Simple questions deserve simple answers.
For that is the way life runs,
The simpleness of a subject is complemented by something much more simpler.
So why is it, 
When this question surfaces in the minds of every writer,
There is nothing simple to it.

The reason for writing is as simple as it can be.
It is like painting on a canvas board,
For every stroke of the paintbrush is a stroke of words
Painting vivid images in the minds of every boy and girl.
We as writers are giving life to the lifeless lines of paper.
For even when it's blank,
There is still an image painted through words.

The greatest invention mankind could ever think of is words.
For without them, 
Nothing could ever exist.
Without the simpleness of screaming out how blue the sky is 
Or how soft those clouds look,
Or even how beautiful a starry night sky can be,
How can we
Ever appreciate the beauty writers create on canvas boards.
For every written word on a blank sheet of paper,
Is a stroke of paint,
Creating magnificence inside a dull mind

My good sir,
When asking a writer their reason for writing should be as simple as this
But
If its too complex for your mind to comprehend,
Then, let me simplify it further.
When you ask an artist their reason for creating art,
You are merely asking their reason for existing
Asking why they are  deluding themselves on such strange fantasies
But you have yet to realize the true nature of us artists
We find many ways to escape harsh realities 
Creating picture perfect paradises
Or even amplifying how gruesome society can be. 

The reason for writing should be as simple as this.
For the simpleness of a subject should be complemented with something much more simpler.
But if it's too complex for you,
The reason why writers write is as simple as this,
Writers are artists and therefore write to create art,
Like taking a single paintbrush and painting on a canvas board
We as writers take a single pencil and write on blank sheets of paper.

Thousand minstrels woke within me,
"Our music's in the hills; "—
Gayest pictures rose to win me,
Leopard-colored rills.
Up!—If thou knew'st who calls
To twilight parks of beech and pine,
High over the river intervals,
Above the ploughman's highest line,
Over the owner's farthest walls;—
Up!—where the airy citadel
O'erlooks the purging landscape's swell.
Let not unto the stones the day
Her lily and rose, her sea and land display;
Read the celestial sign!
Lo! the South answers to the North;
Bookworm, break this sloth urbane;
A greater Spirit bids thee forth,
Than the gray dreams which thee detain.

Mark how the climbing Oreads
Beckon thee to their arcades;
Youth, for a moment free as they,
Teach thy feet to feel the ground,
Ere yet arrive the wintry day
When Time thy feet has bound.
Accept the bounty of thy birth;
Taste the lordship of the earth.

I heard and I obeyed,
Assured that he who pressed the claim,
Well-known, but loving not a name,
Was not to be gainsaid.

Ere yet the summoning voice was still,
I turned to Cheshire's haughty hill.
From the fixed cone the cloud-rack flowed
Like ample banner flung abroad
Round about, a hundred miles,
With invitation to the sea, and to the bordering isles.

In his own loom's garment drest,
By his own bounty blest,
Fast abides this constant giver,
Pouring many a cheerful river;
To far eyes, an aërial isle,
Unploughed, which finer spirits pile,
Which morn and crimson evening paint
For bard, for lover, and for saint;
The country's core,
Inspirer, prophet evermore,
Pillar which God aloft had set
So that men might it not forget,
It should be their life's ornament,
And mix itself with each event;
Their calendar and dial,
Barometer, and chemic phial,
Garden of berries, perch of birds,
Pasture of pool-haunting herds,
Graced by each change of sum untold,
Earth-baking heat, stone-cleaving cold.

The Titan minds his sky-affairs,
Rich rents and wide alliance shares;
Mysteries of color daily laid
By the great sun in light and shade,
And, sweet varieties of chance,
And the mystic seasons' dance,
And thief-like step of liberal hours
Which thawed the snow-drift into flowers.
O wondrous craft of plant and stone
By eldest science done and shown!
Happy, I said, whose home is here,
Fair fortunes to the mountaineer!
Boon nature to his poorest shed
Has royal pleasure-grounds outspread.
Intent I searched the region round,
And in low hut my monarch found.
He was no eagle and no earl,
Alas! my foundling was a churl,
With heart of cat, and eyes of bug,
Dull victim of his pipe and mug;
Woe is me for my hopes' downfall!
Lord! is yon squalid peasant all
That this proud nursery could breed
For God's vicegerency and stead?
Time out of mind this forge of ores,
Quarry of spars in mountain pores,
Old cradle, hunting ground, and bier
Of wolf and otter, bear, and deer;
Well-built abode of many a race;
Tower of observance searching space;
Factory of river, and of rain;
Link in the alps' globe-girding chain;
By million changes skilled to tell
What in the Eternal standeth well,
And what obedient nature can,—
Is this colossal talisman
Kindly to creature, blood, and kind,
And speechless to the master's mind?

