"refract" poems
Do I relate to the post-postmodern
True-life voodoo incomes are hard-earned
If I put a hyphen between words
Does that spawn a new one like lovebirds
Isn't love the same word that I saw
Don't crows live like bandits and outlaws
Don't they have the outlook of bourgeois
Carry stolen crackers in their claws
There's no change that I couldn't change
Every change that I change always stays the same
I wanna sing with a slingshot serenade
I wanna donate change to a masquerade
I wanna die while I'm in the spotlight
I want my death to inspire a rewrite
I want to blur the lines of insight
I want to make them think that I'm their height
So give me all your red green yellow blue
If you can find a pool then I'll refract with you
You're a mirage and your favorite color's see-through
You're my fata morgana from this point of view
Are there any words for my freakshow feelings
Isn't sugarcoated terminology appealing
Wouldn't it be easier to represent the meaning
Of a hard to swallow concept with an arbitrary ceiling
Cryptic cultish crease in the catalog
Paranoia backtrack to analog
I can run much faster than I can jog
Magic circle summoning Chernobog
I can break the barrier of sound and space
With these essential elemental explanations in your face
But it doesn't matter everything I say will go to waste
Because the power of the mind is putting power out of place
Hindsight reflecting, teenagers texting
Late to the punch with the big money flexing
Let's settle this with a match in the ring
Or a match to the rope of a cannon firing
I wanna die while I'm in the spotlight
I want my death to inspire a rewrite
I want to blur the lines of insight
I want to make them think that I'm their height
I wanna hypnotize and paralyze
I wanna make them think that I'm their size
I wanna break their spirits drink their blood
I wanna **** their souls I wanna **** them good
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
The burning flowers underline the sunset and
Dash before the fire (k)night catches them.
Ripe berries cheaply
tremble
but hopefully their vitality won't burst the pulp pulsating
beneath.
Crumbling flowers
crumb the floor
And Prisms of catching silver refract rose quartz and petal
and crimson
dust.
Bejewelled in Scarlet,
the air,
as the (k)night approaches, grows colder,
Unsure of whether he will bring
solace or strife.
In his chariot
he flies faster than the bees which buzzed around the fruit flutes
in the morning and among the trumpeting bluebells.
Stars fleck the (k)night
like freckles
and the milky ways resins stain his spouting steams lovely.
The (k)nights kind onyx reaches his crescendo and the floating moon danced drowsily through the cloud's spiralled tendrils
Which diminish as dawn
approaches
so their Tentilcles
droop to crinkled tissue paper sheathed in pink.
And so the (k)night
rides on into
The frivolous sunrise.
The lowing, glossy calves
in sage beside the ***** fields
cast a beloved ambience
As though
we are safe
in the knowledge
that the sky will remain
forever
topaz and the leaves
forever emerald.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 4:05 AM UTC
raindrops bounce on
the window frame,
reminding me we're
in this room together.
your words are raindrops
playing on my metal frame -
nowness splatters
into existence -
you remind me that
someday we won't be
in this room together.
you repeat endlessly
between my ears -
I sing along to my favorite song -
I want to tell you
all the lyrics
but my words fall
like raindrops.
unspoken are my
tear-shaped raindrops -
their tremors taunt me
on this side of the pane -
you remind me that
we were always
in the wrong
alternate universe.
the raindrops refract
your light,
dissolving a warm glow
into the evening fog,
you remind me that you're gone.
maybe the rain stopped,
but the silence is only
the absence of your voice,
the rest is just noise.
I think of our raindrops now -
smiling -
knowing that you have an umbrella.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
My mom
Tells me I'm a gift.
She says love
Is what keeps the atoms
In you and I
Is the moment
She caught my
Father's eye
Is the day
My grandfather died
With a candy kiss on his cheek
She had never tasted something so sweet.
When we were little
We played kickball,
The ground is lava
And hide-and-go-seek.
As I grew I knew most days,
It was harder to find myself;
Let alone somebody else.
And I have been around
Enough center city playgrounds
To see the rich
Pump every bit of spare change
In their veins fighting
A cancer that they
Never learned to put in their past.
