Walking, marching, feet trembling
Knocking from the contact touching earth to soul
Connecting in knowledge of grace and truth
Staring straight ahead, calculating a destination;
a sunny piece of grass in between the trees
I continue until I fall, sit, in the middle of the light
Ablaze, controlled, alone
I notice the clouds ahead, glowing in various shades of pink and purple
Puffy masses being fast-forwarded into movement
Tracking the centuries of the world below;
and noting everyone who stops to embrace life, those who love
A scene so powerful, so moving that the ground engulfs me
Pillowing my head and offering protective covering
As if I melted into the soil;
one body, one earth
A lover’s touch to penetrate the warmth and to fuel the strength within
One kindred spirit, a gift of sacrifice
A black night illuminated by stars
On display during the latest meteor shower.
To pluck a single strand, a smooth blade of grass
Cool to the touch, feather light
Consuming perfectness of the Artwork, feeling it seep in while braiding the stem through each finger
The force of pressure, squeezing the drink from one of nature’s mysteries, the nectar of life
Learning to make a plant bleed, humanizing, understanding
Splitting the shaft down the middle
Opening the body up to take a peek inside
Using the sharp edge of a fingernail to conquer and divide
Planting new seeds to grow, to survive.
What is it, that pounds in the pit of stomach, that tastes a bit metallic?
A sharp bite to eat that brings a couple of drops of tears to the corners of my eyes
Reflecting images of memories being replayed in my peripheral vision;
Tempting constant sideways glances to count down the minutes
for just that one look
that one picture
Trying to capture it all,
As a ghost, facing everyone backsides front, all wrong
Offering open hands with determination; consternation?
Always waiting for just a part of an explanation
to feel welcomed, even after spilling out any truth or story
Disregarding modern ways and dialing the numbers of fate on the pay phone, by the theatre where
the grand opening of the new story is featuring
About a boy, who grew up to be a man
A mortal without the limitations of the jaded, the wasted
A new lover’s exhale offering every fresh breath a small prayer;
Requesting them to be sacred gusts of wind to travel,
In a straight line to those connected.
I am, just as you are, as we are,
A cluster of master illuminaries, the various torch holders of destiny, a group of multiple ultimate miracles;
Shining their grace into the soil of the Earth
The layers of flesh and dirt, that echo off of the platform at the base of the mountains,
And jump off the cliff into the valleys; Dramatically encircling the territories
Like some sort of scout or invader
The sweet nectar that lies breathlessly awaiting, seeks, is seeking, the steady stream that flows into the sea
The vein that carries the rhythm of Her predictable heartbeat, the blood of her soul
A refreshing swim to remind Her that She’s alive
Comfortable, but forced, as if saluting in attention to the flag;
The fabric and the thread of our destiny
What colors will remain when the skies start falling?
I join the ranks of concrete statues,
balancing fact from fiction, truth, or worse, lies
I find, a certain picture brewing, floating to the viewpoint of my eyes
A world of a land and of seas,
A world of guiltless lives and sheltered, coffined deaths;
This idea that we are given a reality that fights the tendril hair of knowledge that leads to igniting what we dream
A World with no pipelines, no shipwrecks, no signs of life from anywhere but
From the heart of the Earth, her core of gold,
Pulsating fiery energy to her children she placed above
Who then use it, waste it, ignore it
Lines of tiny ants that march in troops to conquer new goals
To abolish anything original, unless the idea suits the “world,”
However many times She claims She has never once requested any help,
only our love
We seek nourishment, encouragement but trap ourselves by binding to the shackles of narcissism and disappointment,
to add those to the list of accomplishments,
Checking off each box as another step into the assimilation,
Forgetting that there will always be something, anything,
Worth listening to,
To fight for.
Sitting at a bistro table, in one of the two chairs
Picturing a view of a diamond sky, and being entertained by the crowded streets of the night
My pointed toe traced the outlines of the cobbled stone,
A piece of concrete to record the history of the street;
raw, shiny, from all of the feet before me.
The waiter, a skinny, balding man brought my water and a straw
Two separate pieces laid out before me on the bistro table.
On the marble top that is speckled in brown, beige, and tiny geometric shapes of green
A sturdy image brought to life by Van Gogh in a dream;
Of make-believe, what we seek to define as real
To replay the conversations of the passer-bys of the night, and to question, dissect them.
As my fingers fuddled with the straw paper
Twisted the object, crumpling it, as if trying to figure it out too,
Only in touch and sensitivity;
Making common sense out of inanimate objects, and feelings
Trying to keep my hands busy, to steady the mind focused on the table itself, the bubble that I put in place to surround
Ignoring those who live in the apartments above, my reverie
And not looking at the others who may be:
There’s nothing worse than distractions during our most important conversations, interactions.
The bubble succeeds in sheltering the lost minds who find themselves wondering,
always thinking, about everything.
