The fog rolling gently through the fields
The channel, a single vein of life, covered in the clouds,
The thoughts rolling in,
The gentle kiss of each drop of moisture
Bringing with it something more
Seeping in through your lungs, through your very skin
The streetlights creating a glow, creeping through the fog
Like a drop of yellow warmth in moving, clear honey.
The turning point, a land of darkness, to return to your point of origin
The fields, dark, black
Assimilating every sounds and flicker of light to come its way
Becoming a sea, solid and still.
No crashing waves,
No smell of salt lingering in your nostrils
No foam to outline each reach of the liquid hands.
A call from a gull, the stillness all around
No true view
The sound of your steps seem to be choked
The fog smothering it, killing it
A murder in the night
The sounds and light
No escape from the fate that has found its prey
Turn and find yourself, find your mind returning to you
As the fog is left behind with the dark sea
The dark field, the abyss
Distant as your arm’s reach
And still light-years from where you were
The still black sea has left you
A pebble from its shore
Smoothed, transmuted, metamorphosed
underwater--city: What drives your poetry?
I think a big motivator for me is that we now have the opportunity to write about contemporary life and distribute that expression in real time—the internet is cool for that.
I want people to realize that it’s not cool to be apathetic about the world and its problems anymore.
I want people to start caring about the world, our environment and the people and animals in it.
I want everyone to treat others with respect and to consider themselves as equals.
So… while my writing may take some seriously dark turns, my overall goal is to confront reality and daily life. Awareness is important, and I hope to make you think twice about some aspect of life every now and then.
Now, don’t get me wrong… I am all up for positive thinking! That’s why I make an effort to respond to ‘asks’ and speak to all of you on a different level—I want to have a conversation with you—I want you to be my friend, not my ‘follower’. Listening to one person speak all day won’t get us anywhere. Changes in society take time, and they take a lot of commitment from a lot of like minded individuals who want to make a difference. I just want to help enable discussion…
…and sometimes you have to dig through the ugly stuff to come up with a flower.
I thought this was a really nice response. Awakening and inspiration. Hopeful and realistic.
Large, powdered and White
Full of secrets and lies
Ah, so ornate! Colors of every hue
Dancing, swirling, adding to the facade
The masks, witty, sharp, eloquent like the
Serpent hiding behind their teeth
The dance and frock
Oh how fun, the colors are so enticing, welcoming
You simply must…
Another twirl, another dip and a change of direction
With the tarantella, accelerating
The corners of the room becoming more and more alike
Discernible one from the other.
As the night goes on, and their captivating moves evolve
The frock disassembles
The hair losing its powder, fraying like the rest of them, like their souls.
The jewels falling off one at a time and their colors fade
The serpent weaving its way between the cracks in their teeth.
The perspiration from their lengthy attempts to bind you
Is your key.
With one more turn you slip from their hand and turn to see
The words and disguises have filled the room and all the world continues its party
And you, you can leave or stay
No More To Slumber
Wake up one morning
I woke up running.
the breeze on my cheeks,
the sun in my eyes
hugging the horizon like a long lost lover
returning from his time abroad.
The horizon, the trees are fingers
Running through his golden hair
I realize only then that I too have been gone.
I was lost in a land of slumber,
Where the stars of far off lands enabled me
Distracting me in their clouds of color
Their cosmic rounds singing sweetly
Lilting relentlessly aloft in my mind.
Even now, they call me back with mere thoughts
Of their heavenly bodies
Captivating all in their persuasive prisons of beauty.
Beautiful, but prisons none-the-less.
And so with a gentle sweeping against my cheek
The sun lifts me back, as a lover does
Pulling me by my chin into his warm kiss.
To where? It doesn’t matter
I can look and divert my attention
Holding fast in my spot,
The cup filling with golden tea
Relaxing and warm
To gander at the grass
And ponder that position.
To race the birds,
The wind’s vessels
Carrying their songs
The special cargo of the World
I’m free to run or stand
Physically and mentally alike
I’m the star! Released from gravity’s prison
Free to be the nebula I was meant to be
Exploding, releasing, being.
The prison was actually the prisoner
A swift, brisk autumn wind am I. Walking through life. My thoughts as bustling as the people downtown. Each one just as foreign. My own mind, a foreign country, only familiar in that I can recognize the stones as firm and the air as life.
Through the day, my thoughts accumulate behind my walls, a dam, awaiting the break down.
With the setting of the sun
So too sets the wall, just as predictable and just as world altering.
The words spill out and fill my world to my knees. Things change, the world changes. I change.
At night, the moonlight glows, the trees radiate with each lead dancing in the wind.
The leaves are not the ones to fall. The moonlight beams, glowing white leaves of moonlight drifting downward. Their illuninating touch, extending gently to each corner of the world. Effervescing in the ripples and nothing more.
The words coming to their true beauty in the night.
In the night the best words come to those who wade.
The balancing of the scales.
