So sustain us all seriously separating the needy from situations of squandering
Take hold of our Tantrums and turn them on the ones demanding this tangibility
You’re yearning for yesterday’s better life
Venom of today’s values vast out over our minds
When will they welcome the revolution?
Xenophobia exerts exteremremitys on our souls
Zero Tolerance for Zaberism and Zolism is the way we go.

To all bone fragments of Galeria Del Osario*

1.
I want to place you in the depths of forgetting.

Place you like a butterfly in a frame, looking alive but dead of course. Place you like how numbers are arranged from 1 to infinity (but who cares to count?) Place you like how chaos displaced darkness. Place you in the tip of a glacier knowing that the entire block will just disappear in a decade or two.

Like how climate tries to displace us. Our trace will soon be forgotten.

2.
Surely, the climate is too rigid between us;  two beings who found separation in all degrees of telekinetic attractions. For two beings who found shelter in the anonymity of chance. Chance to meet. Chance to declare once and for all the unfolding of luck.

Did luck really unfold or it was just me who hoped?

3.
Time is the bare witness to all tragedies, say two lovers who never found the consolations of fate. Time is the curse of the flesh, the rotting wisdom of conscience.

Time flees. Time forgets. Time remembers.

4.
By all means, the world is too small. Sometimes we wage war to small dimensions seemingly large. Where are we by the time that the world collapses into a small room? Where are we when the room pretended to be small but the gap between us is a year, light years perhaps.

Nomads, we are not. We cannot call any cave a home.

After all, what sort of space would cater us?

5.
A massacre happened 43,000 years ago. No one cares to remember. Nine of them were killed by new comers. El Sidron witnessed the coldest crime. If only tears can shed their fate, can we cry for them?

Who cares to write their memories? Who cares to paint their thoughts? Who cares to count their broken bone fragments in the caves?

I want to place you in the depths of forgetting.

You are like the sea. Men will try to conquer you, they will claim to fall in love with you, try to tame you, even bury themselves in your depths; you will swallow anything that threatens your greatness. You, like the sea, not only deserves respect but commands it.

2. When a man calls you out your name, remember that "*****" is just another word for woman who dares to speak her mind. These words are daggers aimed at your throat to cut out your voice, when they use them against you, speak louder. Scream, yell, howl, let your voice be the one sound he fear the most. You cannot be silenced.

3. Love hard. Love everything. Love yourself. Love your work. Love your heart. Love your skin. Love the rain. Love the night. Love fearlessly. Let your love be thick, but once you stop loving something...or someone, don't force it.

4. You cannot experience intimacy without a measure of vulnerability. Don't be afraid of being vulnerable. It will hurt and it will get your heart racing; the feeling in the pit of your stomach will threaten to knock you over but let it happen. Vulnerability allows you to rid yourself of the poisons you've consumed from passed hurts and heartbreaks. Let the vemon leave your bloodstream, let healing take it's place.

5. They never tell you that it's fine to be comfortable with reservation. This is probably the hardest feat. Being comfortable with the fear and the doubt you feel when you step out of your comfort zone is the bravest thing you can accomplish. Embrace it, assess it and if you feel like it's too overbearing, walk away.

Explore
the inner depths
of your mind,
turning over
every rock,
inspecting every crevice
to find
the metaphysical.

Vividly emblazoned in my mind is you the most beautiful body of work. Wanting nothing more than to write the sweetest arias about the depths of your heart.

Fingertips mapped constellations
where words dared not go,
and the night became a river
pulling us deeper, slower,
where time dissolved into touch.

Your kisses speak a language of velvet and fire, rewriting the silence between us, as you taught me the rhythmof surrender and return.

The world slipped away
when your lips met mine,
a hunger, a prayer,
a thousand sparks bursting into endless flames lit up my night like fireworks.

I opened my third eye
and we fell into eternity
As your body pressed against mine,
the rhythm of our shadows
dancing against the moon light.

The vision of you on replay
body to body cheek to cheek
heat pooling between us
like a secret too heavy to keep.
As you buried your secrets deep into me.

