On the ferris wheel we steal a kiss,
careless zeal, no bits amiss,
slip into this, mind and timelessness,
twist wrist, spit lip like starshine, crisp.

Down below the kids get lit,
ripped,
hair wind flipped out,
broke mouths sip doubt,
shout fire-light, ice pout,
grown out the hometown,
grown loud, a fun crowd,
one's got the know how,
the others got the low down,
one shot the sheriff,
then the others hit the ground.

When he shot the sheriff
he kneeled,
we saw it from the ferris wheel.

White is a combination of all colors.
Black is the lack of all colors.
Enlightenment is white because it resides in the ten-thousand things.
Enlightenment is black because, in its residence,
it is not present.
White is not Black
Black is not White
Enlightenment is not Enlightenment.
It is.

How many deaths  in the life
of a plant?
This is Lord Shiva;
This is His dance.

How much space
in the life of a form?
This is Kali,
She the unborn.

Together they sway,
forward in back;
Shiva the Fire,
Kali the Black.

As Lovers they ****,
put to Sleep, and Destroy,
With Grace and Love,
Compassion and Joy.

Said the elf to the mushroom, "Come with me!
Learn to walk, learn to be free,
come journey to the shining sea,
come, o come, o come with me."

Said the mushroom to the elf, "Why should I?
From here I can see the beautiful sky,
no need to walk no need to fly,
to leave here? I'd rather die!
why, o why, o why, o why..."

Entropy is Ecstasy
a state of selflessness
in which
homogeneity is once more realized.

Osho said, "When the shoe fits, the foot is forgotten"

the politics
of mirrors
lies out of sight
while the frogs in the pond
fashionably late
sing the swan song
of separation

no-mind-all-one

the ******* tree fruits teeth
and eats itself on impact
leaving behind no trace
of heart beat
or throbbing veins
but instead remembers itself
on the earth as a skeleton
bones made of the
finest silver set of dining wares
for to feast
on the slack remaining
weightless brain of a thing
that spins the circles is sails
like a tailor
in a fire

let's make love
let's push and shove
let's leave our skin
out on the rug
burning
and turning over
back to back
to smack me sober

Let's make love
let's kiss and hug
and **** until
we get rid of
the liquid
that keeps us
from being released
and fitted
with riches
two gemstones apiece

let's make love
let's push and shove
let's leave our skin
out on the rug

there's something about
the people you don't know
that makes you laugh

the old men escorts
babble while we whisper
they make you laugh

cold fingered hipsters
who talk **** cause they can
have made you laugh

"what are you doing?"
"just playing" i would say
and then you'd laugh

bleary blue eyed boys
good intentions twisted
have made you laugh

and yes even I
still blue eyed and bleary
will make you laugh

there's something about
the people you don't know
that makes you cry

the old men escorts
babble while we whisper
they make you cry

cold fingered hipsters
who talk **** cause they can
have made you cry

"what are you doing?"
"just playing" i would say
and then you'd cry

bleary blue eyed boys
good intentions twisted
have made you cry

and yes even I
still blue eyed and bleary
will make you cry

We burn when we're
young
to cool down when we're
older,
but as a sum
does it freeze?
does it smolder?

You are a living breathing best day of my life
Had I a ring, I would make you my wife
With a chance, with a dance
With a cup and a knife
it just takes one glance
it just takes one night


Nostalgia is the heart's horizon
sun setting
and the light letting itself loose
I can't keep my eyes on
anything else
but your colors

this is good health
this is true wealth

You are a living breathing best day of my life
Had I a ring, I would make you my wife
With a glance, with a dance
With a cup and a knife
it just takes one chance
everything is alright

no self
no sacrifice
Zen Christ
in each of us
keeping quiet

you cling to me like water does
when i emerge from a lush pool
two thousand droplets dripping doves
fall from a lucky fool

