"expunged" poems
For Al, who left us
With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.
Al,
You ask me when the words come:
With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,
Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for body restoration,
Transpositional for poetic creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.
Al, you ask me from where do the words come:
Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,
The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.
The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.
The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.
The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.
These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here,
poem aborning!
Contract with this moment,
now satisfied!
Al, what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
_________________________________
(this poem more than most,
for its birth celebrates
my loss, your loss,
which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18)
_________________________________
written at 4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012
Greenport Harbor, Long Island
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 7:07 AM UTC
though deep he sleeps sometimes,
combining this exhaustive restorative
of old age, that alternates with a restlessness
rest of old age ~ the brain's nightly self-cleansing,
both necessities absolute
so he be unsurprised, by a parallel process,
occurring beside him, as woman rumbles, mumbles,
all the while reenacting the things we dare not acknowledge
in the waking hours, much too painful, much to fearfully real unreal,
but, best unrealized
she bolts upright, looks around, attempting to cross back,
looking, investigating, ascertaining time and place, localizing
her orientation, while assessing external+imagined dreamt threats,
till satisfied sufficient that whatever dreamt, realized or dreamisized,
before, going prone once-more
the watch man observes, the critical threat level, doesn't
approach the red line, not requiring hands-on interventions,
and relieved, that she has expunged and expelled the mind's many
molecules of memories, true or false, real or revisionary, making clean
white tissued neuron+cell for the morrow
and thus he reminds himself, that he be watch man, observing, uninterfering, is too, is also, a definitive infinite
only love poetry
Jul 29, 2025
Jul 29, 2025 at 6:59 PM UTC
Which Is Greater?
I break a vow.
A serious vow.
In a place, in this site,
Where the fluid pain
Is the water of the world,
The element that is crux,
The amniotic liquor of creative flux,
The morning juice,
The afternoon caffe,
The first beer of the day,
The liquid that we rinse and spit out our every day,
I will write about pain,
Arrogantly, as if there is any unused combination of
Letters, vowels and consonants left unspoken, *****
Having sworn not to, for pain is cumulative.
Asking myself,
Which is greater?
The pain of creation, inception, origination and birth,
The pain of wreck and ruin, destruction and death.
Homework Self-Assignment: Compare and Contrast
Suddenly, I am expert.
Creating a poem a day is very painful.
A poem that is the sum of
Reflection, research, and purging.
Once I wrote:
*The poem is the afterbirth,
A conflicts resolution, an outcome,
Battlefield debris, the residue of
An exacting vision, a sentiment surging,
And your army of words, inadequate to the task,
Fighting to capture that insight flashed,
Each word a soldier, disheveled,
Crying, let me live, let me be saved,
Let me make a poem,
Let it be inscribed upon my victorious flag.
The poem is the sweat left upon the brow,
Having exercised the five senses,
The salt of struggle and debate,
It's completion, each word,
Both a victory and a defeat.*
Suddenly, I am expert.
My mother is dying.
It is a process. Days pass,
She neither eats or drinks,
Yet she lives on.
I watch each labored exhalation,
A subtraction, a countdown,
It is as if she was returning each singular day,
Every word e're spoke, every dream dreamt,
she ever possessed to the atmosphere,
One breath at a time.
Is that painful?
It is for me.
Now you complain. They're different, not to be compared, et cetera.
Pain is pain,
Whether it is in the service of creation, or
Creative destruction.
Once I wrote:
*With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poem's birth diminishes me.*
So, one and the same?
Nope. Yes. But. Cannot one be the greater?
Yes, one is greater.
When I lay on my deathbed,
I will exhale the answer
Into the atmosphere
For your retrieval.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 7:06 PM UTC
*Oh you nits, you lice, you bugs
You crawl around his head so smug
On the 1st day back at school
It really isn't very cool
Out comes the comb & the mousse
And through the tears I will unloose
Your vicious hold upon his hair
It's 8am - it isn't fair!