To see the poor
Wage wars with themselves
Trying to pick up
Way too much,
Way too fast;
Nobody really knows how to make love last.
So put your prism your heart
Beneath the moonlight.
Refract the wavelengths
Of your wonders
Into ROYGB-eautiful like the sea,
It took a lot of jellyfish to let
people see through me.
And even more mirrors
To find a place I was comfortable
Praying in.
Fraying in doorways
Where I learned hope,
Is looking both ways
On a one way street
Cause it can be so easy to thank God
While you still have bread to eat.
I have never prayed
So hard for a healthy meal
Than the days I remember
The heart is a muscle;
And sometimes the only
Thing we need
Is to "work it out."
And I know that some days,
My doubt hangs my
Smile like Jesus Christ
I never quite learned
How to bleed right.
But if there's one thing
I found from cleaning
The crosses out of the
Empty hallway of my character
Is that you haven't experienced loss
Until you've held two outstretched arms
For years waiting for your innocence to come back.
Nothing, weighs more than the guilt of your past
And nothing throws punches
Faster than the ghost of who you used to be.
And I know it's hard
To stop looking for yourself
Under every bed you
Left nightmares in
And I know it's hard
To be comfortable
In your own skin
But sometimes bars
Aren’t the only thing
That builds a cage
And sometimes
The only way to live
With yourself
Is to stop digging
Your own grave.
You can spend years
Listening to morticians
And never get grounded.
Surrounded by the
Square roots we all share,
By the same air,
We've all got to learn to let go.
To learn that
Holding your breath
Has never been how
Living things
Learn to
Grow
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 4:57 PM UTC
being a poet is not planned
**~for Gabriella Garcia~
~~
*a sixteen old soul says she understands,
being a poet is not planned,
forcing an old mans re-collection of the first time,
he made love to a virginal white
papyrus with muscles trembling,
body bent, chest bursting a rockets red glaring,
eyes marking the sheets with salty drip spots
what possessed the wrist veins
to wrest a cheap ballpoint pen to transfuse pain,
in a semaphore of uncoded ink blotches,
what was he thinking
was he thinking?
that it was an ejection
that it was an ***********
that it was a tribulation expiation
that it was a tribute explanation?
that it was an injection
that it was a circumspection inspection
that it was a circumscision surgery of emotional complexion
excising an infection with a written genuflection?
try, but no might, the first is subsumed
by the thousands that followed dutifully
though his one poem flawless, expertly recalled,
it will always be the next,
and unplanned just like this one too
who anointed his brow, the hair and forehead,
with oil pure, dripping down onto, into his cut cain marker,
who is not answering a query relentless
is this his plan, his appointment,
is this his flawed excellence,
is this his imperfect penance perpetual?
knowing well and full
now
the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloraturas*
~~
upon this he reflects,
praying that
god protect the
young poets
from planning
______________
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2893127/unplanned
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 1:27 PM UTC
Morning Rainbow
Myriad prismatic crystals,
refract the morning sun-streams -
painting layers of spectral arches
across the misted horizon.
Eyes turned to the western skies,
we suspend our meteorological selves
acquiescing to miracles unveiled before us -
un-beckoned and scarcely earned,
proffering thanks for the radiant epistle
of healing, hope and promise,
artfully encoded in transfigured light.
Synthetic Refractions
A luminary ballet takes center stage
when synthetic refractors come to play:
crystal pendants bathe our foyers
with dazzling swaths of color.
Hazy coronas encircle streetlamps
discovered by headlights through the fog.
A science class prism slices light rays
into pre-ordered spectral strata.
If the sky denies us a rainbow,
we can always fashion one of our own
and we do!
Spectral Sound
Before there was music,
bird songs brushed our souls
and the murmur of woodland streams
held us captive by their banks.
Soon we learned to sing and tint the air
With prisms of wood and wire and metal
and to color soundscapes in our spirits
With songs of wonder, joy and longing.
Before there was music,
bird songs brushed our souls.
