"dividers" poems
Only ONE RACE
the HUMAN RACE.
The dividers
and conquerors
all trying to convince you
otherwise.
And they are
NEVER
on the frontlines.
They
manipulate
you
stirring up
emotions
hatred.
That people should die
for the mistakes
of the few.
God hates those who stir up strife.
The only
so-called
winners
are the manipulators
the millionaires and billionaires...
those who orchestrate
the mess
who PAY people
TO HATE...
turning them into mercenaries
MERCENARY
HATERS
AND
MURDERERS
and NOT for the reasons
they think.
The ORCHESTRATORS
don't care
ONE WHIT
about the cause
ONLY
about the
POWER and CONTROL
they
HOPE TO GAIN
when they
"HAVE TO"
quell the mess
and put out the fires
Which
THEY CREATED
by
THEIR MANIPULATIONS.
BEWARE
how people
try to use your emotions
for
THEIR GREEDY GAIN
TO CONTROL
YOU.
WE ARE ALL
ONE
RACE
THE HUMAN RACE.
Reach out
try to
LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR
YOUR BLOOD IS ALL THE SAME!
WOUNDED
ONE
DROP OF BLOOD
IT'S
ALL THE SAME.
cj 2016
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 2:33 PM UTC
Thrift Shop Confessional
Old carts squeak down re-sale aisles
"One of," "two of,"
Sometimes "three of" items
Tempting treasure-sifting shoppers,
Bargain-needing families,
Women seeking up-brand names at low-brand prices...
Our wives, followed by their husbands,
Acquiescent, but quiescently seeking
Seeking a thrift shop oasis.
A cast-off dining set beckons,
Sturdy enough, if a little battered,
To make us solemnly content to wait
Carted clothing trundling
Off to fitting rooms.
He shuffled up with a foolish grin.
"I think I'll join this convocation of
Waiting gentlemen.
My wife is a shopper...
She'll close the place down."
I moved a chair and gave some space;
Strangers become brothers in this place.
Five minutes on,
I knew he was a vet:
Army, Vietnam Nam...
"I don't like to think about it,"
Cleared his throat,
"Never can forget."
I turned to look at him.
"A little girl came running,
With her hand behind her back.
She only stood this high," he said,
And showed me with his palm her height,
"They carried grenades that way...
All of 'em...couldn't tell which ones...
Sergeant told us, 'Don't ever check...just shoot.'"
The voice trailed off....
I sat sweating in a thrift store,
Captive of my own politeness,
Half a century,
Half a planet,
Transported in his words
into a soldier's Hell.
"So I shot...
Nothing else to do."
Silence then.
A total stranger staggering
under the weight of having
Murdered his Albatross....
Of having carried this thing,
This memory,
Inside him all these years,
Of finding me,
The unsuspecting thrift shop guest
Who'd listen to his lonely tale,
Perhaps so he could earn some rest....
I, his unwitting Confessor,
Uncertain what to say,
Certain something must be said...
Certain nothing could be said...
Sat dumb, but understanding
The wisdom of confessional dividers,
The private comfort of two booths
Where prayerful exchanges
Intersperse uncertain silences,
Present in the overhanging need:
Demanding sorrowful returns,
Impending memories of sorrows...
And lonely trudgings home....
(Connections with Fr. Laurence's "Riddling confession finds but short shrift," in Romeo & Juliet, and Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner")
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
The concrete depresses with each small step I take in the Arco parking lot
I fold this song up into my pocket and my schoolwork starts to rot.
Your hair hangs loosely by your eyes as you ration out my shots.
I wanted to remind you that your nails give me goosebumps, but I forgot.
Your legs laced up and shining in oil are sculpted out of bronze
Lying naked in aphids as we strive to be shameless among your father's front lawn
You are sunlight disguised by a sheet on a clothesline
In the middle of meadows made of wheatgrass and starshine
How can something so beautiful share a species with me?
A shopping cart overflowing with grace given away on the streets for free
My jeans are turning into strings of flayed fabric under your yellow moon
I'll shower you in music, if you promise to abuse it, within my crimson room
Lock me in my comfort stall with dividers emitting petroleum fumes
Break down all the walls with your desperate call as your temple, I consume
From within towers where light is devoured, against all odds, I bloom,
For a skeletal mastery with ultraviolet eyes crawls into my tomb.
