"thresholds" poems
there is an elephant in the room.
it showed up about ten minutes ago,
just strolled on in as small talk
turned into big talk and the
elephant couldn’t find bigger talk anywhere else
so it stayed.
i offered it food, drink, a corner
in the garden, it laughed
and told me to stop trying
to be a good host
and just let it be, but i couldn’t just be,
trapped in the kitchen,
stuck between a rock and
a hard place, the hard
place being an elephant.
meanwhile the talk grew bigger
and it grew bigger,
there was an elephant
in all the rooms, we should have
built the ceilings higher,
made the thresholds wider,
if you’re going to invite
an elephant into your home,
it has to be able to fit.
otherwise, you’re looking at
tusks in the wall,
a tail in your face,
an elephant and no room.
the elephant swung its head
and our eyes met as the big talk turned
into small talk but the elephant
had heard smaller talk before
and i had offered it food, drink,
a corner in the garden.
i didn’t want to let the elephant
inside, but we had left the door wide
open, so who could blame
it for wandering in?
it stayed in the kitchen
and i stayed with it, it laughed
and told me it didn’t need
company, meanwhile the small talk
grew smaller and the elephant
grew bigger, i didn’t want company
but there was an elephant
in the room.
i didn’t know
how to take care of an elephant,
but that didn’t matter,
it already knew its way around
the house, knew how to small
talk even smaller
than our talk.
i asked the elephant
for its name. it laughed and
told me it didn’t matter,
it knew mine and that
was enough. meanwhile the
small talk stopped and i stopped
trying to talk smaller.
the elephant stayed
in the room.
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
I feel at home in the liminal in the space inbetween,
between past, future, reality fantasy, this, that.
In the liminal, the past and future lap around me,
demanding waves that climb high and share their spray.
The salt water clings to my hair, stiffens it like straw
and I stay, ungrowing in the liminal.
I live between thresholds on the threshold
and sometimes the tension tugs and tears and rips
my fingernails, my hair my skin.
Thresholds are supposed to hurt, to push, to compel
but it’s where I rest and make my home.
The liminal does not rip me apart as it should.
It’s hollow in the liminal a void that digs my insides
out. It’s a cave in there walls of apathy and dread.
My mind grows in on itself and I live in it,
where it plays in the liminal.
It cannot survive beyond the threshold
so I stay in the house where the windows are
clear and the doors are unlocked. Nothing is
keeping me in but myself.
I feel at home in the liminal, where the tensions
hurt and erode but it’s safe here,
or safe enough in the space inbetween.
I fear the sea and the tides so I stay on the shore.
It hurts but not as much as it should.
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 6:35 PM UTC
You are strings of pearls that cross thresholds between worlds
Little beads of ecstasy threaded through debris
You’re a smile in the morning when the sun is fresh and bright
You are scratches in the dark when the day has turned to night
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 7:23 PM UTC
sonorous thresholds
oceanic bellows breathe
the breaking waves roar
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
Bouncers can only stop and stare, maybe
get involved when their contract states
they've got to care, but up to that line
they wait on doorstops and thresholds,
looking for kisses from the makeup clad gold.
Smokers swell in the sea mist of the
open smoking area, they talk ideas
and travel plans, wave to no one
hoping they'll wave back again.
The bar men, the bar women and the cloakroom
attendants sing along to the songs
under tired, muttered breaths,
hoping the depth of the queue
subsides into something more serviceable.
And after?
Young ones with freshly ironed faces
**** into gutters and speak in
half-rhyme stutters, Morse code flutters that
translate into nothing more than, another beer please.
They yell as if they own the sky,
keep their echoes on rope tied to the
openings of back alleyways,
showing to her and her and her and him, his best friend, that he's
the drunkest of them all.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
Vernal Equinox arrives,
a lush middle ground
fresh with turning,
on the fulcrum
of dark and light,
awakening dynamic gaian breath
and ambitious harmony.
Dancing in and out
of shadow,
darting into
waxing shine,
on the verge
of the continuous,
here at the thresholds fray,
off the precipice we go,
cliffs that drop into the burn
of the suns growing presence.
Fire moves into water
like flourish,
Water moves into fire
without extinguish.
The paradox of love
is alive,
with night and day
seen as equals.
In this colossus of rebirth,
the resurrection of winters death,
blooming out of earthen richness,
with the enormity of natures becoming.
On this brink of passions catching
in the Eastern sun rising,
with balance kept in the approach
of spring rains rolling in,
like tears of tender joy;
a drenching
and vaporous
arousal.
