And There I Stood…

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And there I stood
at the threshold of infinity,
wondering when
the tides would cease to swerve,
when the moon would
turn to face me and weep,

when the lighthouse
would become darkened
by the sempiternal emptiness
of unanswered questions.
And then I chose a star to hold,
to cherish and protect as the path takes on new direction.
I speak to a destiny that radiates possibility,
that dissipates the tribulations of yore
and casts them into the pond
where I once thought the answers awaited me.
And here I sing robust melodies
bejeweled with red stones,
warm and smooth to the touch,
filled with a luscious silence, a knowing.
The future reveals an exploding genesis,
its particulates raining upon my head
down my face, attached to my song,
christened by the scintillations

emanating from my bosom.

Art: “Blue”
Wassily Kandinsky

I’ve Heard the Echoes

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I’ve heard the echoes,
chased the shadows,
danced with the reveries
of phantom caresses.

Retreat with me
to a safe space
‘neath the snow-laden burrows
behind the curtain of remembrances

where we will carve out
the annals
of innocence and mirth,
and ascend the smoky hills by night’s end.

Art: “The Road in front of Saint-Siméon Farm in Winter”
Claude Monet

 

Absorbed Space

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Absorbed space,

where the branches met their
reflections
and
her solace
birthed itself from eternal hiding,
Where the minions of fate
worked in concert
to don
the ornamented veil
of futures subsequently
resisted,
Where drops of sky
chased
a soulless moon
to its final appearance,
returning to
the fringes of darkened hours.

Art: “The Black Swan”
William Degouve de Nuncques

Release

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All that torment has loved has disappeared,
and we remain hopeful.
The significance of her efforts
have not gone unnoticed; indeed,
they have recapitulated old victories
and insights that had been hitherto obscured
by notions unseen and ideations to come.
We rally together for a promise of worlds to be

And fully satiate our desire for sanity
by committing to novel patterns of doing and breathing
deeper and more profound
as if the air we knew all along turned in on itself
and proclaimed that only the decadent shadow
could partake of her beauty.
We do not hope for redemption; it is irrelevant.
We do not participate in the vagaries of mindfulness

As we have already been thrice illumined by chariots
sallying forth in a devil’s mist.
After all, we have connected eons ago by the
hands of molecular consistencies and arrangements,
morphed into ornaments of a quiet and intricate despair,
became ripe for contemplation and eventual division,
and ennobled by a distinction not quite unlike
that we have seen in the old woman by the sea,

Who recalls those she instilled with benedictions and protections,

those who knew nothing of the imminent greying of the cloud,
or the sable rainfall in late winter,
or the cellular dance taking place in her furrowed hand.
We knew she didn’t exist as a fullness or even a drop of contingency,
but Fate would make it clear that this handmaiden of the gods
had no choice but to enjoin the waves to cease,
the moon to readjust and the whispers to become

Psalms of renewal and purpose.
Perhaps when I awaken from my slumber,
I shall call upon the disenchantment of the lost,
and be reunited with my passion for the nuance of colored thoughts
in a colorless world. I will know breath anew,
and each movement toward being will ripen
throughout successive periods of clarity and understanding.
It is then that I will become ingrained in myself, and project in infinite directions.

Art: “Phoenix (Peace Eagle)”
Matthew Day Jackson

Blue Elephants

I Require Art

Blue elephants saunter in the moonlight, electricity keeps them
Focused, like pilots on descent.
There is no knowledge but bones.
In this bowl there are mice.
They squeal louder than the elephants.
Someone hears them, I’m sure.
The bowl is tossed out of the window
As the mice scatter excitedly.
Some of them are decapitated in the fall.

A bus driver dressed like a pilot (we barely knew him)
Took it upon himself to manually deflate each elephant with
A pocket knife.
A young boy implores him to stop, but he doesn’t listen.
He never listens.
His fibers of moral rectitude have been surgically replaced with worms.
He blinks like a mottled rat. Ugly bastard.
Galaxies arise after long, brutal nights of love-making.
Bloodied rabid dogs digest the remains of beloved heroes.

Her face is two-dimensional, like a crescent moon.
Anxiety is a dish best served by doctors in green robes with cardboard hats.
There is no room for bloated time,
For seedless apples with only two eyes.
Rest is the answer Ghandi crossed out multiple times with red marker
While tucking himself underneath formless elephant skin during the winter.

Art: “Villa II”
Keegan McHargue

Lavender Reveries…

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Lavender reveries
concomitant with swift movements
around, then through, then around again,
never to return to their places of emergence,
but to keep striving and transcending,
until they become as one,
and the ego is vanquished.
And a remnant graces her quivering visage,
wholly and concertedly renewed
by a tender lattice of divine thought,
in which the movements slow,
and the colors dissipate in the space of a blink,
and all that is left is a Barmecidal trance
of a thousand ages,
where the fruitful have come to keep vigil
and pray until the Sun turns gray.

Art: “Crozant Landscape (Grey Weather)”
Armand Guillaumin

Anatomy of a Tear

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Formless and inconstant paths,
weighted roots with no foundation;
whence does it arise but from a
disjointed countenance with no proportion,
or a leaf from a broken branch?

Dust in the fields,
sunless clouds in aimless procession,
breathless winds and incorporeal birds
that have forgotten their wings;
the water’s edge no longer beckons.

The once gentle and complaisant calf limps away in fear
along a scabrous meadow that has turned in unto itself,
where the borders now fold into jagged embankments on all sides,
where the drought-weakened oak palliates no more
and the hope of a thousand tomorrows goes to rest

Face down, arms tucked in, like a child stroked gently by the lapping shore.
Fate has made its final trek across the mound
and now comes to compel my love,
to usurp my longings and make sprightly
each of my steps to a sweet place beneath

A darkened moon where the leaves are heard no more,
where the touch has faded and this thoughtless mass
has swallowed the desiderium of yesteryear’s solace.
A singular drop seeks nothingness but does not find.
It vacillates between atonement and quietude

As have all the drops before it,
as have the senescent imaginings of an unattainable peace
that broods just below a smiling face.
I will not see it fall to the earth below;
The eyes have chosen the undifferentiated sky, and the sky, the unseen.

Art: “Bosque De Abdules”
Gustav Klimt