You are a symphony of epiphanies for a boy made of concrete
In the midst of a city of asphalt and batteries.
You splat on my canvas and blast from my headphones
And if you opened me your name would probably be on my bones.
Keep the covers at bay
So I can admire your frame.
Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 6:55 PM UTC
.
On the wings of adventure
and channel planned visions
In bonafide pockets
with envelopes streaming
When sidewalk dividers,
the colors of sunset
bring peace to the valley,
now penned in a post card
“…wish you were here”
And bricks line the mansion
with cats in the garden,
alongside the seashells
and beaches we’ll wander
I look to the sunshine
to see its reflection
upon your sweet features,
your beauty it holds me
“Vacation photographs cannot do justice”
In rhythmed oasis
of sweet waters churning
and moments we’re seeking
in all we are wanting
With shadows behind us
as we go out walking
to love every minute
adventures are flying
“We find that our dreams lead us on our journey”
I follow the smiles,
that don’t belong to me
of hot seasoned concrete
and t-shirts emblazoned
With images captured,
yet still fashioned frowning,
until you arrive
and my heart swims the shoreline
“My vacation destination is your heart”
Feathered dunes outline
finding the side streets amazing,
hibiscus and bougainvillea
and fragrances swaying
When every sunrise
does find you here with me,
of bright painted post cards
and moments eternal
“We shall forever live in love…”
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
These special summer afternoons
have no time markers,
no human dividers,
no watches watching
or clocks clocking,
just grins and smiles,
divining the divide,
painting lovely
the one canyon
of humanity and nature
attending to each other
These summer afternoons
have no time markers,
but drift perfectly sequentially
from sun to nap to
black striped grilled franks,
and red watermelon,
orange cantaloupe,
cold coronas,
and desserts of
indeterminate beach walks,
and quiet talks
These summer afternoons
are as close
as I remember,
what it was like to
be seven or eight,
years of age,
knowing only
carefree summer months
that were
carelessly treasured,
thinking there is
always another,
looking forward to tomorrow
to do nothing in
exactly, happily,
the same way innocently
I am an adult
and that means,
cares are ever present,
ever fair or fear not,,
they lurk and
attack the goalie,
with noisy or subtle unrelenting attacks
but as I overlook the waters,
scenario soul gentling me
under the cooling coverlet of
the perfect breeze and
what lurks
is the moment
the eyes and heart
are fulfilled,
satisfied by what they see
The bay,
dotted with the boat traffic
not too much,
but just interesting,
a right tiny armada
to entertain,
all of us,
inattentively observing
the submerging
descent of
summer daytime friends,
and I think of you only,
at this perfect second
and I am besotted
with grief
and guilt
why can I not grant you the moment,
that I desperate wish to share
my arm is not, not,
careless slung, but
grasping firm with squeezes tight,
finger under chin chucking,
come friend be with me,
and for just this moment
your anti-toil tool here,
your plight beyond my comprehension,
though I live a life on the unknown edge,
what matters is the relativity of us,
and I relate to your weariness,
I weep with desperate knowledge
transporting you here is still an
impossibility
though my eyes see glory,
though my heart cannot refuse
the scene's peace invading me,
it is not fair, it is not fair
and I want you
to have this more than me
so I can keep it too
until then it is a glaze,
surfacing the coating,
that is me
but substance is untouched
until this guilt morphs into a
shared pleasure
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 4:36 AM UTC
To the old man buying oranges,
We have never spoken,
But I owe you my thanks.
You wandered into the store,
Locking onto the produce section,
You demand the honor your age grants.
Carefully you inspect the fruit one by one,
Examining every dimple, checking every rind,
Scouring for flaws in your beloved items.
Placing the chosen few in your basket,
You set out for the lines,
And ****** yourself into my spot.
Because of your age, I do not object.
You transfer your citrus treasures to the belt,
Locking them in place, between the dividers.
You glance back at me with a scornful expression,
I look away feeling guilty, for what I didn't know.
You release from your wallet only what is required,
And quickly bury it back out of sight.
You hand over your money sourly.
Latching onto your bag of chosen keepsakes,
You march out the door glaring at the ground.
I pay for my items and head out as well.