I thought to find the patriots
In whom the stock of freedom roots.
To myself I oft recount
Tales of many a famous mount.—
Wales, Scotland, Uri, Hungary's dells,
Roys, and Scanderbegs, and Tells.
Here now shall nature crowd her powers,
Her music, and her meteors,
And, lifting man to the blue deep
Where stars their perfect courses keep,
Like wise preceptor lure his eye
To sound the science of the sky,
And carry learning to its height
Of untried power and sane delight;
The Indian cheer, the frosty skies
Breed purer wits, inventive eyes,
Eyes that frame cities where none be,
And hands that stablish what these see:
And, by the moral of his place,
Hint summits of heroic grace;
Man in these crags a fastness find
To fight pollution of the mind;
In the wide thaw and ooze of wrong,
Adhere like this foundation strong,
The insanity of towns to stem
With simpleness for stratagem.
But if the brave old mould is broke,
And end in clowns the mountain-folk,
In tavern cheer and tavern joke,—
Sink, O mountain! in the swamp,
Hide in thy skies, O sovereign lap!
Perish like leaves the highland breed!
No sire survive, no son succeed!

Soft! let not the offended muse
Toil's hard hap with scorn accuse.
Many hamlets sought I then,
Many farms of mountain men;—
Found I not a minstrel seed,
But men of bone, and good at need.
Rallying round a parish steeple
Nestle warm the highland people,
Coarse and boisterous, yet mild,
Strong as giant, slow as child,
Smoking in a squalid room,
Where yet the westland breezes come.
Close hid in those rough guises lurk
Western magians, here they work;
Sweat and season are their arts,
Their talismans are ploughs and carts;
And well the youngest can command
Honey from the frozen land,
With sweet hay the swamp adorn,
Change the running sand to corn,
For wolves and foxes, lowing herds,
And for cold mosses, cream and curds;
Weave wood to canisters and mats,
Drain sweet maple-juice in vats.
No bird is safe that cuts the air,
From their rifle or their snare;
No fish in river or in lake,
But their long hands it thence will take;
And the country's iron face
Like wax their fashioning skill betrays,
To fill the hollows, sink the hills,
Bridge gulfs, drain swamps, build dams and mills,
And fit the bleak and howling place
For gardens of a finer race,
The world-soul knows his own affair,
Fore-looking when his hands prepare
For the next ages men of mould,
Well embodied, well ensouled,
He cools the present's fiery glow,
Sets the life pulse strong, but slow.
Bitter winds and fasts austere.
His quarantines and grottos, where
He slowly cures decrepit flesh,
And brings it infantile and fresh.
These exercises are the toys
And games with which he breathes his boys.
They bide their time, and well can prove,
If need were, their line from Jove,
Of the same stuff, and so allayed,
As that whereof the sun is made;
And of that fibre quick and strong
Whose throbs are love, whose thrills are song.
Now in sordid weeds they sleep,
Their secret now in dulness keep.
Yet, will you learn our ancient speech,
These the masters who can teach,
Fourscore or a hundred words
All their vocal muse affords,
These they turn in other fashion
Than the writer or the parson.
I can spare the college-bell,
And the learned lecture well.
Spare the clergy and libraries,
Institutes and dictionaries,
For the hardy English root
Thrives here unvalued underfoot.
Rude poets of the tavern hearth,
Squandering your unquoted mirth,
Which keeps the ground and never soars,
While Jake retorts and Reuben roars,
Tough and screaming as birch-bark,
Goes like bullet to its mark,
While the solid curse and jeer
Never balk the waiting ear:
To student ears keen-relished jokes
On truck, and stock, and farming-folks,—
Nought the mountain yields thereof
But savage health and sinews tough.

On the summit as I stood,
O'er the wide floor of plain and flood,
Seemed to me the towering hill
Was not altogether still,
But a quiet sense conveyed;
If I err not, thus it said:

Many feet in summer seek
Betimes my far-appearing peak;
In the dreaded winter-time,
None save dappling shadows climb
Under clouds my lonely head,
Old as the sun, old almost as the shade.
And comest thou
To see strange forests and new snow,
And tread uplifted land?
And leavest thou thy lowland race,
Here amid clouds to stand,
And would'st be my companion,
Where I gaze
And shall gaze
When forests fall, and man is gone,
Over tribes and over times
As the burning Lyre
Nearing me,
With its stars of northern fire,
In many a thousand years.