A first encounter turned into to soul binding acclimation
Your mouth was claiming the taste was sweet. Like lightning and thunder forming against the night sky.
The deeper you pulled me and I crashed harder into you until the sweetest cries broke from me like a prayer.

The feel of every gasp a confession,
every shiver a vow, every gaze a promise, every kiss a reminder and every taste a claim.

As we reached the peaks of mountains together our bodies sang songs of old and new turning into fire
burning, breaking, booming
two hearts lost and found again
in the oldest language of desire.

I daydream of dreaming
a dream:
comfortable and surreal.
In it, an antique shop full of character
and the scent of mothballs and dust.
A haphazard maze of dark lit corners
pulls me to its depths,
where nestled in the back,
is a perfectly imperfect piano.
Ironic how the blatantly splintered key
is the most out of tune, no?
In this dream within a daydream,
I sit on a squeaking stool,
foot on a loose damper,
and play all that I know.
In this dream to be,
I know not,
or recognize what I play,
but know it's home
and find peace in knowing.
The name Chopin
would be the faintest
of underlying memories,
but the first upon waking.
All we are is what we are not,
and were I dreaming this dream,
that notion would live in my being;
in the pockets of my marrow
and in the pit of my throat.
No Steinway could produce
such a twang so unimaginably beautiful.
Only the physically appealing use the word ugly,
and only the true understand the word beauty.
In my dream to be,
I watch myself,
but feel the keys
as they disintegrate
after violently being yanked from slumber.
Would I dream,
I would gasp and reach in wake,
grasping nothing,
and yearn again
to live without
vivid self awareness.
Yet when conscious,
I seek lucidity,
despite the comfort
found in effortlessness.
So snap me out of it.
Slap the porcelain saucer
that is my cheek,
for I am no Poe,
and this no "dream within a dream"
but a waltz
with the idea of serendipity.

Portents

Just a stamp an impression briefly emboldened formed in darker green you are but the portal of dreams
Telling my heart of those things that can and should be the burgeoning of vast meaningful wonders that
Shimmer long ago they were told in storybooks now they are fused as electrical force burning singing
The mind allegory befits you with your stage here you are the perpetual page desire strikes stone the
Emerging statue reaches untold depths reveals sacred expression the many sides of you that are the
Yearnings of dreams that seek total enrichment against the back drop of insidious want and lack a smile
That creates worlds with borders do not the trees bow to such glory that your eyes alone hold every
Man holds these immortal conceptions gem studded treasures nothing has this form can anything be
Captured given life that possesses the very essence of laughter the flow of life bursting the enthralling
Wisp that from silence forges lives with volumes’ language a bell tolls with no sweeter sound it is love
Beheld and known from the poverty of human life riches explode within common steps divine rewards
Beckon from every pore we look and see the self centered interest that disdains all things when at arms
Length only through imagination can you delve into the reality of your world a beggar truly is a king
With all that lies before him and if so then common man is a participant of God if only we could reach
Out and unfurl the gold instead of a simple down trodden prisoner we would be deliriously happy if we
Could only see the true and indescribable carpet that flows ever so wide in each of our lives it is only the
Foretelling of even a greater and more noble future that awaits

you dont know me
once the lights go out
you dont know me
once my blood starts running
you dont know me
when i collapse on the floor screaming
you dont know me
when i scratch at my skin
you dont know me
you dont know my sin
you dont know me
the depths i hide within

Down in the depths of Frosty Hollow
The Dell where nobody sleeps,
The eyes are watching one another
In case some human peeps,
It sits in a time of hither and slime
Each side of a distant flood,
Where nothing is really worth the bother,
The ancient Wizard stood.

He stood by the spell of them-and-us
That he spun in a past go round,
That sought the well of the what-they-were
When the skies were close to the ground,
And nobody sought to leave the Hollow
Except in a cowl or hood,
The ways of men were hard to swallow
Outside the enchanted wood.

The stars that sparkled up in the trees
Had promised a cold come in,
But the Wizard ruled the things that matter
And various types of sin,
He ruled the currents that gave them breath,
And told of the marsh outside,
Where those who left met an evil death
In the end, so nobody tried.