As I exit the store I see it in an instant,
Your tiny frail body tumbling through the air,
Landing onto the car that almost missed you,
But sadly it did not.
The crowd rushes toward you, lying there quietly.
It all happened so fast.
I watch as your oranges flee from their bag,
Rushing away from the tragedy that freed them,
Tumbling quickly away with your life.
To the old man buying oranges,
We have never spoken,
But I owe you my thanks,
For taking my place in line.
Jul 27, 2010
Jul 27, 2010 at 5:54 PM UTC
it’s a place
it’s a time
it’s a memory
it’s a smile
it’s the changing of leaves
it’s the scent of a wood-burning fireplace
it’s a moment
it’s a laugh
it’s a kiss
it’s that anxiety you get in your throat right before you’re going to cry
it’s a dog panting and wagging it’s tail
it’s a flash of colour through the black
it’s a pair of pants
it’s holding hands
it’s someone’s arm around you, pulling you closer as you fall asleep
it’s falling
it’s strength
it’s a river
it’s an ocean
it’s a waterfall
it’s rain
it’s dancing
it’s uninhibited
it’s passion
it’s an old, crackled picture
it’s a friend that you haven’t seen in three years
it’s a road, the yellow dividers ticking by
it’s a mountain
it’s a birch tree
it’s an aluminum boat
it’s a view
it’s a pitcher of beer
it’s a bottle of wine
it’s a drinking game in an old cement basement
it’s a rooftop
it’s a pair of sunglasses
it’s those old shoes that you wish you’d never donated
it’s grandma’s jewelery
it’s a cat’s tail disappearing behind a couch
it’s a song that your mom used to play on the piano
it’s grilled cheese and tomato soup
it’s a summer
it’s a season
it’s treading water
it’s christmas
it’s playing hookey
it’s a cup of tea on a foggy day
it’s freedom
it’s the windows rolled down
it’s humidity
it’s waking up under the sun
it’s waking up under the stars
it’s legs intertwined
it’s a flashlight in the forest
it’s ghost stories
it’s that concert, the one you swore changed your life
it’s running naked down an old wooden dock
it’s a song
it’s family
it’s then
it’s goodbye
it was.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 11:22 AM UTC
I don't have any answers
I can't recall the right questions
Even with makeshift blinders
I find myself open to suggestions
I've had enough with these reminders
I catch a glimpse of the problem in reflections
Dark and light are missing critical dividers
Please help, can't tell angels from demons?
We three share the same voice as Pinocchio nose liers
What road is it they say is paved with the best intentions?
Something about a destination of eternal fires...
Eh, it's a moot point now,
I fly by the stairway, going 107 on the highway, it's one way, no need for directions
©2024
Feb 3, 2024
Feb 3, 2024 at 4:13 PM UTC
twin gulls at the ready!
resting and fidgeting atop a rock outcropping
sister galactic spaceships from cowboy bebop
ancient cutters of the sky, cloud divers and dividers
efficiency is key, swiveling in crisp circumferences
feathered razorblade acrobats
mother nature’s surplus fish-killers
spend their days as lazy air athletes
never in the sea deeper than their beaks
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 6:00 PM UTC
the quietness of content
between two people
walking down the sidewalk
after splitting a pint and a crepe
is something new to me
the quietness of unsettled
emptiness in the dregs
of heaving lungs in a public toilet
is familiarly foreign
and suddenly unwanted
i occupy booth seats
instead of the space between
two metal dividers
and a toilet paper dispenser
i study the dimples of your cheeks
and the scent of your hair
i've become a student
learning the feeling of having
instead of a teacher of wanting
i do not see any crookedness
to your teeth or my own
i taste lager and nutella
strawberries on your breath
and don't ask
what else?
no sign of do not disturb
in my eyes
only, please continue
speaking
when i sway to the counter
and ask for the check
i am surprised by our obvious pleasure
when the waitress giggles
"oh i'm sorry,
i didn't want to disturb you"
i didn't realize we looked so happy
so together in a moment
shared over candles and two forks
on a coffee shop table
i admit it was
effortless
i see now that
food, love, humans
the things i made complicated
were
effortless
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 3:02 AM UTC
4 enclosed walls of liquid
in a fluid web i want you
the veiled ivy shadows
in a crowded headspace
the saint of dilated seas
met
the princess of abandoned oceans with daughter
on moonrise cheeks of spilt milk
in the lobby of the chelsea hotel
through 40 days and nights of rain they swore
on a bed of clotted blood and see through chinese silk
her black widow memories lit a flickering path
from attic jets
to basement trickles
20 years before
when the saint lost all trace
where did you go that day?