Ah! welcome, if thou bring
My secret in thy brain;
To mountain-top may muse's wing
With good allowance strain.
Gentle pilgrim, if thou know
The gamut old of Pan,
And how the hills began,
The frank blessings of the hill
Fall on thee, as fall they will.
'Tis the law of bush and stone—
Each can only take his own.
Let him heed who can and will,—
Enchantment fixed me here
To stand the hurts of time, until
In mightier chant I disappear.
If thou trowest
How the chemic eddies play
Pole to pole, and what they say,
And that these gray crags
Not on crags are hung,
But beads are of a rosary
On prayer and music strung;
And, credulous, through the granite seeming
Seest the smile of Reason beaming;
Can thy style-discerning eye
The hidden-working Builder spy,
Who builds, yet makes no chips, no din,
With hammer soft as snow-flake's flight;
Knowest thou this?
O pilgrim, wandering not amiss!
Already my rocks lie light,
And soon my cone will spin.
For the world was built in order,
And the atoms march in tune,
Rhyme the pipe, and time the warder,
Cannot forget the sun, the moon.
Orb and atom forth they prance,
When they hear from far the rune,
None so backward in the troop,
When the music and the dance
Reach his place and circumstance,
But knows the sun-creating sound,
And, though a pyramid, will bound.

Monadnoc is a mountain strong,
Tall and good my kind among,
But well I know, no mountain can
Measure with a perfect man;
For it is on Zodiack's writ,
Adamant is soft to wit;
And when the greater comes again,
With my music in his brain,
I shall pass as glides my shadow
Daily over hill and meadow.

Through all time
I hear the approaching feet
Along the flinty pathway beat
Of him that cometh, and shall come,—
Of him who shall as lightly bear
My daily load of woods and streams,
As now the round sky-cleaving boat
Which never strains its rocky beams,
Whose timbers, as they silent float,
Alps and Caucasus uprear,
And the long Alleghanies here,
And all town-sprinkled lands that be,
Sailing through stars with all their history.

Every morn I lift my head,
Gaze o'er New England underspread
South from Saint Lawrence to the Sound,
From Katshill east to the sea-bound.
Anchored fast for many an age,
I await the bard and sage,
Who in large thoughts, like fair pearl-seed,
Shall string Monadnoc like a bead.
Comes that cheerful troubadour,
This mound shall throb his face before,
As when with inward fires and pain
It rose a bubble from the plain.
When he cometh, I shall shed
From this well-spring in my head
Fountain drop of spicier worth
Than all vintage of the earth.
There's fruit upon my barren soil
Costlier far than wine or oil;
There's a berry blue and gold,—
Autumn-ripe its juices hold,
Sparta's stoutness, Bethlehem's heart,
Asia's rancor, Athens' art,
Slowsure Britain's secular might,
And the German's inward sight;
I will give my son to eat
Best of Pan's immortal meat,
Bread to eat and juice to drink,
So the thoughts that he shall think
Shall not be forms of stars, but stars,
Nor pictures pale, but Jove and Mars.

He comes, but not of that race bred
Who daily climb my specular head.
Oft as morning wreathes my scarf,
Fled the last plumule of the dark,
Pants up hither the spruce clerk
From South-Cove and City-wharf;
I take him up my rugged sides,
Half-repentant, scant of breath,—
Bead-eyes my granite chaos show,
And my midsummer snow;
Open the daunting map beneath,—
All his county, sea and land,
Dwarfed to measure of his hand;
His day's ride is a furlong space,
His city tops a glimmering haze:
I plant his eyes on the sky-hoop bounding;—
See there the grim gray rounding
Of the bullet of the earth
Whereon ye sail,
Tumbling steep
In the uncontinented deep;—
He looks on that, and he turns pale:
'Tis even so, this treacherous kite,
Farm-furrowed, town-incrusted sphere,
Thoughtless of its anxious freight,
Plunges eyeless on for ever,
And he, poor parasite,—
Cooped in a ship he cannot steer,
Who is the captain he knows not,
Port or pilot trows not,—
Risk or ruin he must share.
I scowl on him with my cloud,
With my north wind chill his blood,
I lame him clattering down the rocks,
And to live he is in fear.
Then, at last, I let him down
Once more into his dapper town,
To chatter frightened to his clan,
And forget me, if he can.
As in the old poetic fame
The gods are blind and lame,
And the simular despite
Betrays the more abounding might,
So call not waste that barren cone
Above the floral zone,
Where forests starve:
It is pure use;
What sheaves like those which here we glean and bind,
Of a celestial Ceres, and the Muse?