Robert Charles Howard, 2019
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 1:14 PM UTC
~~<@>~~
The tears of a rose
Will soak and stain
They're from her heart
They're stored up rain
They come from heaven
To flow down thorns
They sing in screams
From her lips torn
They can be acid
To burn the bloom
They can be crystal
Reflecting moons
The rose will open
In dead of night
The tears from petals
Refract the light
They cascade down
Drop from the leaves
For her soul
She sits and grieves
For her soul
The drops fall down
They feed her roots
Under the ground
They bring her back
The legend goes
There's healing in
Tears of a rose
SøułSurvivør
(C) 10/3/2017
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 4:35 AM UTC
There's that sunset
Where you'd
Look
upon
The horizon
and watch the sky
pull a symphony of colors
Where the atmosphere and clouds
simply refract light;
creating an array of complex hues
the sky became emphatic
to show off it's beauty
That was today
There's that sunset
Where you'd
Look
Upon
The horizon
And see the clouds move
slowly and yet hastily
And despite the Coriolis,
the clouds form shapes
And represent
such figures to you
whether human, animal, or object
It reminds you of
memories, places, people
That was today
There's that sunset
Where you'd
Look
Upon
The horizon
And just look at the grandeur of it
Where you cannot tell where
The sky ends and the earth begins
no trace of the sun nor the moon
Like the earth felt God's redamancy
and God felt the Earth's
and our worlds finally became one
That was today
There's that sunset
Where you'd
Look
Upon
The horizon
And the moment you lay your eyes Upon it
all the questions, all the queries
finally become answered to
like quantum theory and "beauty"
ultimately became understood
like you now have an answer
to your most enigmatic problem
That was today
I looked upon that sunset
I have an answer
I finally have an answer
I now have an answer
That was today
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 11:41 AM UTC
-for Zukiswa Mvunguse~
and for
~ Jul,
who once again,
loved each line best~
having already deduced that:
“the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloratura”^
the titled alliteration teases him into thinking
there, is more to be said,
more to be prayed,
the unplanned lesser lesson is as-of-the-yet unlearned,
and the sunburst of a full fledged
lying-in-bed born from a static spark of kinetic energy,
awaking in an unfamiliar bed
or a too familiar state of mind,
begs for birth and vainglorious death-by-anon/amity
of another poem
I have written poems commissioned,
“write about suicide,” asked a friend,
“take this word and artfully knead it,” once, was once an oft request,
twisty manipulate your scheming resources into
finely assaying a field rock raw,
laboratory mind-mine it into an essay that delve dives
where you fear to treacherous tread,
resultant, an awkward prayer, now, a valued mineral
no poem is truly planned and no prayer ever truly answered,
but as you compose, pushing the last, next word
ever farther to the right,
you self-confess, expecting no absolution, that the poem,
this one as well,
and the next, and the next, and the next
has always been planned since your inception,
always a prayer asked, and in creation conception,
answered even if not directly answered,
for
in the bare minimum asking,
is the answering,
is the planning,
is the poem and the prayer,
is his owned
alliteration
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 8:16 AM UTC
Melancholic misadventures and misanthropic moments make meeting men more and more meaningless,
Meaning less and less to those who undress to convene in the act of adulterated ***
Flex:
Point!
Sit down,
Smoke a joint,
Go to sleep,
Work,
Eat,
Wash
(sometimes, not too often)
Feign attraction
and smile with your eyes as you die on the inside
Darkness outside
Whilst wintery winds whistle,
the worldly-wise whittle on and on in their wordy way of the other-worldly wonders they have witnessed.
We can but wish that their wily whispers will soon diminish with the melting snow
Or else go,
Turn your back on all that you lack before you step on a crack, break that back and see it refract through the prism of the microcosm of your mind
Colour-blind
Lost
Trying to find
Be found
My heart beats yet I hear no sound
As plasma pumps passionately through my pallid passages and I ponder partially perceptible pursuits that preside in my past
Digging deep down into the depths of my ***** deeds discloses a discerning dichotomous divulgence of doctrine and dogma
Two mothers
Three brothers
One sister
And a whole load of Misters!