It's a war zone in our bathroom
As I eradicate the bugs of doom
As if we didn't have enough
Of things to do & other stuff
To get ourselves to the gates
Of the school & now we're late
Oh critters of the head & hair
Expunged you'll be from your lair
I'm going to flush you down the bath
Oh motherhood - you've gotta laugh!*
(C) Pixievic 2016
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 5:05 AM UTC
Exposition
Exploration
Examination
Experimentation
Exhibition
Experience
Exercise
Excelsior
Explosion
Exposure
Expansion
Exceeding
Excitement
Excellence
except
Excessive
Expectations
Excuses
Exclamation
Excommunication
Excluded
Excreted
Exorcised
Expunged
Exacerbation
Exhale
Exit
Exeunt
Extinct
Ex-Star
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 3:06 AM UTC
There was a big boom once
Population dynamics are intrin-
sic functions of gumption
and big booms echo in eternity.
I look at the industrial revolution
through infrared filters
to parameterize the haze of our lives using
a kaleidoscope landmarking
technique andor technology
where the function of plutocracy
(and it is taking shape)
while it resonates on post-reformations
and pre-modernisms
How do you like them schizms?
Living the religion of
capital ~ ism
and paying homage on prayer mats of
blood ~ sweat ~ and 1, 2 many beers
through our blue collar dollars and
masonry jars and crossroads guitars
(and between the bars)
of our own creation.
Now moving toward remediation
and un-plebiation.
I cried vermouth and reconciliation while
they expunged truth and trylobytes.
The inevitability always bubbles up.
And in the trailer park of our lord: 2017
Ricky and Julian and Bubbles
pay homage to a great poet lost: Mr. Lahey.
(within the mystery of our own creation)
Thus we toast to: The Theatre of Life
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 6:09 AM UTC
a nacreous tossing around at
the sides, a dappled silver
sunlight if looked one way, an
apocalyptic gloam if another,
exhaled from a seeming
mouth, feeding on what has
already eviscerated an unfelt
***** a predator certainly its
own prey, a heat certainly
poison-breath on a cheek
falling when a meretricious
lover spouts that spurious
hypocorism, and also just a
wavering, iridescent puddle—
cornered, soft as a liquid steel
echo of a futile struggle
rolling around, bouncing off
a wine glass, and a porcelain
table edge, while a listening
head shakes, looks down
despondently, gloom glowing
out the hair, a voice jaded
since birth saying some
thing about differences, or a
helpless slender strap of hope
hanging itself on the way two
other eyes look at it across
checkered watered wings, two
swirling god whorls, two
effulgent galaxies the color of
melting pine bole circling
around in living umber striae,
pulling its gaze, raising it, as if
they, they were blazing truth
cased behind lithophane, and it,
only an aporetic puddle now
of tepid ocher, a mild earth
stone placed in a hand, asked
what is thought of it and the
response: yes, yes of course,
before foreign distance splutters
its face, and it retreats from
its meaning imparted to every
thing (with the vulnerable
precision of a swaying finger
tip) to the baby lanugo of a
delicate floating, through
human rills, of what is horizon
docked, dead, not merely
deciduous—forever jilted with
breath bulging as when beating
a flopping eyeless fish to
half-dead, head tilted up a
throat trying to pry itself
free, trying to live by
streaming snagless, airful,
without spirant sound of going
lost straight from the hands—
then a short chop of fullness
finally expunged and sputtering
like an escaped tuft of
shackled wonder soaring up
the sky in a puff and soul ring.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:43 PM UTC
Post for me
A loveless poem
In the key forgotten
And forever alone
In a cadence of disaster
Innocence expunged
Post for me your
Most Dejected one
Post for me
A loveless poem
All your darkness
Carved in stone
Broadcast live
The sins denied
From the dark place
Where you hide
Let loose now
Your nobody knows
Your most shameless roll
Your damaged soul
Post for me
Your loveless poem
I swear to you
I'll forgive us both...
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 8:16 AM UTC
With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.
Al,
You ask me when the words come:
With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,
Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for for restoration,
Transpositional for creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.
Al, you ask me from where do the words come:
Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,
The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.
The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.
The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.
The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.
These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here, poem aborning,
Contract with this moment, now satisfied.
Al, what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
___________
4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012
Greenport Harbor, N.Y.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
War; absolute
This will be my macadam into re-assemblage
For if I'm not on edge, I'm taking up too much precious space
What wickedness lies beneath the surface of the skin?