Ages are thy days,
Thou grand expressor of the present tense,
And type of permanence,
Firm ensign of the fatal Being,
Amid these coward shapes of joy and grief
That will not bide the seeing.
Hither we bring
Our insect miseries to the rocks,
And the whole flight with pestering wing
Vanish and end their murmuring,
Vanish beside these dedicated blocks,
Which, who can tell what mason laid?
Spoils of a front none need restore,
Replacing frieze and architrave;
Yet flowers each stone rosette and metope brave,
Still is the haughty pile *****
Of the old building Intellect.
Complement of human kind,
Having us at vantage still,
Our sumptuous indigence,
O barren mound! thy plenties fill.
We fool and prate,—
Thou art silent and sedate.
To million kinds and times one sense
The constant mountain doth dispense,
Shedding on all its snows and leaves,
One joy it joys, one grief it grieves.
Thou seest, O watchman tall!
Our towns and races grow and fall,
And imagest the stable Good
For which we all our lifetime *****,
In shifting form the formless mind;
And though the substance us elude,
We in thee the shadow find.
Thou in our astronomy
An opaker star,
Seen, haply, from afar,
Above the horizon's hoop.
A moment by the railway troop,
As o'er some bolder height they speed,—
By circumspect ambition,
By errant Gain,
By feasters, and the frivolous,—
Recallest us,
And makest sane.
Mute orator! well-skilled to plead,
And send conviction without phrase,
Thou dost supply
The shortness of our days,
And promise, on thy Founder's truth,
Long morrow to this mortal youth.

ah childhood
the beginning of all humanity
and the motherhood of all thought

the wide eyes
on a smiling faces
missing teeth
but lacking shame
in that flaw
look out upon the world
and see only what is
without the haze
of arbitrary thought

each flower is just a flower
and if it is beautiful
it is beautiful
and if it is ugly
it is ugly

but if the flower is a ****
it is still a flower, ugly or beautiful.
and if the flower is a animal
it is still a flower, ugly or beautiful.

and the child accepts this
without a thought or lingering
doubt

the child looks out upon the world
and sees it

the trees and birds
the buildings and cars
the societies and peoples

they see it
and with a crayon in hand
they can recreate it
to the point where they are
satisfied

now can I do that?
no

if the trees are the wrong green
or the buildings not square or leaning
or the societies lopsided and unjust

I cannot stand for it!

but the child can

the child is pleased
only with the creation
not the quality or
quantity of it

and as they take their creation
on pieces of white nine and half
by eleven
they smile that wide smile
missing teeth
and they are truly happy
with what they have

they do not think of their missing teeth
they do not think of their miss-matched clothes
they do not think that their picture is best
they do not think of anything but happiness

that moment for them
is as blissful as one will
ever be

and the tragedy of it all
is that very few seem to
realize it

ah, childhood
looking back now we all remorse
and yet as we look on those who
have your gifts now, we all smile
and think

enjoy it kid
while things are
simple

'Thats true self harm' she said
proud and self announced
like she could comprehend the universe
and that it left her no challenges

that in her 50 years, she had learnt all people
all feelings
all possibilities
and could now group us all like colours in a jar

i left, because it hurt
to think that after everything i go through to explain
the simpleness of 'some people'
discounts all the effort

there is no wrong and right way to hurt yourself
there is only a future
which we endeavour to make hurt less

For those we love
we daily bless
with the gift of simpleness.

i daily weave
your importance like a wreath.
Hang it on
the door of my ribs.
Sweep the worn
boundaries of my limitations.

For in my veins
your lips touching
floods like cranes
in the empty skies
turning back toward
their homes
as raindrops erupt
the pools
with the
eruptions of rings
and patterns.

Hundreds of tiny people sit behind their perfect shutter speeds trying to capture love
I guess it could be easy.
A held hand here. A forehead kiss there. Maybe an engagement band or two.
Maybe if you captured a swoony eyed gaze.
That's love, right?
That's love?
That's what a 14 yearold girl makes the wallpaper on her disposable cell phone.
The same one she uses to plan her disposable relationships.
Anyone can capture that.
What about like?
Have you ever seen a photo of the nervous silent smiles, after a simple conversation?
Where's the picture of movie theather wishful yet sweaty unheld hands?
What exposure would be best for the simpleness of sharing a soda?
I dont know, but I'd sure like to see.