I'm lying 'low a lovely sun
the doves ascend as vapor
to lift my hand to the wall
of a love poem's paper

you left when i went too far
in your eyes the ice
melting alone in your car
the doves flew from your eyes

again void of sleep,
carried over parallel lines
by blues.
Our names are engraved in our
neighbor's guitar.
The Korean man likes ecstacy,
and we all love music
and food
and ***.
Just like our parents.
We pass a thousand sunflowers at their day jobs.
These hills remind me of home
and food
and ***.

maybe someday I'll give a ****
and write something with substance

or maybe I'll keep the ****
so I can have something in abundance

and maybe I'll quit this ****
as a "*******" to redundance

nah

super novas
seeding flowers
a woman's powers
late night hours
falling towers
jehovah jehovah
these flowers are novas

You share a namesake with Aphrodite,
the Sea,
that which sparks a flame inside me,
seeks to turn the waves to steam,
to drift away as if a dream upon waking,
to see that there truly is no breaking of hearts,
and to start the making of stars born to be us
through combustion.

The dust and rust on a cosmic sword
without a sheath is bequeathed again to the sea,
and the back and forth of wave and flame
rocks us to sleep;
where the steam weeps
and we meet.

that which you give,
let go.

generosity consists not of applying yourself,
but releasing the things that you think you are
onto another
with prayers of light
and love,
without the intent of
direction,

for the soul knows no compass rose.

the friend you had

too far behind

to catch up

*** gave me some loose words that i could spill over into your head-place
see that? dripping down the wall, the leftover space we didn't want but couldn't waste
no haste needed for the telling of time
no truth seeded as i'm bleedin my rhyme
i'm free and i'm mine
says the *** to my head
nothing left open but the door to the bed

you look like two dead leaves
and the trees between
in the distance
swaying
as if they'd never heard
jazz
before

give me your hand
the one that you **** with
and i'll wrap around it a bracelet
to keep the liquid
from reaching your
skin

as if it was all determined
by the look in your eyes
when I told you
that which you already knew

I danced with someone three days ago
and she was smiling
and the light was orange
but I could not keep from crumbling
when you smiled
from behind
closed eyes
and then left into the night
weeping in my imagination
as if we wanted the same thing

a GUNSHOT
is one part black
and three parts red

count me out

The crystallization of thought
leaves behind tiny granules,
like diamonds, reflective and
geometric to fit together.

     Sand to glass
        for a window or
          fun-house mirror.

Brain grains made of waiting,
                                 of watching.
Recognition of patterns recorded.
                Faces in old photographs,
                     "Look! That's me!"
  The big picture, stitched individual pixels,
                             light thru the film
                                     projected on a wall,
                                 fuzz of dust on the vinyl.

          Motes of knowing
                       floating
                                            but tough under pressure,
                                  and in the liquid of pure,
                                                           ­            transparent
                                                                ­       experience,

                                                    ­                     soluble.

Down by the stream where the mushrooms grow

a man is covered from head to toe

with the many joys of daily life

to dispel all of the cold and strife

with this joy he made the fairies

the fairies that live to enjoy and be marry

the fairys that live to dance and sing

in the yellow sunlight by the stream

for many years they lived this way

having fun until the day

the people came with their big bad guns

and shot the fairies one by one

then the man covered with joy

whispered away to not but a boy

the boy wandered for quite some time

and the yellow sun ceased to shine

and the mushrooms shriveled and died away

and the boy waited for the day

when joy would return to his land

the day when oaks tall will stand

until then he lays under a tree

look for that boy, that boy is me.

Sometimes I scream
****!!!
at the clouds...

and you never seem to hear me
until they release it
in a thousand
wet
whispers

Let be the fringes of past,
for with all your hands
you cannot reweave
the rug soon to be
under our feet.

Step lightly,
there are beings here
and they have been here all along,
through our noises and *******,
and they do not celebrate
nor recoil,
but we must give them the space
they do not ask for besides.

I am in love with wear,
and white made of color,
and the black made of light.
The where to which we are going.

No amount of sowing can plant the seed
that is to be
these that will flower,
and still there is power there
in the empty air,
and it is shared.

Care not for my death,
for it already has your love.
Care not for sadness,
it is already sated.