A pound of feathers and a pound of bricks. The bricks are so few though and how…
How does one control with any finess the weight? We used to walk by and say that a pound of each was same. It’s not. I take this pound of feathers to the face and sink into slumber. Falling deeper and deeper away from this chaos, into peace. These bricks though, flying at us from the mouths of those around us. Our peers, family, friends, classmates, coworkers, strangers, ourselves. We dodge and scramble in avoidance, each brick becoming a barrage and death even in its smallest form. A pound, they say, is the same in bricks and feathers.
I am not a scale.
They are not the same, so keep your bricks. Use them to build a wall in your mouth, never to let the rest fly out.
I’ll take only feathers.
theriverh2o: What is it you like about writing? :)
Emotion. I love to write about emotion. The things I write about, though they often have to do with the physical activity involved are really about the thoughts and feelings. The progression of feelings, the connection it brings each person to another. How feelings connect us to nature, to other people, to our pets and other animals, it’s all about the emotion. That feeling of connection in a dark green forest, the light sliding through, lilting down through the branches. The moist, natural smells that bring us to a place of serenity within ourselves. The brisk, winter air. The way the cold air seems to take on a physical presence as it wraps around our exposed faces and how we connect to it, the way we think of it as a cool hand, or the chill of fear, loneliness or refreshment. The way we can read the words “The room was shadowed, a beam of light upon my bookshelf. The rumbling feet above me, going about their daily lives. Me, the dusty air infiltrating every pore in my nostrils and the light, travailing against the dark. The feel of the soft, satin fabric against my bare feet and my back against the icy wall” and we immediately put ourselves in that position. When we were there, what we feel when we sit in that position, why we sit there and think what we do? Did my mother die and I curled up in my room just like that? Did my dog run away? Was I just waking up getting ready for the day? Do I listen while my children prepare for school and recognize my surroundings while I mentally prepare for the day of errands? No matter what, the right words, and sometimes even the wrong words, will incite in each of us a memory, a feeling, and thought. That is what connects us, that is my subject of choice.
The glistening sounds, dancing in my ear
The reverberating sights, timeless in my mind
No one could save us
For we were our own heroes
We staved off the dragons
We vanquished the demons
We rescued each other
Until the time came to leave
They would snatch us up
Our magic, our skills,
Void against them as they took us from our Never-land.
The times alone, yearning, aching for more time together
More time away.
Away from the real demons
The gnashing teeth of the skeletons in the closet,
The crimson eyes, scanning the room,
Waiting to attack.
They never knew.
I wandered alone.
The sticks and stones the others threw became my closest friends
The words that “never hurt me”, left scars for all the world to see.
And when I reached for others’ hearts, I learned it’d never be.
Books became my escape, my enemy.
They allowed for evasion and manipulation
Of course I’ll tell you what you want to hear!
But I can’t change the way I feel.
A burden, a problem, the skeletons got me.
The eyes beneath the stairs betrayed me.
A piece of floss between the razor-like teeth of life.
A piece of clay, kneaded into a paper thin sheet.
No more fear, no more tristesse.
Flat and thin, there is no less to me than before.
I am what I have always been.
In my malleability, I can become the vase
I can hold the space that holds true meaning.
My elasticity, bending, taking in the sticks and stones
Becoming a unique piece of art.
Things that changed me, tore away pieces, altered my core,
Have allowed me,
Me, to become the sword of the silver knight or the staff of the mage Merlin.
By embracing the very things that aren’t, I have mastered fate and vanquished the demons.
More time? Time is infinite and so I have all the time I could want.
Let gentle now the breeze blow,
For no one can save us.
We are our own heroes.
Once upon a time, we were old and in love. We sat in the sun on the porch, our faithful canine keeping company. Our hands, seeming to grasp one another though no physical contact was made.
Once upon a time, we planned dinners and parties. We called loved ones and cooked all day. The swirling, savory sensations wafting within the house in preparation. We smiled and mucked about, making every excuse to touch before the house filled with activity.
Once upon a time, we worked, whiling away the hours until we could return home. The children at home: homework, cleaning, events, recitals.
The days we spent, building a life, a relationship, a love. Days on end, delaying the dollop of affection with time apart. No time together to tell tales of triumph and tristesse. Searching fervently for the phrases that could express so concisely our sentiments. Loneliness lingering lightly from time to time for both, only ever feeling whole in the other’s company. Those days when stability seemed synonymous with predictability, monotony, and boredom. When novelty and spontaneity shimmered like the nightlight at the end of the hall. Brightest as we each lay awake in the middle of the night, contemplating that time in our lives.
Once upon a time we fought. We fought for love, against each other, against others, and against ourselves.
Once upon a time, we were young. Our days full of doubt. Doubt in ourselves and in the world. Where would we go? What would we do? When? How? Why?
The greatest questions ever. Plaguing us moment by moment, these questions swarm our minds. A flurry of snow. A swarm of insects. A dust storm. A wave. Never ceasing. The most important words escape us. To just do it seems so hard. To speak the words and do the deed, the question, “why?”, the hardest things in life it seems. The onslaught of assumptions, expectations, desires, crashing, heaving, crushing, what do we do? Why?…
Once upon a time….
We were in love…