From the other room
I listen as you explain the many, many, many
reasons, things, times, and appointments
that necessarily mean
the end
of us

The otherness and incidentals
of the often forgotten
details and to-dos
of lives
better
and happier lived

From the other room
I listen as you describe your life in words of
painful regret, missed opportunities and hopeless futures
that don’t exist
so very much
for me

The pain and ingratitude
of a poor life
disrespect and disregard
becoming the
ante
of daily living

From the other room
I listen as you check emails and vmails and texts
of agreement, refreshment, and immediate joy
that shower down
from new confidantes
not me

The pleasure of escaping
from the marital mundane
dancing and drinking
re-becoming
the woman
admired

From the other room
I remember the choices we made
when agreement was agreeable and available
that made lives
worth
living well

The simpleness of a look
the knowing confidence
day in and day out
when someone,
You,
cared.

         10.iii.10

I was conscious the moment her hand touched mine.
It felt as if I was sleep waking in a beautiful dream.
I had no insight to anything before that. No remembrance of if I dreamed or not.
There was no grogginess no want to close my eyes.
I felt at peace laying there watching her stare back at me.
The simpleness of it all.
The experience of something so precious shrewd in nature
To be perfectly honest there is no place I'd rather be.
Her voice assured a deep well that cured need for thirst,
the sheer depth of a look shared from eye to eye.
I told myself it was just a dream,
But when she touched me; I refused to wake

She asked: "if your personality was a beverage, what would it be?"

"Well..." I said.
"it'd be smoothe going down. Or at least I like to think so.
It'd be sweet. But,
You know how there's like two types of sweet?

There's like the fruity sour, tangy, bright, sugar sweet?

And there's the malty, caramelly, chocolate, foggy sweet?

It'd be later kind of sweet.

It has a certain childish joy too it.
An optimisim, a simpleness,
like... chocolate milk.

But it has a punch.
And it isn't all, childish, it's also
Responsible,
Protective,
Passionate,
Bold,
Loving,
Hard,
Strong hearted,
Mature, like...

...Whiskey.

I'm like... Whiskey Chocolate Milk."

The crimson garment has fallen away,
Revealing a cover that's white and sheer.
A simpleness replacing undeserved shame,
A rebirth replacing muddled with clear.

Affected no more by past regrets,
Obscurity abounds no more,
Transformation of wayward self,
Into a soul, authentic and pure.

when I was in Japan,
I reached in my bag for yen,
I drew a coin with the Zia on it
given to me by a gem
as I stared at the cold breezy mountains of Japan holding this, I  was reminded of
The deep Roots of cracked hot concrete I would work out on
The smell of albondigas Nana would be making
The bright yellow and blue tile mismatched on the lining of the kitchen
The simpleness of living in a "this'll work" architecture
the tumbleweeds, the dry cacti landscape, vast dirt reaching to the dark amber mountains, painted with fading perfect blend from the sunset, homemade meals, la raza, tias and tios, the stray cats and dogs (and family pet names)

My Arizona desert was so hot that everything did its best to share being in the Cool casted shadows.

yet here I was in the complete opposite wishing for that sun
holding this coin brought be back to when you thought I would Judge where you were from
but your "Land of Enchantment" will always remind me of being one step closer to home...

Two choices. Two Roads
Stay Or GO
Failure Or Opportunity
IT is Unknown
I dont Create Fate
I certainly do not predict failure

IF I only I was a psychic of the future.

IF I stay-
MY unsuburban thrilled life might just be blessed with the simpleness that you bring -
But that is just Part time
However
If I GO-
MY life will be unknown, exciting and destined for failure or blessed for success - Perhaps it is the road less traveled that I should travel by

We sit in a comfortable silence.
He is preoccupied with something
in his hands and I sit watching him
and smiling. He looks up at me.

What is it? he asks.
You're just so goofy. I answer.
I do not tell him how amusing and childlike
his laughter is or how adorable his simpleness is to me.

Yeah, that's just me, he answers back.

Another comfortable silence.
He looks at me with a smile in his eyes.
What are you thinking of? he asks.

Why didn't we work?
What did I do wrong?
Would we have lasted?

Did you mean all the things you said
once upon a time or was I just a moment
of weakness and blind want for you?

Want me.
Miss me.
Hug me.
Hold me.
Need me.

Love me.

