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