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 7:59 PM UTC
I walk around my hundred person hot tub party
and I
cannot feel anything
crawling through my veins alcohol takes over
alone in my yellow living room full of people
\\
The girls from the local apartments are here
they arrive in groups of three
five
six
sometimes in long trains of sixteen
I try not to **** my pants with laughter
as I hug and greet each one as they grace my home
I never thought I would be this person
this tongue tied host
\\
the felons are here talking about their latest stints in jail
the Olympian is talking about how he walked next to Lebron James at the opening ceremony
the musicians are serenading a girl that does not want to hear it
plastic bags have been placed over the smoke alarms
the marine is talking about killing in the desert
leaning on the northward wall I take a long drag of my blunt trying to look aloofly attractive
, but failing miserably at the act
until she walked up to me
red leather jacket
skin so soft
binding black dress
I liberated her from it and she kissed me
Kissing her back emptied my inhibitions and the morning after: when I found out he was in love with her and I had slept with her; I felt alone all over again
She ran when this was spoken
Me and him fought with our fists
nothing got resolved
all of a sudden
I feel isolation again
just like the party
leaning on the northward wall
having made thirty conversations
none of which compel me
finally leaving me to the world
that exists in my head
THE ONE I CONTROL
\\
I have this negative kick back
whenever I feel something going too nice
I just want to be in my room
alone
with a computer
books
marijuana
a chair
pen
paper
precious paradise
I want to run
tear my flesh off my chest
rip into a heavy metal howl
then have blasting music come in
come in from every corner of the room
the bass tones would bounce from the corners
the high tones would bounce of the walls and refract rapidly
and I would be gone
now wondering
what my position is to where they stand
\\
What worlds we can mentally create
and which do we want to step into
Sometimes the ability is strong on Tuesdays but not on Thursdays
Why the inconsistency?
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
is a # ... read : abstract
concept
to place limits ... read : abstract
concept
on infinity ... read : object
existing.
To count the colors in a rainbow,
Or to catch a rainbow,
Or to describe a rainbow,
You forfeit perfect vision.
Diagnosis : become knocked off of your feet
Forget gravity
Look at a drop of water Up Close In the Sunlight
Kiss it
Drink
Refract light when you feel full
and round
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 6:00 PM UTC
stone ground mustard Venus burns. She's not concerned that constant falling
and orbits, elliptical - are the same thing.
Her eyes are deaf. My eyes adapt to the pattern
that rattles the chain of events.
my Spartan theories dangle in dubiousness.
I find a trap, and call it Seattle... for i see cattle -
grazing a state of mind; north, north west of what God meant.
washing tons of pocket lint by hand.
chewing their cud
in the dark. meanwhile - outside the ranch...
My eyes refract. ***** and un-twink in the black lacquer that came -
with the oblique miracle. they sustain things that would sunder a doll-eyed bovine
to ever breach The Fence.
my hardened arteries jangle like numinous. I pine and snap ruinous barbs from Death's
prattle... for i see battle, razing the Grace of Time
more at war, than at our best. more -
bereft of what Reason defends.
tossing guns at bullets
by telekinesis.
[ undefined ]
i come from where i've never been. you were there. and ewe were there; fleeced and bleating
in the snow that fell as soon as shearing ceased. i recall, you were never there. but remember
passing you by... shilling an ocean roar you swore you'd plucked from a Seashell -
salvaged from the divine dry sockets of Poseidon's skull.
you were hawking your unawares. i played a flute made of question marks and glass drum skins.
i went where my stride was inclined, and never where i went to.
i never arrived by approaching the destination. only by always being somewhere else
till i got there. i came from where i'd never been and -
ain't been Nowhere since.
but i'm sure i pass
through There
ever since.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
Today is better than last night for now the delicate cords held within my throat do not refuse air its passage through them for anything more than the oxygen it carries even though all I was wanting to do was scream.
Today is better than last night for now my sight is clear - free of the tears which could not fall due to the dam I built too high and too well who's retribution was to refract my guiding lights into nonsensical shapes which could offer no comfort.