I've missed this comfortable silence,
these meaningful yet insignificant conversations,
your presence and your essence and your everything.

I don't know what I want anymore
but I know it's not you.
It's just something about you that I can't
seem to let go of easily.

I miss you. Please stay.

But reality steps in
and I am back again.

He looks at me with a smile in his eyes.
What are you thinking of? he asks.

Nothing, I'm just so tired, I answer.

He begins to sing and his voice is heaven.
I'm so tired, I haven't slept a wink.
I'm so tired, my mind is on the blink.
I wonder should I get up and fix myself a drink.

I consider singing along, but I just want to listen and smile.
You know that one, right? I nod and he grins.

Another comfortable silence.
I begin to realize that the next time we meet
he will probably have forgotten all about this conversation
and he may not speak to me at all.

So I sit there and decide to make the moment last,
lingering in my laughter and reveling in the moment.

Yet another comfortable silence.
What am I thinking of?
*He doesn't need to know.

The concept is an Illustration. That defining moment, when you
realize, you can do no more. Nor allow the heart to ever again
take a walk without our mind. My perception co exists with the
fearless barbarians, sent to make amends with the monsters.

The night, is a lonely bandit, stealing away our precious meddling.
Yet here I am. Taking this stroll upon a floor of stars & at free moments,
I skip, and whistle. For I have learned where to go when the rain pours
like milk. When the higher ground is below water. When love descends.

To the mountains for nourishment, by carriage, along the way
cutting trees, to give to the whitest of lights. I desire nothing more then
simpleness. A way of life forgotten, because of unfairness & injustice.
I desire this condemned future, a contaminated element, that our

souls, refuse to show us. I can no longer tell good or bad apart. My
weary eyes, sleepless, toss & turn like cars on the moon.

You smell like grade six

The grade I hated the most.
The year that tarnished my simpleness.
The year I asked all the wrong questions,
      and got all the right answers.

The year of lies and fake friends.
The year I thought would be the best for me,
      but turned out so wrong.
The year the darkness started.

Man, you remind me of grade six
    in more ways than one.
Thankfully that year is history
   and I've long since graduated.
Graduated to something much better

To speak honestly, I have never seen a deeper shade of green than your eyes hold
They take a hold of me with that ever present green as their simple poetries unfold
But you would say I lie and then try to deny whatever it is I do see
So I will say so true the truth I find in you and the eyes the constantly stare at me

Dearest girl I must say this world pales to grey when I think every day of your eyes
The wonder of it all as your eyes quietly call and my heart leaps and falls each time
And I hope you'll understand the words of a brown eyed man as he tries to understand just why
You yourself do not see the jaded waves of green that I forever see in your eyes

Some would protest that they have seen areas in lands where grass is green, but in comparing them to your hue and shine
A gift that God gave from himself and meant simply for no one else to show how true green should be defined
And here I stand with eyes on you looking humbly at your hue with eyes of brown that pale in memory
Trying to show you the loveliness that it seems you cannot confess that is in the simpleness of your green

There's a simpleness to Saturn, as it shines into night.
Dancing all through Virgo, bouncing off the light.

I viewed it through a telescope, hidden in the stars.
Then I turned to the west, and saw the red man Mars.

After which I looked for the man on the moon, sitting in his glow.
But sadly though he did not show.

Then with a sigh I realized, that tonight there was no moonrise.
And all there was, was darkness, burning in my black eyes.

So I moved into a field of green.
To get the view of what's unseen.

I saw the north west sky beyond the trees.
My curiosity had reached at it's peak.

For there lay the bright and glorious Venus.
And all the land that lay between us.

She shined and put the stars to shame.
As if she won the cosmic game.

But when I looked I gave a shiver.
Because her brightness, was just a sliver.

And so I stood there in a daze.
Caught between her crescent phase.

Remember before the
Days of darkness
Rise, there used
To be brighter times?

The days of
Skinned knees and
Dancing in the
Autumn leaves
Haunt my teenage
Dreams.

Back to when
Sesame Street played
Endlessly on the
Family T.V. and
If Daddy watched it
One more time,
He'd **** near
Scream.

When Mama had
Her Canon in my face
And I'd hide in
The tiny spaces;
Appreciating the simpleness
Of my childhood
Resting place.

Before reality set
In and rattled
My toddler brain;
Before the world
Would turn
Cold and "how
Big the sky was" would
Just become
Another midnight
Thought.

How could I refrain
From such beautiful
Memories when
They're still
Haunting my
Teenage dreams?