after our butterfly fields
(sarah vaughan and dinah washington and ella fitzgerald
gathered) a crowd
around you
all wondering where you came from
and where were you going
that day
when Jesus rolled back the stone
from a juvenile womb
the populace of a billion worlds
inside a temporary tomb
the shallow points
between childhood legs
don't add up to what God paid Satan
for your devilblack eyes
the princess' daughter
i
dripped from plasma
source such of
inner working lips
the DNA of the cosmos
in my mother's hips
unending lines that never touch
parallel dividers live lives like
my born father of the full eclipse
as i
make mine this pilgrimage
deep to the overlapping ages
undercurrents rest in tidal pools
the shallows smallest stages
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
I thought about always
On the train that day
As I rushed across state lines
To be by your side
And I thought about always
When I got your calls from jail
Counting down the days
Until I could hold you again
And I thought about always
When I had doubts
After coming face to face
With your addiction
Watching you weaken in a way
I didn’t know was possible
For a substance I don’t understand
But that knows you all too well.
But always means
The fight is no longer yours
It is ours
And always means
I love you through the weakness and pain
And monitored phone calls
And thin glass dividers
That might as well be miles thick
Because either way
I can’t touch you.
And always means
You're the only one
Who could ever make me brave enough
To think about always
ojc
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
Arches tall lead from
Little dividers keeping
Some out and others
Trapped inside
Pink birds with weird
One leg stances stand
In clumps taking wonder
From the people that
Come and go like farm
Cats
Black and white bears
Lazily pick away at hard
Bamboo sticks and are
Content with being the
Last of their kind
These are the beast of
Far away and this is the
Ark carrying them over
The sea of life
For they
Have lost their
Fight
Their instincts
The things that make them
Animals
They are the peaceful wonders
Staring out of fish bowls and
Wondering why people come
And stare at their simple lives
All they have is time
The lion sleeps softly on a rock
The tiger swims, but with no prey to catch
The elephants walk about seeing the
Crowd’s shock with each of his
Thundering steps
The monkeys swinging from artificial
Vines not caring that we (their brothers)
Have given up our childhood games we
Used to play
Opting, instead, to walk lazily in the hot
Summer day and stare agape at the beasts
Who are not beasts that wonder at our
Funny ways and the food that appears
To them each day but who do not care
And decide to sleep instead
May 3, 2010
May 3, 2010 at 5:19 PM UTC
Free as a bird ~ now
“If I leave here tomorrow”
Lonely days of glass dividers and tissue boxes
Pecking away like a chisel on some old piece of granite
Feeling the pain of each sorrowed sentence
Carving words on obsolete paper in faded scratch marks
“Would you still remember me?”
My reflection finds me a stranger of warped shapes
Names bounce off of walls and scatter to the stained floor
I have read those pieces of promised hope and lover’s sins
Said my peace in volumes straight from my heart
“For I must be traveling on now”
It seems the shadows have faded into a still breeze
Hectic lives infuse dancing dreams with left over cottage cheese
Faces are seen, hiding in plain site, hoping not to be found
Bins overflow with the un-perused and wishful thinking
“Cause there’s too many places I’ve got to see”
Beyond this horizon is calling in a faint echo
Winding paths offering more than what I have, whispering on slow winds
Forgotten, in due time, as another sun sets
And a mourning dove coos my sad farewell
“I’m as free as a bird ~
now”
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
Is something I can teach,
At sea or on land,
Use of a compass
And a parallel rule,
Dividers and a plotter,
All to find out where I am
Where I wish to be
And what course to steer,
In matters of the heart,
Also - as do we all -
I do my best to plot
A course to best effect,
But lately I have been
All at sea in darkness,
Steering by dead reckoning,
And raw blind hope,
A nerve racking
Time sailing blind,
Unaware how sands may shift,
How deep the seas or shallow,
How far away the land,
Until now at last the sun has risen,
The darkest hour has passed,
And you my darling destination
Are right across my bow
Dec 17, 2023
Dec 17, 2023 at 6:34 PM UTC
___________________
another mourning morning, usual signs of warning,
wanted to wash away the distress signs of no sleep,
turned on the tap, out came only troubled waters,
my only friend, the voice from the mirror, pretending
to be coming from me, speaking: Oh Lord, Oh Lord!