I've waited for a sign from God
and here i find that his gift
is not to be had
but still is to be given.

If a picture's worth
a thousand words,
than the poet's opus
is to give infinite images
in just two handfuls.

Distillation of words

so
just a drop
of one
will get you
drunk.

Walking down the street;
I had just slipped into something comfortable.
ironic

I saw your head between
the horizon and the sidewalk,
and smiled at your lips
silhouetted.
you didn't turn.
i didn't want you too.
you didn't.

why didn't you turn?

suddenly the rain hit me like
paint.
i imagined the cityscape drowned
in the paint rain.

It filled the transparent drops of gray
with the sky,
and your eyes,
and that look on your face

surfaces striking simutaniously
and spreading reflected light into my eyes,
like a sunset.
the spilling of
the sky,
your eyes,
the look on your face

i took cover in a man hole.
the shaft of illumination
from above
making me
half a man

the paint rain still came down
dripping into my
privacy.

i stayed there;
not due
to apathy, anger
or you.
but just so i could see
the paint rain fall

i drowned like the city in the paint rain.
drenched in color.
soaked.
i drowned in the paint rain,
that wasn't gray today

i drowned like the city
in the sky,
in your eyes,

i drowned in that look on your face

your the one
with the missing smile
who mistakes my honest love
for guile
and i know it may
take a while
for your mind to change

you'll always be on a horizon

i'm the one
with empty eyes
who is always looking toward
the skys
all i can do is
apologise
for the things i don't want

you'll always be on a horizon

In any convergence of creative-minded people there exists a massive potential for positive change. Internet platforms included. Let's make use of this energy and bring awareness to the things we feel strongly about!

I'm asking yall to write poems about change! Social, Ecological, Cultural CHANGE! Let's address specific issues! Let's stop fracking, and plastic, and war, and hunger, and child labor, and let's free Tibet! Let's bring attention to pollution and corporate crime! Let's heal our wounds and bring our ills to the light! I know we can~