Mind is lost on winds of change
meandering amongst the grasses,
the feet hug the ground like roots,
the spine lifts like spontaneity,
bringing the heart to blossom
in it's ribcage branches,
pulsing aromatic swells
moving outwards
in veins of pranic rivers,
with gushing love,
turning the blood etheric
and unbound by the body,
in some natural suffusion
where earth and sky meet
in endless inter-change,
and all is complimentary here,
and everything is reaching,
to kiss the sky,
in gratitude.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
Sometimes I steal
from grocery stores.
Nothing serious of course,
sprigs of cilantro,
basil,
snap garlic cloves,
sleeve a single strip
of green onion,
occasionally, palm a jalapeno
I think it is the tiny thrills
of being a petty villain
that provokes me.
The warm slick sheen
of salty palms,
brow sweat, and
the shivers of pulse
that drums
my heart
when door greeters pull me aside to
verify receipts,
and never notice my aroused pockets
tight and bulging
pickpocket produce.
I'm no outlaw
nor bandit,
I do not pillage or
plunder,
I know the gray lines
that divide
good and bad,
because I'm at one of their
thresholds.
The cashier checks my driver license,
and address before feeding a worthless check
into the scanner
where it gets tagged and stamped
I feel no thrills,
no bad boy euphoria,
I am too numb for elation,
and too numb for shame.
This crime Is justified.
I have three more days
till payday
and hope the check floats
Last week was a short paycheck,
gas prices are high,
rent is past due
cigarettes aren't cheap,
and then there's that drug habit.
I could only write it
for twenty five over.
It's going to be a hard stretch.
I stuff easy cash
into my front pocket
and try to catch the eye of a pretty cashier
an aisle over.
She drags barcodes through laser red eyes
that decodes sale prices
She doesn't notice me,
but she might not be into bad boys
A small girl waits
in a shopping cart
with pigtails
and new teeth,
holding a children cereal that comes with a prize.
Her mother does not see
her kick off her shoe.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 7:24 PM UTC
If I could be a pure mammal
Upon the sun-blessed earth
Then I would be a tiger
And live in constant dearth
If I could be a free-flying bird
That lives in floating sky
Then I would be a falcon,
Constantly diving to survive.
If I could be a careful insect
Who fears an empty spine,
Then I would be a honeybee,
A small piece in a grand design.
If I could be a scaly reptile
Devoid of female affection,
Then I would be a chameleon
Hiding myself for protection.
If I could be an amphibian,
Who laughs at single worlds,
Then I would be a salamander
Sneaking onto forbidden thresholds.
If I could be a splashing fish
Who is fickle and lost,
Then I would be a goby
Who seldom comes out when flossed.
If I could but be my true self,
I'm rather sure you'd see
That I'm no longer passively
Waiting for death to be free.
© 3/8/13
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 7:19 PM UTC
Images swirling changing hues
memories fresh, me and you
kisses, looks, touches breathless
deeper meaning, crossing thresholds
mental snapshots changing focus
always brings me back to us
life stands still all around
while we tumble in a kaleidoscope
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 11:09 AM UTC
Lest!
Passions! Exist,
desist not let
thresholds of passions.
Vikings yet…
Kings regard King Arthur,
snow white snow flakes glisten,
“winter, the snow-cold thaw”
Spring chime of Big Ben!
succinct debonair benevolence.
Pedantic pedagogue
of impudence of More Thomas!
passions of Love, unity, solidarity.
a blend of humane, man, men.
Mortals!
Behold!
Love,
Love,
Love,
Love!
Muhumuza Kenneth Ezra
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 3:48 AM UTC
***
When you think
Maybe, we ~
Are
Forlorn
For the time-
Being cruel to us
In most heartwrenching
Wonderful impossible
Way
love, Love, _
Never was I yours
To come at your
Thresholds
Blushed a little bit
Over my sunlit cheeks
Holding in my hand
A Damascus Rose
For my beloved~
For you
A jazzy blues done
None plus no one
Gets the whole bush
Unless walking hand in hand
Through garden divine
Loving
Like
Icecold queen n' king
Siddharta within our seams
Yet, I turn in my dreams
And look straight
In those lovely
Flames
Portruding in me
Fireflies lit
For me
To you
Cosmos exists as a play
Of darkness through
Light
Hurting me
Again
No
More
~~~~~~
Please
~~~~~
For a begining
You gently touch
My wrist, holding
It with desire
And say
- Here
You
Are -
My twin~flame!!
A
Long
Awaited
Wonder
This Day Is
Magnetic
Grip
. . .
