Sometimes life stops for a minute..

Open Gates


A bolstering gun of light
      factors through a canyon of -

      I don't know
            - ignorance
            - indifference

Distantly tracing a line
      on a cold, hard wall
            with a painted picture
                  of something warm - and beautiful

This etching
      these..
            pretend lines
      somehow they bleed

      somehow - they rape
            the lies from the eye

But the iris
      it strains
            having forgotten color
                  like an open gate unrecognized

Holding freedom with its
      camouflage background
            of familiarity

The white wolf waits
      quietly beyond the invisible walls
            staring with its
                  ice blue eyes

      Piercing through deceit
            hoping
                  patiently

Words have no use here

and the moon isn't bright enough
      to break the skin

and the gate will never swing open
      without an eye to see it

A poem.

Slumber that Bleeds like rain

flowing through veins
      with pressure and pain
           
falling like rain
      crashing on hot pavement

like gravel writhing
      driving through unknown chasms

lies protect larger organs
      from bursting, or imploding

walls that never die
      souls that refuse to be free

the salt stains warming
      flying into a long awaited slumber

resting in each moment
      meditating upon what else to ponder

fleeing

flaking

run..

Peace has never been so good.

Restful Longing


The watery moon-lit
      glaze flows below
            my brain with such
                   strength - such certainty


As the midnight tree creatures
      dance upon my ears
            with music
                  as fruit might to a tongue


Save me - calm earth,
      from the blustering boom
            of tomorrow


Let me rest for now
      hush these thoughts
            as water vapor fills
                  my lungs with a cool
                        silence


      beautiful breath..


This canyon of wounds
      invites healing
            this graceful plea of
                  filtered sorrow


It was never about the rain
      - each droplet, so small
            but the peaceful accumulation
                  flowing into the pond of
                        wisdom


The place where the dirt
      proudly lies, settled
             at the bottom - smiling upward
                   through the pure cleansing
                         waters of time and knowing


Each word - a droplet
      each thought - a puddle
            all joining together
                  in the resting place
                        where I long to be.

Pursing in Surrender

Opening up


Like a pursed flower


      rising
Reaching into this


      surrendering
Each petal


      bleeding
Ricocheting downward


      condensing
Fleeing inside the pulse


      breathing
Working through each elaborate chasm


      beating
Opening toward perfect warmth


      releasing
Bathing in shameless pools


      dripping
Curling in fern-like delight


      baring
Stretching for chapelled ceilings


      absorbing
Blossoming every inch


      wilting
Falling toward floor-lit caves


      readying
Dancing in harmonic rhythm


      slowing
Spreading throughout the end


      resting


            finding


                  progressing

The "Age" of Reason

The Way the Soul Cries when the Clock starts


From a larger pulse
      a whole that
            r e t r acts
      with every thought
            and desire
      etched into human form
           breathing now
                 panting - eating
            feeling - crying
                  laughing


                  processing


Life


Not just a piece anymore
      or a glowing burst of
            energy and infinity
Temporarily broken away
      placed in material
            experience


The earth weeps
      with welcoming
            flattery
A clock begins
      tick             ing
            logic
                  Reason   ?


Suddenly, this beautiful
      infinite soul
            feels the pressure
      of being stamped
            with age
                   separation
                        confusion
                               reaction  ?


Dying to
      connect
            to a larger whole
the one from whence
      it came
            the wisdom 
                  that had already consumed it


To hide the crows,
      and the creases,
            and the moles,
                  and the whites
                        and grays 
      or show them  ?


Fighting, leaping,
      begging
            for the beginning
Running from the unforgiving
      labeling
            of the ticking
                  clock


Do not judge this
      soul
by its
      journey 
             l e  n   g    t     h      .       .        .


For there have been
      many
and there will be
      infinitely more


Tear the skin away
      break the eyes - 
            the hair
See the thing inside
      the part that came
            from the larger
                  p u l s e
      the part
             that has always been
                   the same origin
             as yours       

A poem about moments. The kind that knock you down, that weaken your pulse - just before it speeds up again.

Impact


Crackling fibers


      dance


Upon the glowing


      ember


light of this


      electrifying


            moment


Every particle


      etched


together with


      energy - 
  
            lightning


Something deeper,


      warmer


than fire..


      burns within


And the crashing


      waves


are a mute comparison


      wind


cannot blow, nearly


      fierce


            enough


Only light, reflection


      refraction


Particles - finely tuned


      flowing


Moving together, they


      crumble


melting toward one another


      giving


in to this elegant


      yearning


this natural pull to -


      connect


Much like the flow of


      lava


the kind of burn that


      heals


the kind of pull that


      forgives


and the kind of welcome that


      encapsulates


BANG


      doesn't even scratch the


            surface


      of this. This is larger

More poem-writing, as promised.

So, in lieu of the fact that lately, I've had more to "say" than to say poetically, I thought that perhaps a poem was due.

I did promise that when I started this, I would try to post some every now and then, and one for every 4 posts seems, at least, appropriate.

Hope you enjoy.



The Darkest of Delicate Beauties

As the moon fades,
      glowing through the trees,
            ever so dimly
its rays touch the skin
      with unforgiving luminosity


The moon was always overlooked
      always second to the sun
            and its oranges, pinks and reds


But it is in the comparison
      that the mind loses its focus
            on the duality of the two beauties


Like comparing a hand to a foot


She rages - the moon,
      with her blues, whites and purples
            always delicate in her contact


Forgiving the sun's daily aggressive rays
      with her cool, beautiful light


Dancing with the sun, she keeps in step
      carefully maintaining this delicate
            immortal balance


      of prisms and light
            color and white


Her dark beauty - glimmers
      just as bright


There is no forceful break
      in her rays


Moving the tides
      she wails
            submitting to her passions


But, jealousy - no
      she has none


For what has she to envy?