But it’s tight, sometimes suffocating;
The force of the task creates awkward lapses in recreating,
Anything sensible at all.
It’s amazing how the barriers we create can feel like all of the weight of the World.
I fumbled with the wrapper, daring a few glances towards the doorway,
The gate of the future, blocked off to the sight of everyone, except me, from my seat
Still no one entered.
Losing patience of strength and pride, I contemplated rising, leaving, escaping.
Too many thoughts are too many enough.
But then, at the height of my anxiety, almost the last step up before the leap,
I felt a hand on my shoulder and knew that you had arrived.
The constant flow of penetration disappeared at that moment, and it was quiet.
It’s unmistakably rare to find ones to share the weight of the world.
To not feel alone at a picturesque marble bistro table,
Underneath a starry night.
The echoing last seconds of a boom of thunder lingered within the waking moments of memory
Flashes of light blinding, even through painted eyelids, afraid to open
A storm of importance, demanding to be heard, to be seen, felt
A single dance partner impatient to start moving
I collapsed into awareness, jumping out into the blackness;
For the moon and the stars had shed away their shine to give all attention to the flashes that penetrated the night
The white explosions of blue, gold, and green;
Shards flying off into the fragments of the living; Earth
The Storm, expressing its determination of telling a story, trying to be heard
Given the brief luxury of the creation of wind and water,
Binding air particles that recklessly spin faster, upward, to start a rhythm that’s trance-like,
Blinding; pounding: the lover’s heartbeat.
How many steps ahead is the subconscious intellect?
The telescopic third-eye,
Blinking into an open window of time
Where everything means nothing,
Of what we see;
Of what we seek and believe.
A hazy glow, encircles the picture playing in front of me:
Of a child chasing a remote-control car,
Of the cardinal that sits at my window,
The little girl that mourns over the dead bird;
What is it, that we dream?
To exist within the conformities of time, and place,
To understand what it means that nothing has boundaries;
And to be a slave to them all.
Looking down, I see a tiny blade protruding from my chest
Watch, as the thick crimson flows down in a thirsty trail from my heart
The pool, turning black at my feet,
As in the representation of the extinction of life; and it is
The tar-like edges clinging to my skin,
Covering the pink flesh
And I am alone
The murderer, refusing to sacrifice, ran away
If there were an instrument of Heaven,
It wouldn’t be the harp,
nor the flute, the clarinet, or the trombone.
It would be the piano;
Mixing the different moments of sound
Into the stories of the world
to flow freely, stream-like, winding around the various twisted letters.
To caricaturize their meaning
Inserting contextual lines instead of placing images,
to understand, is to appreciate the living;
What it means to live.
so as to find the love in others,
the ones left undiscovered to me yet.
The majority of friends who,
compliment the shared community of time spent
Minds of philosophical masters;
like in the great classics.
To express the knighthood among the learned;
to continue the traditions.
Who is bothered to stand taller,
than the limits of physical proportions?
I know I am.
Today, I felt the kiss of spring
As if I were embraced by the woman in the wind,
She hugged me
I could feel her warmth;
A motherly touch that promised of love.
Her long fingers strewn through my hair
Catching on a few amber curls
My windows down, to stay connected
I heard her talking, mixed within the music
The noninvasive compilation of instruments playing;
In ceremony, the birds chirping
Along with the exact rhythm and melody,
It felt like Heaven.
A minute at a red light to offer a moment of reflection,
One where the Universe finally understood;
Could feel my need,
Then forced Its hymn
The music playing a light piano with:
Translucent waves of harmony
I happened to notice the sky at that moment
A blue so pure,
I could get lost in that ocean forever;
The only view to supplement the subconscious listening.
But as it seems now
At least most days
And I’m forced to follow
The line of traffic
When the light turns green.
The rounded puzzle edges were spread out across the table
Their splash of mixed colors thrown carelessly together
An explosion of rainbow that added up to form the big picture
Of some unimportant field with blooming wildflowers
As a portrayal, it’s not an example of terrific photographic artwork;
Just a field, another grassy plain that awakens us to its declarations,
By sprouting colorful rainbow temptations
Or, at least that’s what I gathered, but it was the actual puzzle fragments;
Themselves, that caused stop for attention
How can cardboard evoke such feeling?
Relating to the trials and triumphs of picking up the pieces,
And saying farewell to the parts of me that I’ve lost;
The missing puzzle shapes that imperfect the overall vision
There is no reasonable order of the pieces that remain
Put together, they display empty holes that have been dug down deep to the pits of Hate
The heat cauterizing each new breach to be plugged with a distorted rosy scar,
Never to be puzzled over; as if in punishment of losing the allotment forever
But mixed within together, the puzzle pieces put into a pile,
They collectively seem whole
There is no such thing as a
missing core outlined by a cutoff print of green weeds and tall grass.