think dada
speak post-modern
imagine haiku

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~

Out of one seed
how many seeds again
to the ebon Earth
warm and returning?

Eternity presumed
in a worm-cast bedding,
rain-wet and brimming.

Open ended inception
of the dark and probable womb
making space for the determined
and all it's loose-tied light-wires
stringing off into every abyss.

Potential is Here,
still though not asleep,
she is very much alive and viable,
eyes wide beneath the surface,
her pacific inhalations
example for the dynamic,
her sighing a guide,
like a mother at length,
gently directing
the life of her child.

Out of the night
the light is risen,
out of the dusk,
a bent-spectrum slips.

In the void
there is no coming
or going,
no place else to where one may be banished.

In the open hands of odyssey
we are forever received.
Of the sojourn cyclic
myriad destinations meet in the middle
where a thousand flowers flame.

Out of one seed
how many seeds again
to the ebon Earth
warm and returning?

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.

these are my matches
bones in a box
this is what's left
of my last pair of socks
this is my nose
choked up and dripping
this is my grip
rapidly slipping

in this, my prelude to winter
i miss the sun of summer
when the clock won't keep up with the drummer
and the tension is tight in the springs
i miss the sweet sun of summer
in this, my prelude to winter
and the clock won't keep up with the drummer
the tension is tight in the springs

These are the snow flakes
caught in a frenzy
This is the feeling
that loneliness lends me
These are my eyes
this is my shoe
both are now worn
both are still blue

there's nothing to do
but watch the leaves fall in flames
watch the leaves fall in flames

in this, my prelude to winter
i miss the sun of summer
when the clock won't keep up with the drummer
and the tension is tight in the springs
i miss the sweet sun of summer
in this, my prelude to winter
when the clock won't keep up with the drummer
and the tension is tight in the springs

preview
learn nothing new
far too few too soon
and i'm lost in minutia

To enjoy Pu-erh and nectarine
after waking from a dream.
To find things in the morning
left exactly as they'd been.

The fruit still sweet,
the tea
hot.

None gone to rot
until forgot.

The fruit made ripe
by what is not.

The taste of tea?
or just a thought?

To enjoy Pu-erh and nectarine
after waking from a dream.
To find things in the morning
left exactly as they'd been.
All is as it seems.

If I were Brahma
I'd have my lungs
on the outside of my skin,
and while everyone was breathing out
I'd be breathing in.

While everyone was breathing in
the reverse is also so,
but no one knows
which way the flow
(through trunk
through branch
through stem),
whether they are breathing I
or I am breathing them.

I wish for not but to unwind,
to slip into a cyclic time,
to let the river at its flow,
to know there's nothing left to find.

What are we but fire patterns?
Light cast out from higher lanterns?
Let us allow the darkness,
and bless the burning.

All my testament to this,
that there is not a greater bliss
than that which comes of sweet release
as I step outside to ****.

I AM
guided by a rambling man
confided in Queen Mab
and if I seem sad
I AM
confided in a rambling man
guided by Queen Mab
and if I seem glad
I AM

curled in the corner
of your queen sized
mattress

sharing a bed with my conscience
is no easy task.
she always talks in her sleep,
her feet are ice cold,
and she always hogs the covers.
I'm never left enough room
to breathe.

And the paisley pattern on your sheets
only keeps her awake
into the hours
when the ice wakes up;
Stretching its lazy, crystal bones
over the front lawn;
chilling the roof tiles
with a yawn.

curled in the corner
of your queen sized
mattress.
and my conscience,
she's stirring.

there's not a word original
when the eyes are starting to dull
on the lips of beatniks that pull
their inspiration from the lull
in their mind's eye
when blue skies fly
above the lie
i told you
just to hold you
a while longer
it made me stronger

See before you a silver light.
Liquid motions shape its space,
its time is kept by the beat of hearts,
the pulse that starts beneath your feet:
the Earth, its smell the sound of ocean stones,
holds the throne on which
your ancestors sit, those that let your life.
Their eyes the silver light;
their blood, their hair
this night.
With your breath, with your sight,
the light is drawn into your roots
than shoots to the leaves
and weaves,
shaking
and breaking,
making doorways of sieves,
and though it fades
it never leaves.

It is we.

“As a poet I hold the most archaic values on earth . . . the fertility of the soil, the magic of animals, the power-vision in solitude, the terrifying initiation and rebirth, the love and ecstasy of the dance, the common work of the tribe. I try to hold both history and the wilderness in mind, that my poems may approach the true measure of things and stand against the unbalance and ignorance of our times.”
― Gary Snyder

Rapture is the sense of envelopment
A feeling like looking up at the rain
The world as an envelope
Is as it does

come on in
the water's fine

free the reams
the seams teem

eyes within eyes

a whole life in
"wait, ok. Wait.... Ok....
wait
ok"

A cloud
low to the ground
reaches 'round my neck
and down my shoulder;
no colder than your stare
and the fair white of
skin, sun amiss.

There, you look left
than back at me
and seen by we
a menagerie of
habits
breeding like rabbits
and feeding each other
of their own flesh.