I should know this place better than anyone
But my landscape has become mercurial
Ever changing, impossible to map
I am forced to navigate its pitfalls in ever complicating ways
It has become a desolate place
I alone should rule here, my sovereignty unquestioned
Yet I've become content to be complacent, and have allowed a sickly intruder to slip past my walls
They infect, demoralize: turn my skin to stone
They must be expunged; cut out, snipped from the healthy flesh like a cancer
As one removes a gangrenous foot to save the leg
Though my tools at the moment are blunt, I sharpen them daily with the whetstone afforded to me
They will not continue to expel bile into the bloodstream for long
My strength returns by the hour
They know this, and they tremble
I am the goddess to whom this altar is devoted
I am righteous fury, come to cleanse this blight with holy fire and flood
The war drums sound as the gate is lifted
The iron bell tolls -- judgement day cometh
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 8:25 PM UTC
we
mill the
wheat
and our bread
is
broken.
slack lung
sponge
anemone the cavitous
tide
po
ol
s.
we
chill complete stars
and oi ! our dead
are
tokens.
bad
nuns
expunged
eternally hap-hazardous.
blind
fo
ol
s.
we are not risen. we are unleavened.
our chevy glistens where the chrome clings to the rust bite.
the light tingles the rods and cones of Time's swipe across narrows,
it's arrow sings. it singes the rind of our fat lips
where it's teeth slide,
where our worlds kiss the pavement
from so much grinding
chaff
into gold.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 3:03 PM UTC
Dream sequences
Made up of random patterns
So many faces
The rhythm of many heartbeats
So many minds
So many thoughts- conscious or sub-conscious
What is their origin?
Only source from within us?
Maybe thoughts are planted
While we are asleep
Played to us like a dream film
Some we remember
Others we forget
Yet, they may be residing somewhere
Where do lost dreams go?
Or, maybe it’s not meant for us
Expunged from our subconscious
Our every move has a meaning
We may not know the origins
For all we know
Or actions are mirrored
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
the death
of self, exhaled, borne upon
wafts of
air, and
I, with my self-conscious
prose and pretensions
of intellectualism,
and I, dreaded I -
there is a beauty in
ideology; even wastrelism,
being the muck of the earth and
much reviled by Proper Gentlemen,
has its allure and adherents
those disciples of Dionysus,
bacchanalia becoming banal by
sheer repetition:
***** ***** ***** shotgunned beers, and then-
TEQUIIIILA!!
crowed at the top of their lungs,
memory expunged by
hepatic-processed organic compounds.
of course, these mannerisms are simply
beneath you, disdainfully
catalogued by keen eyes:
no, your form of forgettance
is much more forceful, much less
fanciful and romanticized:
your amnesia is
absolute,
it required nothing less than
total dedication, mortification,
death of self as you
expatiated lusts, loves,
aught but ambitions remain,
and now, you have triumphed:
you stand solitary, skyscrapers
shining for your personal
pleasure, yet you can find,
none.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 9:56 PM UTC
i sometimes think
that i've defeated the reaper
that lives in my finger tips.
the reaper that commandeered my hands
and made them weapons of
self destruction.
he lies dormant
long enough to convince me
that he's found another home.
but he takes me hostage
every now and again
to remind me he's here.
i forgot the thoughts
of an early death
and lived like i was planning
for next year.
i've been expecting a future
that i'm not sure exists.
but the reaper has made me
recall the consideration
that i may not be fit to live
a life as long as i would like.
as of right now
i have no plans to interrupt this life
with eternal sleep.
but i cannot promise
that in some time
the reaper will not convince me.
so while he sleeps
while i still have time
theres so much
i need to do before i die.
i need to feel love
without the fear
of that love being expunged.
i need to find my God
whether he be the one
i've been shown or not.
i want so badly
to look at myself
the same way
i look at a flower.
i want so badly to see
what others say they see in me.
i've always wanted
to be something good.
a good daughter,
lover,
friend.
and i have this desire
to help where i can
and not need any myself.
i want to matter
in a life besides my own
and hold value above my worth.
i don't want to
be a burden anymore.
i don't want to be
a pressing responsibility on anybody.
i don't want the few i love
to feel obligated to pick me out of
my own disasters.