Unutterly
Unyeilding
Pulling me close within
Your chocolate
Emerald wisdom
Vishnu Inevitability
Embrace
Emitting radiance
Embraced for as long
As we need to please
The almighty & amazing laws
Of physics
Nodding
In approval of
.
.
.
Weeee-_-omens
***
= =
Woed by
Thunderous pounds
Blood in our veins
Burning like the
Ocean waves
Rhythmic pace
Dreamy foams as
Satin
Lace
Overwhelming Us
Courageous
Navigators of
Our starry midnights
Building the arch of
Invisibility
For the rest
of the
World
Our tent
Under satin~silk
Is heavens
A
Relationship
Beautifully
Playful
Extraordinaire
& Serene***
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 5:46 PM UTC
With looping hillside vendors
and red-light beams stalking the
cigarette smoke clouds, clinging
behind business men mobs (of 4 or 5)
and fracturing wildly from green-glass
bottles of soju and the girls
(oh the girls) who guard and call
out from dark thresholds with only
a spotlight of pink neon from
*** Trans Cafe, Eat Me)
the signs from above. And the glass
walls separating the men
from the girls and the short skirts
(plaid like schoolgirls) beckoning,
silent and alone, sitting on stools
(one leg over another) paid at the bars
for two drinks (and 250,000 Won)
usually by Americans, bored and trapped,
stranded (at Yongsun Army Garrison)
they venture Incheon at dark,
with sad eyes and lust, (trading paychecks
for hand jobs) guilty and delaying,
waiting for a three year tour (of
what feels like a lifetime) in Seoul
to end.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
What place so strange,—though unrevealed snow
With unimaginable fires arise
At the earth’s end,—what passion of surprise
Like frost-bound fire-girt scenes of long ago?
Lo! this is none but I this hour; and lo!
This is the very place which to mine eyes
Those mortal hours in vain immortalize,
’Mid hurrying crowds, with what alone I know.
City, of thine a single simple door,
By some new Power reduplicate, must be
Even yet my life-porch in eternity,
Even with one presence filled, as once of yore
Or mocking winds whirl round a chaff-strown floor
Thee and thy years and these my words and me.
1.4k
Tin cup
Simple pleasure common treasure it has its worth by it connection not everyone but many found this by an
On old pump by itself or next to a bucket you could drink or use it to prime the pump it lends itself to
Western lore found around the chuck wagon on a cattle drive one of the men on the trail drive squats
Before the fire with gnarled hands he holds the cup with hands that are callused from handling his lariat
Day in and day out on the cattle now he holds it filled with coffee strong river coffee drawn from the
Brazos shaded by mesquite cottonwood and juniper finest example of Texas this old cup ties you into
time and place a past that is loved and loved ones that shared campsites that now have passed on in the
Heat of the summer day you drank hardly from its contents it banged around in all kinds of
Circumstances invariably most of them pleasurable ones and who handled the cup mother or a favorite
Grandmother you see her hands lovingly holding the cup they go together like flowers and rain you strain
To hold the thought you don’t want to let go of that special connected memory or maybe they used it to
Measure flour by closing your eyes you can almost smell the bread or biscuits the flour produced it takes
You across many thresholds that are steeped in precious memories that can never be again you are
Taken back to childhood by something so simple but so useful it creates a lost time of joy and
Happiness long remembered and never to be forgotten a symbol or a symbolic trusted identification
With place or person you feel its coolness in your hand you move it around for a few quick moments
You return to yesterday not bad for a piece of tin they give so much credit to other metals for other
Reasons of course the value they possess and what you could exchange them for but that is talking
About a certain amount were dealing with priceless things of the heart that no amount of money can
Buy just think next time there are many items that are in themselves of little value but they are
Touchstones a gateway to a broken past riches that aren’t for sale or they are not to be bartered away
They are never put in a safe but they so readily take you to a safe place tender joy is felt in the heart
A calling can be felt and heard jewels of inestimable value lay hidden they easily come into view when
You touch insignificance without expecting anything the world lets you know you are richer than you
know
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC
There are roses in the road
tear soaked tissues
torn up pictures
with letters on fire.
They are the breakup play-list
for hang overs
and scratches on the hood
from relationship status updates.
The secret poems
in songs of heartache
and paintings thrown in the trash.
A fingerless engagement ring
unworn wedding dress
and a honeymoon for one.
The divorcees still wondering
and the mothers and fathers
who didn't quite make it
There is never knowing
and always wishing
but never seeing it.
Not to mentioned the ex
you can't forget
and the unfortunate person
who can't afford to leave.
all the widowed wives
who are forgotten after death.
and solders with no one
to return home to.