And slowly, he would increase the size
Of the Dell to the world outside,
The Dell would spread on the bones of the dead
He said, in his sin of pride,
But the eyes were fed with suspicions, and
They looked to each other first,
And the first in Hell were those in the Dell
Who looked at the Wizard and cursed.

Down in the depths of Frosty Hollow
The Dell where nobody sleeps,
The eyes are watching one another
In case some human peeps,
It sits in a time of hither and slime
Each side of a distant flood,
And there you’ll find an ancient Wizard
Who lies in a pool of blood.

David Lewis Paget

You're a big girl now,
pull those socks up
high,
let them go as high
as that slender thigh
wrapped around the
tattoo marking your
place,
put a smile on that
face, don't let the
hate keep you and
make you fall from
grace,
call you crazy, their
words hitting the target;
your heart, broken
ripped apart, kicked
down to the floor that
is depths deeper than
your head, hold your
breath to reach that dark
space,
you don't need saving,
you have enough face,
to laugh at the hate, and
force their hand, to eat from
yours, their face take a place
on the dart board of disgrace
one shot, two shot, three shot
man down, you're taking your
worked for dwelling among the
fighters, equally bruised you stand
tall,
you put those high heals on
red soles, matching the lipstick
marks on that champagne glass,
as we salute your success
cause no one is stronger,
than the girl, now woman,
who stands in this crowded
room, raising a glass, to
your very name, far from a
disgrace, but praise worthy
admiration, inspiration,
no one would trade her in,
cause she is her own saviour
and no one can ever take
her soul, not even a lover
for she saves herself
unlike any other.

© Sia Jane

In realms of dreams, where beauty finds its grace
There dwells a woman with a radiant face.
Her eyes, like sapphire gems, serene and true,
Reflect the depths of an ocean's hue.

Silken tresses, a halo of pure delight,
Whispering tales as they dance in the light.
Cascading waves, in their wild symphony,
Painting a portrait of ethereal beauty.

A gentle breeze, caresses her mane,
Mesmerized by the magic it contains.
With every breath, her essence it weaves
A symphony of passion, a melody that never leaves.

For within this woman's eyes and hair,
Lies a spirit untamed, beyond compare.
Her beauty resonates from deep within,
A reflection of the soul, a realm to begin.

In the tapestry of beauty, she's a masterpiece
A living poem, a vision that won't cease.
May her eyes forever shine, her hair ever flow
A symbol of enchantment, wherever she may go.

I need to write again
Channel my manic depressive side
Put my heart on paper
Maybe it’ll come alive

I need to scrawl
Heartfelt couplets of despondency
I need to tumble down
The abyss to familiarity

I need to seek it out
Cavernous depths have strayed too long
I can hear the demons marching
I can hear them sing my song

I need to envelop myself
In the blanket of despair
Then, oh maybe then
I will inhale fresher air

