A stillness suffices for the moment…


A stillness suffices for the moment
While I rescind all restraint.
Faint persuasions are moved to the back of my throat
Allowing me to divine paths
Of supple remembrances
With residual breath.

I weep as the lowly violin excretes
A labdanum of succulent grace unsought
That trickles down the painted sleeves
Of a golden horse’s caftan
Circling its trembling leg
As a new healing heralds
A remorseless search
For justification.

It won’t reach the floor
But will daily emerge at the edge, and dry up.
And the will to believe will linger
On a thickened tongue
Unable to move.
I may sojourn here
Without so much as a sip,
While the horse falls asleep.

When the violin shutters,
Say nothing,
But feel the anointment
Gracing its head.
Then course the unctuous string
With gentle fingers
Until you feel the impression
Of a distant pulse.

Art: “Morning Prayer”
Chen Yifei

Where words fail…

Where words fail...

Where words fail, the dictates of the union between the subconscious and superconscious prevails. It is eloquence in its finest, purest and most transcendent form. Impressions of this eloquence radiate in the form of thought and being from a central point where all the colors seem to converge; this point is perhaps an approximation of the most central point of our own being, the beginning of eloquence. Pure thought is subconscious. Pure being is superconscious (or maybe even non-conscious). Here we are witness to a breathtaking marriage of the two.

Art: “Eloquence”
Jaison Cianelli

I know well that I shouldn’t want you.

I know well that I shouldn't want you.

I know well
I shouldn’t want you.
I stifle
Desire and care
With all the fury
Of a corrupted saint
Entreating moments
Past and future for mercy.
And atonement.

I know that
Spirits are astir
Within me
With vague intentions.
A specter of desire
Comes to rest
On the ridge of your vein
Where your palm begins
To stroke my face.
Three phantasmic
Little urchins
Dally precariously
With the threshold
Of my awareness
Of your presence,
Threatening to obscure it
With three shades of dust
In the name
Of perpetual penitence,
Of chaste lullabys
Forcing rest.

I know well
You do not see me.
You have never seen me
And never will
Save through chipped glass
Thickened with
Red wine turned to gel
Encrusted with
Unanswered appeals
To tomorrow,
Using the songs of old.
But with your voice
Clarity arises
And makes the flute cry
(Like yesterday),
Perhaps at the sight
Of empty crystalline
All gathered along
The river bend
Where I shall want to
Accompany you,

Art: “Panopticon 2”
Guy Denning

Beneath her saccharine platitudes…

Beneath her saccharine platitudes...

Beneath her saccharine platitudes he caught a brief,
yet disturbing glimmer of her pain.
The passion and sincerity in her eyes
dissembled a flame of hurt
that always sought to be extinguished,
but managed to persist all these years
partly through his inability
or unwillingness to see it
and partly through her mistaken willingness
to remain convinced
that the flame was precisely
what she needed to survive.

Art: “Jacqueline with Flowers”
Pablo Picasso

Innocence has returned briefly…


Innocence has returned briefly
To gather his loose ends
And then off to the next

Perhaps whereupon his subsequent return
He may find that the borders
Have been compressed and smoothed out,
But still glistening under scarcely-palpable
Zephyrs and perpetually unraveling
Seams of disconnected light.

That will be the day when
The rivers drown themselves in forgetfulness
While the poppy fields look on
In amusement, shame,
Or a mixture of both.

Art: “Edge of a Wheatfield with Poppies”
Vincent van Gogh

Abduct My Prayer…

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Abduct my prayer
From this place.
Tear this drabbet sackcloth
With the pineal thorns
Of your forgotten regard
For my ashen essence.

Expose me for the birds
To gather and pollinate
And render ablution
To these fossilized arms
Until they begin to retract
(For all time).

Study these hands and divine a place
Where nothing is fully known
Unless I rise nightly
With the ghosts
Of this well-mourn’d spot
And shuffle with them fluently.

Art: “Love Song by the New Moon”
Paul Klee

She balked…

She balked at my advances,
but her eyes were flushed
with a raw desire
that both challenged and seduced me.
“If you truly love me, dear,”
I adjured, grabbing her delicate hand
and pressing it into my throbbing chest.
“Your words will come, and they will flow
freely through the rivers that course
throughout your heart; without qualification,
without reason, meaning, or subjoinder.
But with direction.
And purpose.
Your eyes will rest.
And your lips will follow.”

Photo: “Lovers Beneath a Streetlight, Paris”
Brassaï (Gyula Halász)

Heeding the veiled call…

1240342_557730997614752_2042269807_nHeeding the veiled call of the sea
Whereupon elements of
Intermittent truths abound,
We pushed with the borrowed fortitude
Of hallowed and transient awareness,
Segmented by traces of a moon’s swift touch.

We hunted the winds and quartered them,
Dutifully placing them at the edges of
Our darkened peripheries,
Marking an approximate end
To every course we
Had ever hoped to surmount.

With irregular bursts of passion
We ignited flares to
Illuminate the history of
Many a journey lost,
Only to dissipate back into
Hazy embarkations,
Blurred shorelines
And muffled soundings.

Art: “A Seascape, Shipping by Moonlight”
Claude Monet