Who am I to say what I know,
When what we see, and are taught to believe,
Is who we are.
Complex, yet somehow it is Simpleness that we learn.
The screech, and yell, our fates, broken,
Unchained.

So many I have seen,

Some walking free, arrow in the heart,

Some forget others even exist.

Carefree, Rebellious.

But we accept guilt all the same.

A daring blood winked rose,

Shattered in dark pieces of night.

Who am I to speak my mind and be open,
Because what we can't see,
and won't believe,
Is who we become.

There is a beauty in the simpleness
Of waking up every day
And seeing you again

When I said it know I meant it and now your touch is like 600 degrees
I feel the weight of the world swimming laps in my arteries
and one day I'll learn to speak like it's coming from some artillery
hiding underneath the simpleness of someone else's symmetry
The world could pardon me but that's such a giant part of me and I fear losing myself or losing who I'm thought to be, before you were living blind and I'm feeling like I can't speak but this is the moment that you can see, before you even find yourself you're paying a finder's fee
But how else are you to be free if under the skin is where you find the key, and you've never been 6 feet deep or felt 6 inches in your chest burning to the 3rd degree
Sometimes it's only fear and all you know is how to flee but I carved an anthem about you on the side of a cherry tree, it grew one hundred feet tall and another hundred deep

I'd forgotten for a little while
But it's hard not to miss
The simpleness and little things
Like the moments when we had kissed
It wasn't long and you were gone
But swing sets and certain songs
Remind me about who we are
And where we were right then
And if the best of days could be named
Then surely they'd be after you

Lives  in the mouths of cannons
engineering themselves in laughter, smelling, changing, in the tip of a firefly-before it thinks or truly lives. Glowing, in the buzz-hum with a perfect way of rolling
over each other in geometric bliss-mating
like shadows flying from the hands of a tribesman, in the ceremony of his eyes – - explaining to his love
that she is the stealth of his blood, and that the camera watching has lungs too, like you or ‘I’. Stripped negatives from chests sing from a line of animals hung in a black room
the only thing to remind the city of its eternal face, wetness clinging to each peg – all augmenting themselves, transforming drains into ventricles and aorta’s-opening, the sighing pool-mass we see has a curve along its far corners – slight – returning its shape to us inside the battery, and eons of humbling war, and the vat contained molasses,
and the occasional faces of god
in flickers, of red saluting static, across the landscape.

Our time is linked as the day shifts, workers conducting the days lips
joining sculptures uniformed in nakedness
steam glides across the deepening pool,
rhythms of the earth belt free from knowledge and chaos,
no life vermin,
no energy separated from birth,
or the simpleness of walking beside you

Where we always are,
in the climbing paths of voiced and unvoiced back world flowers, which hope without thought,
and never begin
until they are named,
and known within cell,
microbes repeating their art.

A nightingale crossing paths with a worm,
all of the lampshades tensing at once,
holding the air up
completely still
transcending a tight fist until it bursts into a tree
placing its roots in the burning ground by melting its ice
illumined
traces near the opal shaped glass
where we purge our minds
of transport beyond our own
intricate company
settling into one
and hearing nothing
that is not here
belonging;

with us.

One of me and my cousins
favorite places to play
Was behind Papas shop
I can still smell the saw dust
Repairs were made
That one could trust
Made from cinder blocks
Was a minnow pond
There is where Papa
Raised his own fishing bait
The wild blackberry field
Grew thorny on the other
Side of the gate
Best times of my youth
Spent on The Hill
Jumping off the pumphouse
Drawing in the sand
Playing chase with my cousins
While waiting for Grandma's
Sunday dinner,
Youth was so grand
Uncle Beaty's trailor was at the center Of the hill,  where his sister's took turn Caring for him, where his wisdom
Was instilled
When I brought Uncle Beaty
His dinner I would stay
To listen to his prayers
He placed in my heart
God's truth deeply within
Protecting me from my future of sin
For the simpleness of life
The greats of my family
Have revealed to me
Is to spread the love of
Jesus,  your heart will be
♡♡♡Set free♡♡♡

Being Honest

It’s hard.  
Sounds simple, but it’s hard.
It’s brave. It’s subtle.
And you’re scarred and marred.
It is so many things
That dare I write them sans façade
My friends complain:  
Too ****** demanding,
Hard to deal with; so much
Nuance; synonyms abounding.
They want simpleness: the easy way.

Simple, yes, but challenging.
You’ve got to be considerate,
Your character to deal with.
Why ****? Death comes to all.
An honest **** is still a ******.

