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FoolishExploding over the walls,
your personal Jesus can't save you.
Why, why, why
her demons scream in her face.
Blinding and illusionary in the dark,
but you and she can't see,
all pent up and foolish actions.
Does it loose meaning?If I say I'm sorry
does it change a thing?
Would to keep saying
that one word be demeaning?
To say it today
and then say it the next
to say it again and again
does it not loose meaning?
Should I say that one-
for just a small taste of:
anger, annoyance, bitterness,
a raised voice in a sentence?
Should I say I'm sorry?
But, still this image...I remember the days
of sunflowers and daises;
of passion flowers blooming
and the consciousness of a lotus.
Memories of wind and sun,
water lapping upon coasts
and tidal waves of revolution -
the true beginnings of a peculiar bloom.
Washing up on stranger shores,
staring at a new symmetry,
the forming of a unknown world -
the starting of quiet discontent.
An invention, a discovery, outlandish!
Growing faster, faster, fast -, fa -
to a grotesque transformation
into an astonishing reflection.
Expanding and contorting,
flowers bursting in fire and rebirth;
from marvelous and into extraordinary
but still, this image...
A Glass JarI fought with a pen instead
never thinking to use a sword.
Words flowed unbidden, non-rhyming,
the beginnings of a strange symmetry;
These words whispered across the pages,
ink constantly flowing, flowing -
rivers of words pouring out of pen
into a glass jar full of dreams.
Alas, these images of past, present
and the future of my yesterdays,
are only just a glass jar full of dreams.
Glimpse, A Glint, of possibilitiesA flash, one moment,
just a simple glimpse
one whisper full of meaning
and eyes shining out bright.
The sun catches upon a shine,
a glint, an echo, a brush,
a field of a soft golden glow
and trees of deep, deep roots.
Promise, promise, promise,
a promise of something more -
left or right, or walk off;
Make it quick! Make it quick!
Brimming full of the more,
bubbling over, flowing out
quickly take a sip from it
or the moment is gone to soon!
A moment, a glint, an echo,
one glimpse of what could be;
if only, if only but for one
moment to make a choice.
Suddenly, but oh so suddenly
It is gone.
The Wind RagedRage, rage, the wind went
it whirled about in discontent.
It never seemed to stop it's lament
and neither would it relent.
It cried and cried and cried,
having no where to hide.
It just could not seem to abide
being so very cold outside.
All the wind wanted was to find peace
and yet already had it's release;
The wind just did not know how to cease
or even remember how to be nice.
Jar of DreamsShe collected her dreams,
one by one in these glass jars.
She had a giant collection sitting,
always sitting on a bunch of shelves-
they were tucked away between books
and lost underneath papers, hidden away.
Sometimes she would take them out to see,
wanting a view of what she had once dreamed.
Never ever did she think or wanted to release them
for doing so would meant to shatter her precious jars
and she was ever so afraid that those shards would cut,
cut and cut and cut her, leaving her shredded into pieces.
So on rainy days, she would find them, take them to the window
and put them on display as she counted them all, one, two, three...
she would cry and cry with the rain always wishing, always dreaming
of the day that maybe she would be unafraid to release the precious jars
Flower's InstructionsWith tender care a seed
was planted into the garden.
It's life grew fast as children do,
from seed to bud to bloom.
Flower greeted the world with
its beauty and petals almost overnight.
The flower told the gardener,
as it bloomed it's colors:
Treat me well fair world
for I am small and delicate
Give me gentle winds of words
for hurricanes will blow me away.
Give me tender kisses of light
so that I may not wilt from harsh love.
Give me soft rains of kindness
so I may be kind and strong.
If you do these things
I'll be beautiful for life.
Desire Has WroughtDesire found itself upon lonely shores,
washed up on an a tiny island
no where to go except
in a circle around an island.
There is nothing to do but think before ,
stretch out upon sands;
come to terms, accept
what Desire had done.
Desire, Desire, the waves whispered,
expressing the loneliness of Desire
of knowing what once had been grasped
and what has been lost.
Nothing Desire thought of could deter
the thoughts of what had transpired
what desire had almost clasped
but now knows the cost.
False ConceptTime is an illusion
And we make a delusion
As if we know the conclusion
Better than the real resolution
How small we are in this c n u i n
o f s o
Of what lengths of time envision
Much greater than our own observation
Our knowledge is a masked intrusion
Obscure in our own consumption
Time has its sessions
And we are just a provision
In an never ending mission
Art Can Be-Skipping and jumping and hopping
And swimming and dancing and
Art can be
You with friends
And a box of sparklers on a
Warm summer night.
Art can be
The snow that melts
In your hair and the warmth
Of the fire inside during winter.
Art can be
You racing outside with no one
But yourself and whatever you love
Whether you can touch it or not.