But all the while
a broken chord
amid the misfortune
and sorrow of the world
could not escape the
thresholds of inevitable ends
Aug 4, 2011
Aug 4, 2011 at 8:47 AM UTC
~
Two minutes of perseverance
two minutes of curiosity
Seeking out life
returning with ingenuity
It's all about surfaces and thresholds
and winter hemisphere
Each of us wants so badly
to be that next satellite
Or at least be allowed
to dream we're a small dark spot
moving across the Sun's face
~
Aug 3, 2025
Aug 3, 2025 at 3:41 AM UTC
To a deprived Lamb
Death is my bed
A light
Which is not seen
Laid in darkness
In a possess form
For no reason
To be tortured
Am I a sacrifice
Living and Working
Into the horrible nights
Eating away wisdom and knowledge from dead foes
With uncontrollable views
Enters my soul
Where are they?
Crumbling enjoyment
To horrify inner self
Dismantle thoughts by combating
One's blemish life
Lewdness of words
Crossing thresholds into a chi
Feeding voices
Each night as daybreak
Storing a being forgone
Nov 19, 2009
Nov 19, 2009 at 7:13 PM UTC
Let us now decorate the symbol of life and ensure that the protection from Scandinavian and Turkish witches is confidently displayed at our thresholds whilst snowflakes silently fall.
Are you able to recollect the innocence, where the magic circle of Arctic captivation nurtured the sending of burnt letters through anticipatory chimney flues, deep into the twinkling sky at night?
There is a certain connection to the pattern of Odin - the guide of souls.
In wisdom, I have left savoury and alcoholic sustenance for ancestral spirits between the high places of Ounasvaara and Korkalovaara. So, here it is my sibling energy field of eternal carbon footprints. Once again, the Yule buck and its Old Norse master are soon to descend upon us.
So, although it may have been outlawed in colonial America by Puritans in 1659, we must also acknowledge those infinite prints of cloven hooves in the deep snow of 1038 a.d. in this mid-winter nativity of Cristenmasse.
As we celebrate the harvest of Kekri and consult with Joulupukki on the forest ridge, the symbolic colours of red, green and gold will lavish perceptual and spiritual gifts which are unable to be purchased with material commodities.
As this festival has gradually evolved into an obscene Western construct of politico-economical prowess, we must identify one more thing: Santa is an anagram for Satan.
Is this truly Finnish or Byzantine? Perhaps it is just cosmological ethnography?
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:01 PM UTC
Do they value quietude
as we do?
passing through their cul de sac
with the same red blood causing through
our veins ?
The cold stone buildings are arcane
clematis seemingly choking.them.
A wider sentence permeates.
The nightingale squabbles with the swallow
and all is not as same it seems.
How peace was wished for
but the inhabitants are loathed to admit
an underlining struggle re emerges.
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
*when one door closes...
then it can also be locked
an unintentional specialty of mine
some close of their own volition
others require a little nudging
leaving those that need be kicked
i've walked through them all
beneath their porticos of promise
over their thresholds of dreams
spaces beyond so warm and inviting
or ominously dark and foreboding
but entry is inevitably mandatory
a lament in keyhole retrospective
reduced in scope and visibility
incomprehensibly limiting foresight
begrudgingly resigned to redesign
wishes trapped beyond mortal reach
accessible only with a skeleton key*
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
Do not fade into the anonymity of everyday life
Find the avenue in which your voice echoes
Cling to the thresholds of any success
And never let go
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
Amass foreign substance
Abandon the guilt
Among the beautiful scorn
A heathen will be born
Take for yourself
Thresholds surpassed
Throw yourself unto this
Terror and hubris
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
Sacred blood of mine
Lead me to my resting home
Down your crimson painted path
Where I’d meet some of my very own.
I’d meet my cousin
a proud man in his twenties
with a wide grin and a wound
that listed him as one of God’s attendees.
Mark my thresholds with your scent
so people smell death for long to come
a picture perfect dream is painted red
A family of 11 has carved down to one.
The mother that raised me
and a father who was proud
Never had a will to fight for
a childhood that I wasn't allowed
They came with their guns
I came within sight
None was shot down but the one
that couldn't put up a fight.
The heart stopped beating.
The soldiers did not,
they fired their bullets through
with an ounce of life I hurled a rock.
I greeted death with smiles
knowing that rock would be my last.
As a kid I had aspired.
A martyr met his fate alas.
On the bridge between life and death
I pondered upon and felt quite lost
Do martyrs really die as mortals ?
One way of knowing,content I strode across.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 12:57 AM UTC