*is there no surcease for me, somewhere, can I find,
little bites, small plates, pieces of peace, the kind
of kindness that eases, repairs the dividers of mind,
the country stone fences that been growing wilder,
when, troubled child of 10, window breaking, beyond
youthful mischievousness, evil streaked, so deemed*
Give me a boat, give me a bridge, give me a road, a home,
one of those things poets, songwriters about, wax lyrical,
Oh Lord, give me time, 45 seconds, even two or three,
Being strong, being confident, am I not entitled to that,
a boat, sturdy mast, cause sailing from storm to storm,
just glimpsing dry land, is that too much, a pale beyond?
love, nah, a bridge too far, not even on the menu, not blinded,
I am off key, not well enough, between the peaks between,
*I am out of sync, bubbling discombobulated, a **** besided, behind,
lend me a finger, not even a hand, a kernel, not even a cob,
a string, forget a rope, a washcloth to bathe and dry,*
lay me down, lay me down, to live, even just not dying.
Jun 16, 2020
Jun 16, 2020 at 1:08 PM UTC
It is so **** tempting
to leave this place
these pages
and these faces
just pack everything into my car
and drive west
for as long
and as far
as possible
never stopping
until I reach sunnier pastures
when life is like broad street
in rush hour traffic
and I'm trapped
stuck to street dividers
it seems like a good idea
to stick up my thumb
and see where it takes me
but I'm scared
scared that whats out there
will swallow me whole
a forgotten poet
penning his words
on the inside of a whale
and the truth is
I've been running for a while now
never moving anywhere
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 1:14 PM UTC
The water Is wide, white as ******* eyes. And I stand at the road pleading to god to see headlights.
Stand cold and shivering. Insecurity, Center dividers and purgatory.
This is what we know and it wont change anytime soon.
My cup runneth over.
Our Armories,
We are all just mirror images, ugliness clearer then your eyes laid shut while you’re tossing and turning at night.
Its all pain seeping through wires, in my veins and onto my skin.
The pain, It fills me up. Fills me up like this waitress fills my coffee cup.
I pray to god you make it wine, sweater to the tongue.
And if this may pass, god grant me the power to see past insecurities.
And this may pass please throw away all my ***** bed sheets.
This is the differences between cancer and divorce.
This is your soundtrack to a ****
This is your abandoned song.
Breath cancer and bend your own will.
- MW
Jul 31, 2011
Jul 31, 2011 at 1:15 PM UTC
I carve at my insides,
hallow out this heart,
rearrange the lungs,
squish tubes,
and realign things that can't be removed,
and I do it willingly,
its you I do it for.
I scrape at my out sides,
I tear out things I have no use for,
at-least I think I don't,
I restart this heart,
over and over,
hoping to line up the rhythm of my life force with you,
and you give me scraps,
when I am hungry for the loaves,
you cause my attack on this life,
and I move things out,
to elicit a response from you,
to con you into conviction,
I do it for you,
I do it for me,
why don't you love me?
I hallowed out the chambers,
I've knocked down dividers,
unlocked the cabinets,
given you the keys to every arena,
but you have no knowledge of its use,
or maybe its you pretend,
they tell me to take it back,
that I give to much,
that I love to much,
to strongly,
to soon,
but to you its not enough.
I'm I ever going to be enough?
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
The water Is wide, white as ******* eyes. And I stand at the road pleading to god to see headlights.
Stand cold and shivering. Insecurity, Center dividers and purgatory.
This is what we know and it wont change anytime soon.
My cup runneth over.
Our Armories,
We are all just mirror images, ugliness clearer then your eyes laid shut while you’re tossing and turning at night.
Its all pain seeping through wires, in my veins and onto my skin.
The pain, It fills me up. Fills me up like this waitress fills my coffee cup.
I pray to god you make it wine, sweater to the tongue.
And if this may pass, god grant me the power to see past insecurities.
And this may pass please throw away all my ***** bed sheets.
This is the differences between cancer and divorce.