Today is better than last night for now the sharp daggers of keratin are not biting at my skin frantically trying to purify me of this rotting flesh which coats my bones, and my mind is past not being able to wrap its tendrils about the idea of people possibly loving this wretched creature I have become... Or perhaps it did wrap around that fragile concept but instead of absorbing it those vines of the rose garden of my mind stayed true to form and grew thorns to pierce and tear at the idea like my nails once did to this alabaster canvas while holding as tightly as doubt sometimes holds my lungs keeping me from breathing, but this concept is more breakable then my lungs... And so it was crushed into stardust. The same stardust that comprises or bodies because every element of our bodies is created within our guiding lights we wish upon. And I see that sparkle of stardust every day in each of your eyes. I see it in everyone's eyes.. except my own... And it makes me wonder if maybe dad was right and some people are just made of a different type of dust. A dust comprised from the ashes of hell itself which will forever smolder but never more catch aflame... The ashes filed with the agonies of those souls which lost themselves in the madness and feel into the eternal night.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 6:17 PM UTC
I love you so much
when you cry;
my eyes follow the glistening
stream winding saccharine
from your widened eyes,
eyelids batting, begging for a home
run to chase the pain away.
Tears refract the light
and you are a pool of rainbows shimmering
in the ripples that my gauze thumbs make
but the stitching is too
l o o s e
to hide all of the tears.
My lips sojourn at your kopje nose
before prowling at the edge
of the watering hole ,
sunset draped across your cheeks
and fading fast as moist night settles.
This close, so close,
lashes like willow limbs
and dripping dregs of whisper rain
as our eyes, behind ocean veil,
exchange supernovas bursting wide
enough
to collapse into black holes.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 7:54 PM UTC
I've never seen eyes quite like yours.
A 17th century folklore might label you a changeling,
try to **** your colic with honey,
and, I'm sorry to say,
but you could've been burned at the stake
with eyes like that.
Sometimes I catch your pupils riding
on a black swan's wings
stealing secrets from the breeze.
The sky around them melts my skin like a scorching Arizona sky;
Lake Placid Blue
That's when I know you're staring out the window
wishing for the birds to return
way too late in the morning.
Sometimes those eyes refract an eerie, emerald green,
like they're mimicking a sci-fi movie:
The Man who Fell to Earth
I know you are too far out in space for me to reach you then,
so I send out some light-house giggles and I hope you'll find your way back to Earth soon.
When those windows to your soul are guarded with golden, earthy chambers,
you rattle the bars with your native tongue,
cooing and commanding I recite the password again and again.
and I know exactly what to say,
when your eyes glimmer like the California gold-rush:
Let me in.
Sometimes I can hold them in one hand
while they ring like Baoding *****
entrancing me into Nirvana.
Other times they burn me like fire,
and I'm caught off guard, not enlightened enough, yet, to walk over hot coals.
You're a changeling, indeed.
But when your eyelids are closed,
and all those secrets disappear back into your soul,
you wreak of consistency,
solid as an oak tree.
Your stories seep back into your roots.
The roots that burrow deep into my soil,
familiar and warm.
I hide your secrets there.
I hold you for as long as you let me,
and I'm not afraid when you flutter back into your folklore
because I hold the key to your resting place,
the seeds of your fruitful vision.
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 3:52 PM UTC
I get sick of cliches, I get sick of the tropes
I get sick of affected twits and how love had them on the ropes
If I let myself breathe the same air as everyone else I'm gonna choke
I can't help but breathe her in and feel I've gone beyond the scope
Of my, simple visions of destroyed inhibitions
and I, can't help but get nervous how she changes up my focus
Can I, convey this handedly while knowing understandably
That I'm leaning on a danger to a core that I've exposed
We've leaned down for contact, she pushed me I push back
The pressure on our hearts has potential for explosion
The languish I had locked inside interior erosion
Implodes, he dotes of notes he'd wrote to quote a query quietly
Distrusting of emotions, just a quiver can inspire me
Fearing no enemy, fearing no evil entity
Fearing only connection and if I'm wasting my energy
Love brought me happiness but it stirred up the cobwebs
Little demons laying dormant til I explored them in every form
in every figure in every norm til they've distorted my performance
But as pandora's box was 1st class special ordered to my doorstep
I dove in straight for signs of hope, a passing look could soon afford this.