i worry i won't fulfill
these aspirations in time.
the reaper will wake
and take control again
this time with the force
of ten thousand men.
ten thousand men
wielding my hands
instead of swords.
they turn my hands against me
as they had been turned before.
this time i will not survive.
such an incredible might
will devour and destroy
this fragile self i defend.
but what does it matter
what i want?
theres so much more
things that are so much bigger
than the desires of a deranged
little girl
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 12:20 AM UTC
Godzilla went walking in the woods
And wondered where Bambi had gone
He wanted to spend more time with her
He found her a lovely fun fawn
He didn't see that last time they met
When he thought they were having such fun
His oversized feet weren't that discrete
And Bambi has now been expunged.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 11:56 AM UTC
The wind charm perched outside sitting still,
No breath to move it, stagnant
As if
Rigor mortis
Morbidity
Death
Had touched the air, inside he sat,
Tears streaming from his reddened eyes,
"Such beautiful music,
The log fire burned intensely , inside were his branding irons,
He had many in his holder, all sitting neatly,
Stifled noise whimpered near by.
"Time ages many things, many things,
"But bone is a music that sings beautifully,
The white metal was ripe for the flesh, as the
Duck tape peeled slowly, then ripped
As blood spots seeped from skin vandalised
And he recorded every tone that sang forth,
"You are A+ grade my, my, the music we will make,
"Plunged into the torso slowly,
Not wanting to not damage, that
Delicate,
Exquisite,
Fusion
Of bones that graced the air,
Screams echoing throughout the cabin,
Reverberating like a concerto on the senses.
He puts his headphones on, and with blade
Sharpened to its full potential,
As if a conductor waving it through the air.
With precision he cut, and recorded till silence fell.
Flesh was limp on the floor unwanted,
" Meat for the hounds I think,
As the heart still, faint essence of life's beat clinging,
Thrown to the awaiting dogs.
"Eat your heart out,
(He giggles smiling to himself)
The bone now cleansed of life,
Blood,
Muscle,
Marrow
Expunged from the host, till hollow then
Maliciously worn down to the tune of each, till
The silence breathed out. Each one was unique,
Having its own sound of death,
I heard the gesture of breath upon my master piece
Dangling,
Swaying,
Hanging
Life taken but the voices sing out,
I close my eyes and listen as wind kisses each hollow
And the music of death sings out, each made from
Only one never a mixture, as corrupted
Would the sound get two souls jousting
Over the voices expelled with winds gesturing them out.
I sell these pieces to those enticed by deaths voice
Hollowed out life, given purpose in silence
I sit in my chair the brands all in there place.
Tears form as the orchestra of screams scratch
Deep within his soul,
The wind speaks to those bones hanging outside.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.
Al,
You ask me when the words come:
With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,
Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for for restoration,
Transpositional for creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.
Al, you ask me from where do the words come:
Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,
The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.
The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.
The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.
The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.
These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here, poem aborning,
Contract with this moment, now satisfied.