This is your soundtrack to a ****
This is your abandoned song.
Breath cancer and bend your own will.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 5:44 AM UTC
lately,
my heart
has been louder
even in echo than my head and
i am here
trying to navigate the oceans between
too much and not
enough.
looking ever-closer to where i think
the peaks of mountains
can be measured between fingertips;
measured between dividers;
backed by a steady needle’s weight.
a sea claimed Bering
through a marshy coastline
lit only by oil and torch -
where buoyancy can balance
treacherous watery routes and
rough, shaky hands can trace the
pulling of sails through knots
towards the exhaling light of an imminent shore.
though i am unsure of the differences between finger-lengths,
am i holding back
because i cannot accurately predict
the pulls of the moon;
the swells of tides;
the seasons of rough storms?
perhaps even the spark of embers against my heaving backbone -
and what of the humming gears of sentience
in my chest?
am i holding back because
what i lay in permanence always meets
a spray of waves?
the crash of undercurrents against the breath leaving
your lips? -
currents that unapologetically meet
the rise of the earth and the
curve of your back
forcing the Weems
to stretch for topography that maybe even my knees cannot lock against.
go down with the ship,
i will swallow the grasp reflex that builds
in my throat and in my palms.
a million times over i will meet the breaking of every tensile structure in my body
if it means catching your swell.
and like the greek merchant’s ship cast deep into the dead sea’s belly,
i will be overcome with every ounce of your pressure
even if every time
i am fated to lose the rise and fall of my lungs to salt water;
to a watery grave;
to knit sheets and a sailor’s prayer;
a promise of ever-lasting life.
Mar 17, 2019
Mar 17, 2019 at 2:59 AM UTC
A spectacular butterfly
splendid in its monochrome, leopard-print reflecting armour
flies unto the lavender branches
recently budded in my garden
Fancying myself a faithful reader of Nabokov
and drawn to anecdotes of self-glorification
I thought I should become a Lepidopterist
and catalogue its striking corpse
beginning what could become a masterful collection
Me, the quarter-tanned Irish bopping all in tennis whites
with mock-radioactive web of butterfly doom among the wooden yard dividers
But where should I keep it?
this hype-building collection of one
amongst my dust-collecting books
my backdated journals and flaccid-worn glossy magazines
my "value-appreciating" vinyl records
the more prettily curated and precision-hung images that curate my partner's collections?
No, it is not for me
to stop it succumbing to dust, to allow it turn into something beautiful again
if a tragic kind of beauty
amongst the dirt, for something becomes more wonderful when
it's beauty is not forced on show
but produces itself through more layered, yet uncomplicated means
returned back out of the dust, without any of our artificial light
recording again it's eventual demise
Jun 28, 2019
Jun 28, 2019 at 4:05 PM UTC
~
“If I leave here tomorrow”
Lonely days of glass dividers and tissue boxes
Pecking away like a chisel on some old piece of granite
Feeling the pain of each sorrowed sentence
Carving words on obsolete paper in faded scratch marks
“Would you still remember me?”
My reflection finds me a stranger of warped shapes
Names bounce off of walls and scatter to the stained floor
I have read those pieces of promised hope and lover’s sins
Said my peace in volumes straight from my heart
“For I must be traveling on now”
It seems the shadows have faded into a still breeze
Hectic lives infuse dancing dreams with left over cottage cheese
Faces are seen, hiding in plain site, hoping not to be found
Bins overflow with the un-perused and wishful thinking
“Cause there’s too many places I’ve got to see”
Beyond this horizon is calling in a faint echo
Winding paths offering more than what I have, whispering on slow winds
Forgotten, in due time, as another sun sets
And a mourning dove coos my sad farewell
“I’m as free as a bird ~
now”
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 7:40 AM UTC
measuring surface dividers
forms itself in a haven of morality
bred on the surface between incompleteness
&
independence
Nov 4, 2020
Nov 4, 2020 at 7:47 PM UTC
Sunlight's abrasive presence
provokes a heated isolation
stewed together in a
cauldron of perishables,
stoney partitions
metal dividers
bind, slay
serene slumbers
cued by the waning sol,
an aubade crooned
by Mr. Bluebird
shifts crystal puffs
harnessing Skinfaxi
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 10:01 AM UTC