Here, you look right
and night is upon us,
and the cold gives way
to starlight and fire.

Heat moves quickly in the dark.
Shed of its shining coat,
blinding cloak, of
how to us
it seems to be.

The clouds
low to the ground
ascend
and pretend
once fallen down
not to recognize
our faces
as a river.

http://acc6.its.brooklyn.cuny.edu/~phalsall/texts/taote-v3.html

two sided things
are lines,
and the ones on your face
have been crossed
again and again
by my fingers;
by your tears.

i'm still so sorry.

Movement;
and the lines are loose
no longer lines,
instead defined by shades
and the ways you move
in the light.
together we saw the day
and closed our eyes at night.

embracing the shadows
is another way to release.
my vehicle doesn't run;
anymore;
any less.

memories
floating thru my mind like clouds
i wonder how
to get them down
fit them in a box and wow
the time in now
my sock are brown
so many towns
these feet have seen
these dreams don't mean
a thing to me
it seems obscene
to be lost in every reverie
i hold myself so heavily
when what i need 's
a little levity
to know there's nothing that can never be
still I wonder if i'll every see
the sun rise
sky
markt with clouds
like ice on fire
loud as hell
like the whole bell tower
from the spire fell
and rang deep
thru the peaks
stood stone still
to watch in all go down
and how
is that the question needing asking
or why is it
I see so many faces close to me
that feel the need for masking

I caress the stone upon which I lie as a faithful lover
and seeping warmth from above sun, balanced atop blue sky cover
I hear the violent river gently light upon the stone
as I sit upon earths sculpture as a natural throne
tiny tributaries trickle slowly forming elegant art
as light fairies dance from water where graceful minnows dart
and as I sit upon my throne, as one who rules supreme
my eyes and ears absorb all that is beautiful and serene
the water flows supporting life and softening the earth
while to happiness, joy and peace, it gives selfless birth
so if you wonder upon this land of the continuous giver
remember this land, remember it well, this magic in the river

Let's all run
feet bare on rocks
hot from the sun

down to the river valley
rich and wet with green-leaf light
dust-red hovering

Let us sing the water
into reversal
up the mountain
and follow it there

Let us sit and sigh
the sky permitting
lit up like open starscapes

Boy you better breathe
into your lungs
so you can see
what's on your tongue
is meant to be
some place away
because your thoughts are how you say
what you mean
like the rays of the sun touching down
like a dream
on the ground
on a stream
and the steam all around
seems to me
to be breathing

Girl you better leave
because the moon is high
and the wind is in the trees
soon the bloom will die
that flower that you held
on the night the trees were felled
is just now loosing color
like the cold breeze
like a shudder
and if you ever see another
know the sea and I will be teaming
eyes a'gleaming
your heart's beaming
seems to me
to be breathing

I don't age while i'm awake
but in my sleep my time is slipping
just the tracing of grooves
keeps the record for skipping
the ripping
of ripe red fruit from the branches
the juice sticking to
the teeth of
a woman
the romances!
the chances you take
are given freely
i love the moves you make
but you need only see me
to free me

so please
whatever you do
don't let me sleep

i want to take a picture of you
and in the picture, i want you to be naked
and there should be sweet smelling things
and though we won't smell them
we'll know because
we were there
we took the picture
and if we forget
the light smile on your lips
in the picture
will remind us

I've never seen something that wasn't reflection

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

Opening a moon-shaped box
gold, deep blue crescent
the dried sage
frosted teal
and the butane lighter in my hand

Slowing the breath, slowing the breath
and the beads from around my neck
one at a time pinched softly thru fingers

meloncholy red coral
and water in a jar
making space between them to sit

the sun is beyond the hill
and there is no longer a rainbow
at the window

hushed heart beat
but no stillness
in my chest

waiting is made a game in the mind
it moves thru itself
in good humor
or out of habit
always taking me with it
when i'm caught unaware

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

a hungry ghost
can be beautiful
in her mask
and gold
and silver
and silk

alone
top of the mountain
bottom of the sea

i've only ever met you
in the middle

Pillow whispers
The rain outside
Pooling together

"I've been enlightened!"
"When?" I asked the smiling monk.
"The whole time!" he said.

ancient ice burns like
new born fire, I just want
to call you baby

at least tell me to
*******, it would be better
than this, your silence




(lies, all of it)

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

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

Everywhere there are
people laughing, let them laugh!
let you laugh as well.

unraveled again
after clean beast encounters
freshly pressed towels

awake and weary
the poet sits transfixed with
poems unpapered

.




Leaning in closer to hear his last words







.

I sip my quiet through a cup of coffee, while
on the outside of my angular
bubble made of brick,
wood, and window panes, silent
cars drive by
throwing off with their motion, over-exposed
pieces of the sun
from their also angled bubble
bodies, reflected into the eyes of every passer-by,
bouncing back and forth between us.

the shadow of a pen
held in the hands
of political men
looks like a serpent
more than jury stands
man's power was meant
for more than this
for distant lands
and constant kiss
a love that was sent
that people dismiss
and the men will sign
with serpent pens
the dotted line
to make an end