Al, what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
_________________________________
4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012
Greenport Harbor, N.Y.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
how can we prevent
the impact which shall take place
there is going to be an asteroid
crashing into the earth's space
we have no protection system developed yet
to make the asteroid
veer away from of our comic net
it'll will hurtle towards earth
at an super fast speed
as it enters our gravity
everything shall be wiped out
its force
shall be great in clout
the astronomers
can see it coming
we'll be the next lot of dinosaurs
completely expunged
from the earth's terrain
each night
one lies awake
with the vision of an asteroid
drawn in one's mind
thinking and pondering
on the erasure
of all mankind
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 8:40 PM UTC
From Grassy Fields to Azure Blue
Albuquerque a special time soulful sojourners came to release aloft what others find easy to scoff oh
Thy heavenly breeze from earthen habitation all sounds are found in thee laughter and tears the
Sobbing Goes to throbbing depths clouds pewter gray they show your needs and how hard you pray
Some are blessedly light others are weighed and bowed there are streams of air but the spirit too has
The lift and fall some is shear others are tender they hold all that is dear love hopes and dreams in them
You see the atmosphere as if you were sky riding at fiesta time strings of silver red golden black ribbon
They represent light hearted feelings the gust of joy that blows across many a yard and home from this
Dispositions of those that live there are discerned and carried outward and upward into playful days
Bathed in sunlight recharged with all the embodied love that continues through mankind dark shadows
Also are known their gloom are forever fixed with heartbroken tomb but just from earth the higher it
Rises its burning tears begins to fall as tender rain that mixes with tears and it not to be explained
But from this mixture golden memories derive their uncommon essence the loss is then to celebrate
Tendrils that drift across the sky when they briefly touch the ground though it be tearful a smile is
Left and in it the loved one is blessed honored and assured the swirling wind holds so many promises
Of happy tomorrows where the word separation has been expunged it no longer is a part of reality
You crossed the night train trestle your voice was the mournful whistle that announced the dear passing
Of love that went higher you were given a gift wrapped in pain but within it explained far greater truth
Than the limitation of earth’s love alone you are now aboard these sky ships as you rise your burdens
Grow Lighter your vision is enabled to see grandeur and great vistas the pulsating earth winks from
Homes far below you appear as bubbles on the wind in the moonlight glow in it is you’re refreshing
Enjoy the ride
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 4:05 PM UTC
I wake up in a haze,
Dazed, wondering through a fog of
People, faces, voices
Breath, laughter
Clusters of long forgotten memories
Opening up those scars
That have twice healed over
Exposing them once again
Bleeding, dark droplets
And the dream deepens
As the essence flows
Through a stained body
A stained existence
Yearning for self redemption
I know not pity
To Caress me down
Sweet silk decadence
A flower known as a child
The petals buried deep
Into the earth
Awakened again
When the nostalgia ceases
When poison desires are expunged
The candle lit
When I am free
From myself
The laughter excavated
From the hollows of my soul
Memories of a willow,
Willow, willow
Widowed
Though I know not
Of a bond of gold
And silver, it is love
That I know of
And it was taken
And poisoned
With sweet elixirs
And gentle caresses
Laid to rest
Beautiful eyes
Beautiful lips
Memorized in their extravagance
But never known the same
As when she closed them
Forever lost
With distorted memories
In a world
That I cannot touch
With my crumbling hands
Left to wonder
If those eyes can be seen again,
Sweet deity of Venus
Golden locks that soothed
My troubles
I’ll fall asleep
Hoping to wake up
From this nightmare
Of this nothingness
And I
Will
Remember
What
Love
Was
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 11:36 PM UTC
Lips zipped, silent chants eloped my soul
Into midnight divine dreams
Took me into His light of heavenly delight
With Him along I was so proud n’ privileged
One to one in close touch, so curious was I to know
As to why He imposed unwanted death in life
He smelled a rat and smiled at me funny guy
Flew me across mysterious Milky Way
Along lifeless stars glittering in His light
Cracked a divine truth that once upon a time
Some planets were blessed of berth of only births
Of endless life as wished
Density of piled up life for ages
Grew by leaps n’ bounds
Life inundated the planets
In course of time, of course
Planets lost their ground n’ gravity
Air evacuated, Oceans evaporated
Life screeched alarming in vain paralysed
Unable to hold n’ uphold weight n’ volume
Planets failed to host and expunged life for ever
Behold my son, He said so kind,
Planetary cemetery here n there so dry
Holding testimony to catastrophic journey
Forcing cycle of birth n’ death to put in motion
To bestow everlasting breath to life
On planet earth one at its best
So saying angel tabbed me to wake up
I am a bit puzzled whether to construe:
Dream a theme or theme a dream
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 7:33 PM UTC
Gently painted on the evening sky
By a Hand, infinitely Divine.
The orange orb rests assuredly--
And of its supports to be seen, no vine.
Its reddish-yellow mixes sublimely with sky-blue--
Now it flickers clean-white, now golden-black--
A truly-- deeply fascinating view;
An arrow drawn to never miss its mark
I think it scrapes the epitome of beauty
Since it encompasses a beholder's eye
With a tolerable show of bubbling fury--
The sun-- setting behind the evening sky
In it I see-- a requiem for brighter days,
a regret written but well expunged;
a solemn oath for darker years,
and a replying breath before it is plunged
(In a sea of darkness)
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 2:47 PM UTC