She voices her fears, connections lost by the distance
I'll bridge the gap to defend her, no need she says with persistence
She's scared of monotony, she gets scared of the tropes
She gets sick of affected twits and how they leave her with no hope
If she's forced to breathe the same as before she's gonna choke
I leaned in for contact, I push her, she pushed back
We're two shades of the same Wavelength
Our angles just refract.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
I don't promise to drive away your doubts.
I don't promise to drive away your doubts as if
they were shadows and I am the sun rising up out
of your darkness, I cannot erase past lovers or touch
you the way they did because I have never loved someone
beneath the covers, in amber rooms that smell like vanilla and
chicory, I've never took hold of someone and felt there, as
if the moment had been preluded by most everything in my life
we both and breathe and--
I would like to tell you that my love will be outspoken, but it will always be a whisper. A warm breeze that catches the hem of your
shirt and cools the sweat on your back, the soft remnants of a song--
the curious sounds that turn into music in the middle of the night
when the buzz of a hot summer sounds more like a choir, an undulating melody straying through the screen as if it never
meant to find you but it did, love did.
That I will not chase your fears to the absolute ends but approach them
slowly as wounded people, take their arthritic hands and speak softly to them, never recoiling from the faces of your past. Kiss your bruises and lay them out on the porch, every smattering of blue and moss green growing pansies in the garden--
When you tell me your secrets I will wrap them in lace and tell you mine, I will unbutton every layer of every girl i've ever been and show you the list of scars, the tick marks on these ribs where I once was captive in my own body,
I will not pick across your fields and uproot your flaws, I will sit beneath the trees you grew out of sheer anger and coax flowers to grow--Because your mistakes are not things to get rid of, only waxy residue I rub from the leaves with my thumbs, a better part of you that has always been there--that I'll move from the shelves and place on the dining room table, not for me to polish but for you to see--
That you are beautiful. That you refract the daylight just by shifting your head. That even when you are tearing into yourself in vicious rages, you will still be fringed in a splendid brilliance--
I will not take you by force, you are not an expedition, I am not a missionary. I will always ask, always from a distance. So hushed
and subdued,
for you.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 9:29 PM UTC
~
Human love enhances floating dust particles
Platanas autumn colours invigorate this day
Between half open eyelashes Sun rays refract
The bountiful light in delicate rosette offering.
~
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 10:31 AM UTC
refract |riˈfrakt|
verb [ trans. ] (usu. be refracted)
(of water, air, or glass) make (a ray of light) change direction when it enters at an angle : the rays of light are refracted by the material of the lens.
******* ash out of a little cardboard tube- what else would you have me do?
Taxed gasps but not as heavily as my thoughts- it is brought to my attention that,
perhaps I think too much.
and focus too little.
But as I’ve enunciated countless times before
what it is I’m waiting for
Refraction
Would it be wise just to make it happen?
Refraction
Nothing ever came to be by accident
Refraction
Except when the sunlight shone
and the wind did blow
with capricious direction
Refraction
and then a human crawled from the
cosmological wreckage
absolutely ******* random
Refraction
I suppose it’s within my grasp
to change my path
If only I knew where I was headed
Refraction
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 11:59 PM UTC
You,
there,
with your stripes so delicately traced.
Me
here
with a mess of ink scattered randomly
with patterns of unknown angles
and eloquence of unseen form.
My abundance is your emptiness,
my decisions are your mysteries,
but, as naked before me you stand,
little seems unsolved.
Your blankness stares me down
intimidating my activity,
preventing me from breaching the silence,
and so I stare back at you, thinking.
My thoughts will adorn your garment
and knowing this is menacing..
it roars back against my marks
and keeps your pinstripes perfect.
Oh yes, those stripes,
languishing in stupid blue,
amongst the white cascades
that aren’t quite white.
To me they dance
with shadows of brilliance
flowing against them.
They give way to great paths,
intricately traced,
intimately felt,
that take you and make you art.
But those are just shadows
my imagination cannot cast.