I created a collection called poets for change
please post here:

~~~~~~ http://hellopoetry.com/collection/2821/poets-for-change/ ~~~~~~

Our voices united are powerful and beautiful
tell your friends! spread the word!
REPOST THIS SHIZZ!
Let's show the World~

The beast lays body down to rest,
on a bed of sleeping plants,
to it's close eyes for evermore,
to be one with the ants.
And the sky breathes deep,
and the earth lets seep,
the beast into the fire,
and bed of leaves and creeping ants,
will mourn over the pyre.

Realizations
like pathways walked over with
moccasins and sandals  
and ungulate feet.

the trail blazed by a tribe
is followed many times.
a line between
the time that seems
to snake through sand.

so fine,
i just want to *******,
on the sand,
so fine,

we've been here before...

you left another shirt in my room
and soon after you left
i wept into the fiber like a liar
and the wires in the walls
made my skin crawl
and fall out of place
in any case, i saw your face
my saving grace when i misplace
the space in my mind
bobby pin left behind
underneath two grinding spines
still reminds me of the sky
your eyes and why
you said goodbye
that night

I smile when I see your snowflake face,
unlike any other, the face of a mother,
making me awkwardly comfortable.
A face like mine beholding only my eyes,
not what's behind.
Often you see my complexion
a reflection
of ennui.
You think because it is dark,
that I
can not see;
But you behold my eyes,
not what's behind;
and the things that I find,
the thing that I've found!
The color and beauty and love that's around!
The sounds to be heard!
Don't think I haven't seen.
The frights to be felt!
The dreams to be dreamed!
Don't think I haven't noticed.
Your grace
and your snowflake face.
I smile when I see that face.
The face of a mother, unlike any other.

Looking out over the forest.
  No mention of God here,
but the trees speak
   so well of themselves
           that I can touch
             and taste them.

In a darkened room
     with my solitude.
                            No talk of spirits,
   but I can almost hear
        my breath
        passing thru the walls.

I am a creature of seeking,
    but no matter how far I go,
     and no matter how well I
      understand the hills around my home,
when I lay down to sleep
    I am forever the dweller
        of a land unknown.

When *** is a fight
the ideal outcome is
without survivors.

It's raining outside
and
These beautiful things
shining through my tears
will feel the drops
but never know my fears
how could they if I don't?

Rain drops
Falling from the trees
into the sky
and you never ask why
ignore the dots in the sky
they're not there

Rain  falls
on tattooed tough guys
littering sidewalks with spit
say they're trying to quit
cigs for the sixth time
and he's tired of lie
tied together to hide
his head when he cries
from better eyes

It's raining outside
Slight stirrings before sunrise
split seconds of conscientiousness
before slipping into a sea of dreams
I always have the most vivid dreams
while the sun is rising

It's raining outside
but not in here
not in my head
not in my bed

The soothsayer only smiles and whispers,
stays anticipation and decays til you kiss her.

Leaning in:

Posture is, as much as
a broken back,
lacking.

Caught,
stiff and bare,
in a stare.
"I'm not acting,"

I'm retracting my opinions
backtrack to begin again.
Pinioned by inclusion;
on the right foot, left
to my conclusions.

If it's a game,
then i'm losin'.

Writing turns me into words
Painting makes me color
And I have no voice to be heard
When there's one without the other

Music makes matches of my ears
Striking on sandpaper notes
Voices turn me into tears
Pieces of me thrown from throats

Self-expression is some sort of healing
For the things that we think we're feeling
and when the paint begins its peeling
and your words begin their reeling
that's when you'll know how is why

slow formation of thoughts
the crystallization of metaphor
like smoke
like making rainbows
into everything

breaking white light
into color
in the
black

free-floating subjective
realities
convect around and through
an empty space

the objective objective
purpose pole-star
centering concentric
star flung
peoples
all watching
the light that seems to shine
from the void-hole in the
galactic middle

great bending
spectral lender of
experience

This
is
a visualization
exercise-- Take a
breath and close your eyes.

The remnants of last night's nova
lay scattered in tatters on the patterns
of ballroom linoleum.
Flattened bottles and kids
full throttle on people petroleum.
They whisper, "we're full of them
deaths 'guised as holy gems,"
but no one could hear
through the decoding of the exploding star,
the eroding of that foreboding bazaar,
not even the one whispering,
loose lips left ajar.

The remnants of last night's nova;
it began with a beat.
Melody sweet was distorted just to show the
flipped switch kids who retorted just to grow numb,
with ditched brain space aborted just to know dub,
or love the microchips imported just to throw the
blasting bass bubbles of sound
into the ground,
spinning around,
until they come down,
to frown at flowers
powered by the eye of the storm.
Where it's the norm
for their forms
to be torn from their static.

The remnants of last night's nova
was an illness of stillness;
of dripping dead glow sticks
that knows this
fist in your chest clenched tight,
and the sight of last night,
and the fading lights
just show this restlessness
is not the best of this bright.
The love fights muttered
through shutters of others
echoed soft cotton swab colors
in sunrise skies,
and despised eyes,
and reprized "why?s"
to inspire white lies.

The remnants of last night's nova
are gone.

Excuse me miss, I
couldn't help but to notice
your demon's peeking

I've been working
very hard
on expanding my vocabulary
beyond "I'm sorry."
"I don't know."
and the usual gib-gab
that us gibs often gab,
but the more I think about it
the more I find resolve
in the conclusion that
what really needs to be said
is beyond words,
and any representation
of me
on any medium
is only a fragment.

And there,
they're right.
I know why I hate the fact that
I love to look at mirrors.
Keeping my shards to myself.
My fragmented sentences,
I often forget,
can still light fires
in places
other
than here.

Because there exists,
and I'm sorry.

Demon keepers, we,
making cages of our bones to keep them,
faces into tomes to teach them
the way we weather.

The creatures in our trees,
not free for our weaves
of memory,
fall like leaves if you let them.
Easy like dying,
without even trying,
let them be there,
and when bare
are the trees
I see

I don't have demons,
the demons are me.