A friend of women & girls poet of the woman the sight of the naked body, the face of war, my mother's dead in a day & night of the red light; Space Donkey dung of the young men of America of Jesus's left side of the head of a greater part of snooch's warmth, the innovation in the green to the queen of the college to find a poetic beauty, a golden age living within it; our sacred sister has been defiled by the old [sun] money, working hard as hell & into the goddess of war w/ the stars in place of the poet of death w/ the blood of ***** & of the six great [             ] is the name of the word, saying, of you even the hairs of your head he thought about taking his kids to the office of the destroyed itself by its baby blue & the hands of God, not by the door for the better, the moon, was it? from heavenly things under the skin; I will, however, along w/ the Greeks, in the fullness of truth in the state of completely wildcat nature of the three late yellow stars; kids feel guy son of another small pink paint; Medusa & the stone wall is an ugly brown edge of the hole; the Pre-K mother is gay, weapons on her lips where Barbie is going [Yech] leaving my sweet ****** French friendship, keep running the depths of the Society brain in a former Russian's writing; we tell John that rainy season is dancing girls; have a fire in a poem best that perfectly fit the window & he was not filled because they are of a false tongue; the terrible revolution of the guys asking the Secret for the hatefully Guarded, which plays w/ the dog in the modern age; O, voice from the other side of the mirror sounds like it's eating, however, as seen in the 500, from the temper, indeed, I hope that in the land of the dead he fell down to pray to the daughter of the power of pink *******; [the images he wrote, she gave birth to her tongue & began to love the cops]; Wall Street a sitting duck for alchemy; using mom's science to turn on the robot, the lover is a tree to a grain of sand & I do not want to hear any more; Mary Einstein's is that which was evil in the the sacred wind is covered w/ the fat of the hair on its head & the heat to the walls of the air, the toes of the Park, the enemies of the torture of words, & he turns away as being to conquer a boy unknown to what extent it occurs in the bobbing head of his gf live as if it was worthy of the Muses, Oh, the voice of socks would be foolish, so that in his sleep he did not walk but he changed a lot in the mirror of the board in the pillars of smoke; I remember I was an angel of light, where the subject treated of is the understanding of the grace of the motion of the burning Bettie beneath whom will eat at the bookmark of soul & the other was broken & the sweetness of a monster was the terror of some of them; the pieces of ordinance found in the garden of kisses where I saw a man who knew of the honor of the leather soccer mom's wing-like pudenda & watched the leaves of the street of Maecenas standing & caressing his own wretched state; [the plurality intact of the flame of the shadow], not an unusual spectacle, he receives the flames of the *******'s illuminated poetry reading in the garden, almost as much, as that is to say the retro hot pants in the way of news is greater than his sweating to move fate, & she caught him w/ his tail in his own language, as he was one of her issues

Wake up! You're dreaming!
Let incense fill the air
and infiltrate your nostrils, flowing to a composed set of lungs retreating from the scene

The anchor's overweight-
You stand no chance
In a ship with no sails, and a current so strong
The pirates on your tail overwhelm the anxiety brewing inside your soul

Stop the madness! A world with no thought-
Insanity pursues and seduces an open opportunity,
Setting chains around your wrists and ankles, locking you down

The bare white walls-
Immaculately maintained
A room filled with emptiness
And your ears consuming silence,
Which echos the panic to your slow-paced heart

Run away! You're dying-
Feel it's cold breath beating against the frail hairs on your neck
Invisible hands grasping for your throat, but your lips won't allow any words to espcape it
Paralytical agents readying your imminent fate

Whacking willows- an unfair fight
Feet that fail you and wings that disappear
No weapons of retalliation or even the speed of a jaguar for assistance
You're helpless, and alone
Abandonment strikes you in the heart as Death catches up

Scream! Call for help!
A lifeless corpse hovering above like a satanic ritual is ensuing
But a thin film of haze separates you from the rotting corpse
The knife, an inch away from your ski-***** nose,
And the pre-pain sets in before the action

Repetitive cycles of death and rebirth-
Exhausting the energy out of your once lively heart
Sinking to the depths of the sea
And buried in the ground of a vast and perplexing woodland-
You learn of your extremeist fear

Wake up!- You're dreaming!
An alarm set for 5 a.m beeps while your breath is caught in your lungs and your sweat forms like beads on your forehead
Anxiety, Insanity, Abandonment, and Fear are the leading actors in every dream you have

If only you weren't such a manic insomniac.