Why press ideas?
You know that ideas change,
That phases are the germ of life.
It’s hard to stand against temptation,
Vengeance, easy money, vice;
Hard to be right-minded, truthful
Self-restrained, just being nice.

Funny, but
It’s easier to tell the truth
When you begin to show you’re age.
People show respect, in fact,
They think you’re sage.
They’re happy that they’re getting honesty
Straight from the shoulder:
Benefits of growing older.

Old or young or middle life,
We’ve all had problems, woes and strife.
There is an art to being honest
Without cruelty or exploitation,
Without character’s temptation.
Best we start.

Being Honest 4.5.4027
Definitely Didactic; Circling Round Reality;
.Arlene Corwin

Somehow, I couldn't speak. Her smile opened the door every morning.
But this morning, it was her heart. That beating temple she sealed way
in a steel envelope, unready for adjustments, unwilling. But it was I,
who opened the mailbox with gentleness, simpleness. She gave in.

It was a swing, by the riverbank, where the lost creatures roamed.
We sat, and talked as if there was no world around us. Just hope,
crisp, in the wind, like dandelion hair. The racing water, running senseless,
up the shore. I saw a moment in her nourishing grin. A heaven without

clouds. A shoeless retreat, where her hand and mine were magnets.
This was love, unexplained. A portrait of fire, framed with white roses,
and the smell of aged wine. The minutes silently added more
to us. An uncharted evolution, of how things begin and where they go

when they end. It was reality that pulled her hand within a reachable
reach. It was her freedom that she as willing to pay for, that bought
these miles between us. It was a sudden **** that brought me back
into this quiet life, this tainted demise of a broken light. It was funny,

seeing her,     again.

Your inspiration flows life
Your thoughts give life
Your words grab attention
Your mind unique invention
Your captivating to me

Your fascinating I see
Sit under a tree with me
Roll down the hill
Water balloon fight
Let's have fun together

Play soccer I know tricks
Let's run & take flicks
Want a piggy back ride
Hold on to me, don't let go
I'm a take off, stay with me

Let's write poetry
Let's compose a song
Your my chorus sing along
Based on a true love story
Romeo & Juliet, A & F

When everyone leaves
When no ones there
When you got nobody
When you need a shoulder
When your all alone

I'll be there.. your friend
I'll be there.. your lover
I'll be there.. your husband
I'll be there.. your amazing
I'll be there.. 1 of a kind

Maybe for a moment
I can't promise,
I can't guaranty,
I can't my life's shortening
I can't my end is darkening

But promise me one thing
Don't allow no one
To treat you wrong
Your the best, of the west
I don't mean your body,

It's not your pretty face
It's not your magic eyes
It's not your misteriousness
It's not your simpleness
It's not your tenderness

It's your mind, heart, and loving soul...

To most I am simple minded
To few a mind of simpleness
Every thought is a reflective tree
That grows from roots to branches
That adapt within adaptation
But never to relax within relaxation
Yet,
If I were to print every tree
There would be an endless amount of paper
but only one sheet
or
An endless amount of paper
but only one word
To most the background of the photo is where I am
To few the background is the main subject of another
photograph.

A flower teaches me
To simply be
Roots firmly grounded
But moving with the breeze
Always reaching for the light
Love and energy from the sun
Let go and breathe
The pure simpleness of this moment

With a warm breath on my neck, she kisses my shoulder
I could feel my cold winter pass, as my dream comes true at last
generous is she, as she has revealed my open chest
as her face nuzzles and grins a little as her blue eyes
look into my piercing glaze,
with tenderness and care she gives herself ...

She poured herself as blood, to give my heart the desired love
her blood boiling in me, an unfamiliar feeling came over me
I could feel her course through my veins, pulsating my soul
our bodies shudder as we partake in our transfusion
the feeling was so overwhelming, I wouldn't dare stop it now ...

Sweat drops on my tongue, tasting the liquid of her passion
mouth to mouth we breathe into every swelling kiss
our palms meet and take hold, neither one not wanting to let go
with nothing but candles burning,
our naked shadows exposed on the wall
we shared every inch of each other,
with a serpent tongue I roamed
I knew her before the night was new ...

Enriched by her delicate beauty, the simpleness of her love
she rests upon me, her breath so long
her intense wetness, scorching my love as she moves
the grinding of pelvis to pelvis, so deep so new so raw
releasing with pleasure with a deluge of sweet nectar
in only in a dream, she healed my very soul ...

Debbie Brooks 2014