Windswept words, barren, empty, whisked away like so many dandelion seeds. Dreams that never formed nor took flight; whimsical longings caught up to heaven on the breath of mourning. Sometimes it’s that I do not know the outcome. Sometimes it is precisely that I do. But wishes ever ride the tide of something, I always thought for me could not…
. . . and what are dreams but the smoldering desires of the subconscious? Illusive, wispy thoughts wavering in liquid silver on moonlit starry nights; sweet warm breaths of longing that tousle the hair and flutter the soul; wide yearning opening it’s delicately sensuous fingers to caress the throbbing edges of the mind.
The poet is born lungs screaming for life urgently seeking her deepest need– the search for truth in the illusive word; that one poignantly perfect poetic expression revealing naked-born reality, writhing, hungry, pure, wearing a living beauty like skin, (not possessing it like a coat, removable when uncomfortable). This poet searches for adjectival justice; illuminating truth laying bare…
Forest green hills slope away to valleys disappearing . . . Meandering rails of split wood wander aimlessly out of sight . . . Breezes caress deep grassy pastures (wildflowers tossing their glorious tresses) where stately heads bow to their foraging work. So much grass (can’t miss a blade), so little time. Glossy coats glisten in the sun automated…
Truth stands on elemental rock embedded in time solidified by centuries. Compressed diamond-like I hold it in my hands– Logos–word of truth. Its facets of virtue reflect knowledge revealed in white space. In logical progression it marches across ages . . . pages . . . Somewhere down in Egypt it struck camp. No longer written in stone it whispers…
Come walk with me among the dead that sodden path where life has bled. We’ll whisper names that time’s forgot brush clean the stones that mark their lot: and linger there to contemplate how brief a life is all our fate. A blink, a breath, a fading light consign the soul to that dark night.
Born out of time, a fault not your own, bearing along the wisdom of sages, on tiny dove-like wings you lit upon the earth. Spreading wider to touch with gentle flutter, for one sweet, though bitterly brief, moment. A whisper soft impression from the artist’s brush left upon a canvas of glue and gold, and gray and black. Your golden…
How do we learn to live together in this world? Make room for each other, gently jostle one another, good-naturedly excusing ourselves. Why do we bang into each other so roughly? Slam together with a force that knocks some off their feet. Some people barrel into us intentionally, linebackers on Super Bowl Sunday. Others accidentally tumble us off balance,…
I yearn to live within the poetry of my soul eyes that see more than I know, connected to a realm I somehow sense in disappearing images that brush the corners of my sight and leave me feeling I missed something– unfeigned, authentic, breathtaking, slipping between primordial fingers till I turn, closing eyes of blind sight to find the thing…
The life is in the blood. It pulses there in the eyes– soul windows clouded but alive– deep-black, watery pools, red-rimmed distant orbs. Back alley homes, newspaper blankets, city heat vents, street’s grating. Wearing everything he owns on his decaying body. Shopping cart collection of what-knot necessities, and what’s in the brown paper bag in his hand? Park benches make…