None can tame her
      cooling breezes
            and meteor twilight


She is her own


Unpraised
      
      and uncaged -- howling in ecstasy 

Anyone done any Listening lately?

I am So brilliant. Aren't you?


Politics and politics, and religion and REFORM and politics, politics, politics, politics, and dammit if I didn't promise myself a long time ago that I would never venture into these topics, and I would always keep it philosophical and creative.


But how the hell can I avoid it without railing myself with a brick in order to keep my promise? 


How!?


It's everywhere. It's engulfing - with its flames and its poisons and its know-hows and boohoos.


BLAH blah blah... that's all I hear anymore when those surrounding me talk about especially politics and religion.


So what's a girl to do?


Everyone is soo incredibly impressed with themselves for Everything that They know and are So entitled to their opinions. That you MUST listen to.


And copyrights.                                                                        And independence.
          
       And freedom-to-Do-or-Say-anything-I-want-no-matter-the-consequences.


And things.                                                                            And T.V. shows.


And blah .                     -               I heard it.


      blah . .                      -               Oh yea, where?


           blah . . .                 -                Y'know. From those people. At that source. With the stuff.


                blah . . . .            -                 Oh.. oh! Right! Of course I know. Yea, man. 


                    double blah.


What happened to them? What happened to the men and women patiently and silently and humbly listening to others opinions BEFORE deciding that the one they were listening to was an opposing one? Where the hell did they go?


So irresponsible.


So inexcusably rude.


So arrogant.


Every last one of us.


Every time I go anywhere and any one of those subjects come up - I end up feeling as though I've been suddenly surrounded by a crowd of raving five-year-old know-it-alls Screaming at the top of their lungs,


               I know the Best candy better than you!!


        I tasted it first!


                     But I can buy it cheaper than you!


              Mine tasted So much sweeter than yours!


And you know what?


I quickly turn into one of the babbling, blustering, boiling, raving, proud and loud. 
     Lunatics. We're all lunatics.


And we should be ashamed of ourselves.


The only exception I can even wrangle up is possibly my grandfather, or my father. Being men of few words, typically, they each only interrupt, interject, or speak strongly when they know, better than anyone, for absolute certain, not only that the party is interested, but also that they are more knowledgeable about the subject at hand. 


and you know what else? When they are introduced to something new, from someone more knowledgeable than themselves. They listen!!!! Intently.


When did our poorly sourced citations, lazy grapevine gossip, book scanning and magazine reading become so deserving of our arrogance? Where do we got off?


Seriously?


When was the last time you spoke to someone about any of those things who patiently listened, and paid attention, before attempting to attack you with not a more confident, but a more knowledgeable rebuttal?


I'm having a hard time remembering myself..


We all desire, for the most part, the same simple things.


But everyone wants to sit around and fight, and nag, and fight - and point out to everyone, but themselves, how wrong they are.


Like babies begging for attention.


Do me a favor; next time you go to talk to someone about politics, or religion (or anything that tends to prompt your arrogant pride into full force) - show some self control. 


Think before you speak. Listen before you think (I believe this is an important step we often leave out as well).


Analyze the jump before you leap - 
          or we're all just going to end up in the pit, dragging it all down with us.


I'll try to do the same.










               

Anecdotal Nonsense on Dating and the Dreaded Red Button...

Aaaaannnnnd.. she's still awake. Perplexed and unable to escape her thoughts.

Nothing new about that, eh?

On Dating


I was thinking..

Isn't it funny the things we say - the person we sometimes become when we're in the dating stage of life?

Silly, really.

Wouldn't it be so much easier to just take a deep breath and be ourselves?

So, why the hell don't we?

This game of anxiety and nervousness.. overanalyzing every little movement and word. Part of it is the romanticism of the thing itself, I suppose.

But, when, WHY did people ever become so scared? So fake...

I see it as an invisible box that we put ourselves into. When you're first meeting someone, your mind initially shifts to the "socially acceptable" box (which, let's face it - no one truly knows the answer to what this is - thus begins the circle of confusion.. winding us into an abyss of god knows what's next) feeling the ins and outs of what might make this person find you crazy or odd.

Anxiety is a funny thing.

But what really got me thinking, besides the obvious danger of the socially acceptable box thing (throw that one away - forever. Do it right now, I order you), is the red button.

The dreaded red button....

What's the red button, you say?

Remember when you were a kid and there was "that" thing - that One thing that was the equivalent to Not pushing the red button? The One thing you weren't supposed to do?

Do you remember the way you felt when they (in this case, probably your parents or older sibling) told you not to do it? Do you remember asking why? Do you remember how Badly you wanted to do it after they said Not to?

So, in this case, what's the red button?

The red button is accepting the box. It's not flushing it down the toilet and being yourself. It's doing the opposite.

O.k. So, now think. The last time you went out on a date, started a new job, or met some new people. What did you do?

I bet lots of you said to yourselves. "O.k., me. Just be yourself, and you'll be fine."

You just told yourself not to push the red button!!

And I'll bet you failed.
I bet you pushed it.
I bet you were as far from being yourself as is humanly possible.

Moral of the story?

Don't say it. Don't think about it. Don't even consider it.

As a matter of fact - do something else.

Take a bath. Meditate. Pray. Listen to your favorite cheesy band on the way. Do things that make the red button story seem like a silly little anecdote that you never intended to remember, or read again.

People are weird. I, myself, enjoy being one of the weirder ones. Go have fun doing the same.