ask your blood
your limbs, your breathing feet
what Poetry is -
a phylogenetic anomaly
in light’s discontinuity

or just…
the strange yearning of hematopoiesis

ask the silence in your lungs
the bursting DNA, reinterpreted
how it allures memory inside your bones
how it treads conventions of sleep
with the weight of a sigh

if you ask me
what Poetry is
I’d say: breath calligraphy
a winged dream of depth
on enchanted retina
the bitter-sweet art of airy harmony

ask your hands
what Poetry is
perhaps they’ll take a moment
to bloom

Mutual...
Like the beach,
sparkling with radiance.
Openly welcoming the soothing
caress of the waves.
Allowing them to
playfully tug
at her toes
before retreating back
into the ocean tide.

Mutual...
Like the leaf,
that shines amber
in the autumn sun.
Silently inviting the wind
to sweep it off the threats
of the brittle twig.
Trusting the breeze to set it aloft,
in a whimsical spiral
before releasing it gently
into the safety of the ground below.

Mutual...**
Like you and I.
As we confidently
match each other's
gait in a display
of song and dance.
Though our exchange
remains unworded,
the promise of love
rings clear within
the clasp of your
willing hands
in mine.

She will tame me, she cant blame me, when I put a smile upon her face.
He will paw me, he will claw me, but there's still an empty space.
Slow haunting whispers, I can feel her on my ear.
His breath, his warmth, the ever growing fear.

...Like a simpson, I change colour
The ink seeps on to the floor.

Do I stay and feel heart ache?
Or open that cage door?

He comes closer, puts his head against my heart,
A gentle pur, a silent thump, a misfit in the dark.
I reach out, then pull back, scared of his loathsome bite,
Not for lust, or need, or want, but an unworded fight.

It grows within me, like the locks on his mane,
Entwining round, engulfing me; is this what you call sane?
He bares his teeth, but not in anger, a gentle, sweet, supression,
Our eyes will lock, a growl will pass...

A fiery-tempered tension


-----------

Credit to Sarah Larking, who wrote this with me.

.

If one could dive
into the depths,
swim through
and prevail against
the currents
set within
the irises of eyes…

The delicacies
and intricacies
of every tapestry
that is everyone’s lives
and stories
would be heard…

Even when no words
were uttered.

.

A cold has put me on the fritz, said Eugene O'Neill,
how can I forget certain things?
Now I have thirteen bottles of red wine
where once I had over a thousand.
I know where they went but why should I tell?
Every day I feed the dogs and birds.
The yard is littered with bones and seed husks.
Hearts spend their entire lives in the dark,
but the dogs and birds are fond of me.
I take a shower frequently but still
women are not drawn to me in large numbers.
Perhaps they know I'm happily married
and why exhaust themselves vainly to ****** me?
I loaned hundreds of thousands of dollars
and was paid back only by two Indians.
If I had known history it was never otherwise.
This is the song of the cold when people
are themselves but less so, people
who haven't listened to my unworded advice.
I was once described as "immortal"
but this didn't include my mother who recently died.
And why go to New York after the asteroid
and the floods of polar waters, the crumbling
buildings, when you're the only one there
in 2050? Come back to earth.
Blow your nose and dwell on the shortness of life.
Lift up your dark heart and sing a song about
how time drifts past you like the gentlest, almost
imperceptible breeze.

The unworded truth lay twisted,
Where teething creatures stir.
Caught in the cobs of forgotten crevasse,
The doomed but dormant menace.

Thy beast shall be relieved of such burden,
Set free to light all darkness in flame
To extinguish all, til no brightness remains.

Putrid air from foul corpses, permeate the living.
Forsaking unfit, weak forces; creating a race of productive courses.

Some poems are better not birthed
be locked with the key never found
their scripts be seen by no eyes on earth
like the sigh’s dewy tears on the ground!

Some poems are better not carved on papyrus
be hidden in the deepest nook
unworded pains nurtured in hush
flowing within like a brook!

Some poems are better not shown daylight
be buried neath sorrow’s growing pile
unvoiced aches lost in the night
dawning in the morn as a smile!

Some poems are better not ever revealed
be breathed on the lonely walkway
living in heart feeling fulfilled
dying when the days die away!

It may seem peculiar indeed
To have not paid homage
To this Nightguard of Poetry
But claim me for society's victim
For upon gazing at her ether-omniscient--
White curves encase the infertile desert
As, if you'll recall, her ancient patroness
Her consorts are of far greater interest
(A weak word hiding unspoken depth)
Unique in their millions
And, I find, quite indescribable
Except appropriate to represent that mystery
(It resides among the ugly, fragrant shelves)
Unworded but for breezes and shadows and eternity-swirls
Her mysteries were long drained from that pale, gaping face
And of no great interest.
And somehow I am writing.

I’m trying to find the right words for you.
Since my voice is silenced when you raise yours,
Let me clarify the unworded thoughts in my head,

I crave you at all hours of the day,
You are my time and my love.
I found a life with you and without you,
It’s like a heart without a beat

When I wait for you, I grow older,
A little more stressed,
A little more bitter because
I’m holding my hand out for you,
Waiting for you to take it.
Itching for you to take it,
Hurting with every moment that passes,
Yet you tease me.
Yet here I am,
Arm getting heavier,
Shaking with fatigue and anticipation,
                                     please
Just take it.

She sits there
expert in silence
She listens
to my oceans
She unknots
daily tribulations
practice the art of patience
in undisguised grace
worded and unworded

She's the forgiver of darkness
simple in compassion
hearted in experience of
giving, waiting, wondering,
musing and learning
side by side

And I just love
her trainers
by the willow trees
the blue T-shirts
the yellow smile
matching the light
in her eyes

I love her like a mother
like a brother
like another human being
I just love
who she is.

And I have seen paradise before
It was a heaven of ideological
proportions
located
on the junction
of childhood and interstates
of man and youth, with marble floors
and distant speakers echoing drops off of
cell phone booths
and older people
selling things for us to buy
to find ourselves happy in the moment
deep cascading waterfalls

Is this heaven?

When a child it's all you see
the white and pedicured purity
of a waxed granite floor,
the impersonal monotony
feeling a soul in a world unknown
the closest thing to dreaming
Old T.Vs selling like hotcakes
buy it while it's new!

Gameboy games, pokemon on the tele
silent in the face of some strange musician
playing unworded tunes you'll recognize later
their focus-grouped chords left somewhere in your mind
for you to hum when bored

Everything was perfect, then?
was it?

Those same malls don't sparkle
no more

maybe it's just the grime of life
blocking the mirrored measure of my childhood soul
lost amidst the echoes
the sweet music of truth
bouncing off of the uncolored walls
a send-off of my youth

Maybe when we go back, one day
the walls won't be quite so grey
they'll be power-washed with light,
shine better than ever before,
nothing to buy but our happiness
somewhere in those hallowed halls
searching those windows into other lives
hoping to find the key to our soul
to leave this silly Sphere and
Roebuck
our boat back out the sliding door
-windows
back out into the real world,
no longer dreaming.

The unworded truth lay twisted,
Where teething creatures stir.
Caught in the cobs of forgotten crevasse,
The doomed but dormant menace.

Thy beast shall be relieved of such burden,
Set free to light all darkness in flame
To extinguish all, til no brightness remains.

Putrid air from foul corpses, permeate the living.
Forsaking unfit, weak forces; creating a race of productive courses.

A thousand eyes east
hidden between nectars and bees,
a poet's skull.

A thousand light down
The floor tastes of salt and words
Of poems unworded