My eye is blank and blue.
But wait..
a siren shrieks from deep beneath
and steeps subconscious thoughts to breach
the border between ink and speech
and decorate your fair stripes.
My inspired eye sees these wild designs
that divide, and unite, and indeed multiply
into winding and time-binding styles inscribed
but how
in the hell
do I start?
****
You still stare
blankly
boldly
as I still stall
fumbling
folding..
but slow to lose hold to my shadowy flashes
that fought against waterfalls
to reach peaks of genius
and fell short
but fell well above thoughts before.
So with pen of black,
I faintly refract
the light that has shown me the door.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 8:41 AM UTC
a warm glow shifts softly
in space & rhythm.
i pull the curtain aside & sit in the back--
a handful of seats, but only one
gets worn, the others
fool the mind into believing
imagination defies physics
to drink from the creative cauldron,
that ever-boiling vessel
churning out new
patterns & threads,
weaving fresh fibers between
spirits & minds.
the holographic hardware,
whirring too fast for ears.
our mind is the web & we spiders
spin the silk,
carefully or sloppily,
connecting the strands to catch
not flies but images,
sparks, bulbs & flashes.
often small, but once caught
emerge as a garden of gems
whose faces refract & reflect
until nearly all gems become one.
what's required is
a bright enough light
with fluid agility,
to illuminate & reflect
the whole nebula through
one, clean face--
perhaps the original gem itself;
for what would our mind be
without that raw crystal
forged in the stars?
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 6:10 PM UTC
I knock on doors
that refract light
as sketched shapes of hope.
That chimera of real and illusion.
I remember that in hospitals,
maternity wards and hospice,
doors are to be opened and shut
with gloved hands,
elbows or leaning hips.
I hold myself to a few words:
I needed to go
and so I do,
"one-step at a time,"
when fortitude warms the path
And otherwise,
I remember a red light in the dark
at 6 am in February,
chortling engine
with two hundred miles to traverse -
I was sleepy and restless
and beneath my hums on coffee breath
a seed sprouted
barbs and blossoms.
I doubled down on heartbreak
and the fertility of schisms,
because the world is shaped
by twisting plates that ****** and slide
into one another in dumb collision,
and for all we glean of how,
it may as well be on stone rafts of fate
we built our hopes.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 2:01 PM UTC
the light streams through glass shards
held
together by stone-pressed force
columns of light refract onto the hard
and cold wooden floor
dust particles, suspended in free fall, dance as the light
shimmers on their skin
gleaming like small glints of silver
the dust fades into the
Air;
transcendent, Gone.
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 6:53 PM UTC
Sitting. On some wooden railing.
Typical movie scene.
Staring off into the distance,
Patiently waiting Helios to set.
The wind tuning to a mezzo-piano sound.
Harmonious really.
I don't have long hair that can nonchalantly flow through space as the wind blows past,
But I have long eye lashes.
And I can glance back and forth,
As if I'm double-taking a beautiful girl walking along the country side,
Noticing the honeycomb rainbows the sun's rays make
As my eye lashes magically refract them.
My mind is racing with thoughts,
Yet ever-so calmly making sense of it all.
Of course I can comprehend my own thoughts.
Most of the time, I guess.
Then in my peripheral vision,
I see a car's headlights flash by.
Light.
It's always attracted me for some odd reason.
Ironically, darkness seems to be my friend.
More so than light.
Yin & Yang.
They're balanced.
As am I.
Gracefully leaping off the wooden railing,
I make my way back to what I call home.
Is it really home?
Or is it just a house.
In any case,
I take one more look off to my right,
Over my shoulder,
And behold Helios gathering the last of his strings.
In an instant,
The threadbare sky becomes darker, slowly.
Magnificently caressing the lack of luster,
By embedding tiny diamonds into the holes that are seemingly there.
Then, Hercules makes his way unto the stage of darkness,
Radiating brightly.
Slowly shutting the door,
Taking one last gasp of air into my lungs,
I look outside at the silos near my house and wonder:
Do you two ever get lonely when dusk falls and everyone has faded to black?
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 12:29 AM UTC