Art can be
Words on a page or a scrap of paper
Or a napkin at that one diner that got
Art can be
Little scribbles on the back of a
Test, where you're in school and the
Person next to you is exactly at that
Art can be
You with ten other people
Just dancing around like idiots
Or by yourself practicing that one part
In a complicated routine.
Art can be
Random streaks of color,
Whether it's made by light and clouds
And rain, or by paints or pencils or digital
Art can be
A choir of young children
Or a few friends, no matter the age,
Just hanging out singing old songs in the
Art can be
DesperateYou said, to keep my eyes on You,
that the shifting- the raging seas are not to be feared.
You said that with the faith the size of a mustard seed-
that I can say to the mountains, ‘Be moved,’ and they will be uprooted.
I just need the strength, the courage, the faith to believe.
I gasp, I struggle, I am desperate.
Desperate for the pain to cease.
Desperate for the screaming to end.
Desperate for one touch of healing.
One touch to feel that You are with me.
I fight against chaos and deception,
against an uprooted faith, lingering.
With fists clasped, with a spirit roaring, raving.
I scream into the emptiness, the darkness,
void of belief- laced within this despair.
There is a certain hopelessness that comes
when you lay helplessly in a state of desperation.
It leads you to a revelation that paints new light
to an otherwise deadly situation.
I wish I could say I didn’t reach that point,
that family surrounding me was enough
to encourage a fight ins
Is like a butterfly:
And difficult to capture,
For the short moment
When you cup it in your hands.
SacrilegeI hope sometimes, when I hear the thunder,
that when I stand in the middle of a field
and watch the clouds roll in far above me
like a curtain, dark enough to substitute night-time,
I won't be ignored by the God I never believed in
and it will not be daylight
any time soon.
My grandmother used to tell me that
"thunder is God moving furniture"
and that "it's so loud because it's actually very heavy."
and I'd just think, that if God has bedposts made from gold
why are we still starving?
why are we still poor?
why are we still so afraid of the booms in the sky
Woden GivesWoden gives to those that take
blood for blood in walking flesh
a gift of wisdom for seekers’ held
the wheat shall sift from grain
and chaff is more a dirty word
it’s kith for kin in our own world
children young and withered old
a hunger for and a thought about
the spinning wheel inside the circle
that turns about throughout all ages
faith and family and Blood and Gods
it is the cycle of our lives
no more schemes and no more violence
our Fate is in our hands.
Never Lose HopeSometimes
In the midst of
A dark night of the soul,
Will perch in the tree
Outside your window
And sing to you
That the morning is coming.
Les querelles et les religionsLa religion des querelles.
Querelles de religions ou quand Dieu se mord la queue.
Une religion reproduit dans les fosses
De l’iniquité et de l’intolérable
Un christianisme de l’inquisition.
Ceux-là aussi se disaient des saint-hommes,
Œuvrant pour et au nom de Dieu,
Qui torturaient et brûlaient l’innocent.
Quand une religion se bâtit sur
Une perversion des valeurs morales,
Il n’y a plus dans sa foi de lueur
D’une quelconque spiritualité.
Il est heureux que les prophètes morts
Ne voient pas cette abomination
Que leurs révélations ont suscitée.
Dieu se querelle avec lui-même…
Via ses propres révélations!
Ternie, l’image de Dieu n’est plus
Que cette caricature de lui-même
En bête sans queue ni tête
Déferlant en barbarie sur le monde.
Tout chacun interprète la Parole
Et le débile qui crie le plus fort
De sa Kalachnikov a toujours ra
in one of the stars you shall be livingi'm sorry i can't save
you with a name
or hold you.
i will never be able
to teach you
how to shave,
how to talk to your
crushes in middleschool
or how to tie a tie,
use a pocket knife,
how to make rice.
and how tell your mother
you're sorry you got an F
in math class,
or how to make her
( alfredo shrimp pasta )
to make her smile;
i have a cheat sheet in
my head to make your
mother smile but you'll
never be old enough to
use it; at five, you could
recite a poem by Neruda
and at six you could draw
in a box,
or a hat
and only we would know
its a boa eating an elephant,
(she'd ask why you drew a hat,
but she would know better)
but if god
exists he should be
and you will hear this
from the mouth
of our father.
the stars will hold your smile
and i will not forget you
i could not stop
the river of red
away from me.
StrangerKill me now lest I dream to deep
or to fast that I am swallowed
by all that is and was.
While chasing the white stag,
the trees melt and seas boil
the world seems repugnant.
From the land of frozen
lips become black and blue
with stiff movements of uncertainty.
From the land of the scorching,
the heart melts and explodes
while the minds discovers phantasmagoria.
And within the realm of copse,
the mind discovers the unearthing,
and there is silence on the lips.
Oh where oh where have I gone,
where is this stag and feast
taken me that I am a stranger?
Within this flow of possibilities,
a sea full of obscurity and absurdity,
there is a stranger staring back at me.
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