Reflections
I lie placid silent and calm your great winsomeness reaches over me not disturbing in the least you add a
texture that is signature peace when caos ripples in the wider waters I know soft shadows speaking
revealing a clarity upon this mirrored glass of my soul you are as light as a breath speaking in a whisper
as the night follows day you reveal your self flawless is the transition from light to darkness you are the
sum total of many voices in diversity much is added the common theme harmoninous interchange
where there is lack then you add the needed part without fanfare this is what makes value as golden
moments increase significance the volume of spirit pours in and the soul rises out of view submerged
ideas latent with good will tells the story in deeper depths where shallow and empty realities find
a residing place now they are displaced as added instruments inrich musical pieces giving more depth
and feeling the empty darkness catches these delightful strains a soothing wave seems to fill the broken
spaces moonlight medicates with a silver substance brings euphoric doses as if disimbodied goodness
waves a magic wand you rise and drift on unseen wings a playfulness enters the heart you know not
from where but from borders of tranquil regions the flow emblematic dreams stream ubidden into the
mind the glory yet tasted is somehow permeating our stiff halted lives freedom brought from
inexaustable climes measureless helps will be as the tide if we will close ourselves from distractions that
are plentiful and short circuit our whole beings be still and know That I am God the human cry is what
shall I do in those golden yesterdays they put out rain barrels when they wanted soft water how much
more should we be catching the soft water falling from heaven to counteract the hard and at times
brutal actions that we unleash on one another tears and weeping are not unmanly they are the secret
guides that allow us to behold ourselves and then with power that restrains outward mindless acts that
hurt and offend gentle sense created by comfort from an indisputable place of well being you hold the
higher ground your decisions are true and correct and from placid to unerring truth you divide and map
a true and correct path

glowing waters, tranquil as though the ocean were holding its breath
and yet breathing in and out, in and out
rhythmic, an inexorable drum

an explosion of ripples as I drop the kayak in,
the disturbances swallowed by marsh grass, waving in protest
murmuring to be still, stay still.

I shift in my seat, heartbeat in my ears, loud breathing
scared of being swallowed, lost to depths where darkness clung –
yet hardly imaginable in this world of dripping sunlight.

dip the paddle in, tasting the waters
right, left, right, left
cautious, careful, clumsy at first
splashes of droplets as I pick up the pace,
salt on my tongue, tasting the burn.

the pull and tug of muscle against the world, a silent war
the ocean protesting futilely, but  
surrendering to the kayak with a creaking moan

as I shoot through the water like an arrow, splitting the curling, white-crested sea.

the wind picks at my braid and throws it to the past with a lingering sigh
my paddles cutting through that glossy mirror of cloud and sunshine
shards of brilliantly stained glass.

"THE TROUBLE WITH GERANIUMS IS THAT...."

She did not know
how it had come to be

but she was having toast
and tea with Titus Groan!

Mervyn Peake appeared
to have drawn himself

with pen and ink
the very essence of his creation

as if he had stepped forth
from his book.

The man himself
in flesh and blood.

A living caricature.

Mervyn said nothing.
Just stared into  the depths

of who he was
lost  in himself.

Her boyfriend said nothing
depressed beyond belief.

She said nothing.
Too young and too naive.

Sitting with Steerpike
as it were or

in a candle flicker
now with Mr Pye.

She picked up a slice of toast.
Bit into his words.

"The trouble with my toast is that
it’s far too full of bread."

The echo of his voice
lost inside her head.

Inside him, she
could hear him say

"The trouble with my looking-glass
is that it shows me, me."

"Must you..?" he seemed to say
"Keep up an intimate conversation...

by quoting
myself to me."

The silence stretched and
stretched until it snapped

back into a tiny sound
the ****** of a spoon on china

bringing time
to an end.

The moment going on
forever despite what

time had to say.
We all silent now

the 77th Earl of Groan
...fallen asleep.

In between the teeth of weeping
angles lurks death and permanent
night. Such tragedy is this life.

Wolves vent their howls,
as I awaken.

Ti's a night of dark desire,
my weeping soul rises from the
depths of the earth.

As the moon bow's in its
throne of star's, eternal
darkness surrounds me
I arouse and the light
bends for my shadow.

Cold breath of winter shrouds
my form, a lurking beast
with a lust for blood.

My black ***** hair cascades
over tragic shoulders,
as my lips part slightly
revealing my true nature.

To taste the flesh beneath me
as blood streams from my plumped
lips, is ghastly and ghoulish.

But no peace do I ponder,
forever I wander.

Now a night of misery and plight,
I grow weary of the night.

So I go down to the river where
it is warm and green, and I enjoy
the night until morning brings
ash and light.

Goodbye! The end!

Au revoir! La fin!

©️ 2022 By Amanda Shelton