Snow flies
And so shall I fly:
Stable but absent;
Nose towards sky.
White tiger
Plays softly nearby
Pine tree
Getting decorated.
I gift each breath
The bellow of my chest;
Abdomen to rumbling,
Seated like stump.
I seek nothing
And return to nowhere.
My wings of a vision
Leave me numbing home.
I’m hijacking emotional waves
Leaving the strong winds
For cracked nuts
And a fire, unattended.
My teeth hurt
And my coffee’s gone cold
– Toxic lush
Even when hot.
A game, I’m gone
Struck me on the shoulder
But hoping for an open minded Lady
Who gave a wrinkled
Promiscuously acquired
Five dollar bill
To a tourist fear trap
Like a Merry Christmas card
Unsigned.
But I’m gone
With hotel room vibes
Blinking lethargically
Stuck in deeper thoughts
That have taken me
Deep inside
This unattended fire,
Waiting for a spark to arise
Within me
Like Cupid’s golden arrow.
Black night
Blackness
Darkened entreating
Bespoke and misleading
Howling
Danger
Sour
Altered vision
And missing time.
This work ethic is work
It is not play,
Play is different.
It resides on the same plane,
But is a different vein.
Attitude relates the two;
Notions of good and well,
Interested
And seeing life
From a perspective of fun.
Work ethic is motivated
Play is motivated
Peace must also be motivated
So that we can find
Within our depths
The actions to take.
Each state of being
Has the possibility
Of infinite attitudes.
Each attitude
Can be applied
To each action.
Actions and state of beings
Are choices on the same plane,
Choices that each take motivation.
Attitude chosen for one
Can easily be the attitude
Chosen for another action.
There’s a mountain of crows
Crawling about my mind.
Distant snowy peaks
Tall, looming firs
And the faint, eerie howl
Of the wind
Settling through furry boughs.
I dont want comfort anymore
I want slow, agonizing pain
Of cold feet and biting breath.
Let darkness fill my voids
With only the fire
Inside my eyes
Feeding the warmth.
Here, I will stack wood
Against stained boards
Of an ancient vision;
Architectures ancestor
Where notches have been worn
By our rattling wind
That kept the night
Hallowed at home.
Who do you know?
Who beckons to you
When the waves are too high,
When streetlights are few?
For in our moment
Of memory
Sweetness so delicately
Ready upon thy tongue,
Who do we know?
Who shall exalt
Our being so readily?
I cannot remember my golden dreams of yesterday.
Will my words be understood tomorrow?
Each of these laid with patience
Upon flat laid twenty pound unlined and rounded corners
Shall surely carry dust until curiosity reveals,
But the binary figures carried on electricity
Floating lazily upon some unknown bandwidth
In a region East of the Alps
Well, those messages remain vague.
Those messages may die without a subscription fee paid,
And the backups may need debugging or rerouting,
Ciphers and codecs may no longer be backwards compatible.
Our graceful new line of important thinkers
Good looking important thinkers
Looking good getting there
Are too busy to see through the mirror.
What has been forgotten (by them)
Is no longer opened.
All expecting return on investments.
The new band copies the old band
But the old band wont fight back,
The old band has been to that rock show
And lost a tooth there.
Youth are changing
Renaming, rewriting, shaming,
And forgetting
At too quick a rate
To remember yesterday’s golden dreams.
The books aren’t borrowed anymore,
Libraries replaced by computer zones.
Just an endless scrolling in dark mode
So the blue light wont effect
Brain’s melatonin tonight
Because now we know too much
And what we know is unimportant
Logos lost our gravitas.
What is the real reason for my inner voice?
Is this ego?
Have I whispered so loudly
To all Grandfather trees
That my echo and sensations
Are no longer my own?
Has my inner bird
Whistled alone
In surrounding scenes of chaos,
And called home
Mother Hen
Whom I sit under this great canopy with?;
Oaks and Elms and Maples.
Does my voice match my vision?
Do I see sky blues,
And earthy browns,
With forest greens all around?
Or have I become muddled
Lack of colour:
Grays, black, and cement.
What is the hardest thing?
A glowing orb at an unending tunnel
Flashing lights in otherwise darkness
Moments of stillness broken by reality
A whisper one still remembers
Sun so long ago
And a night that must end.
But how soft it can often hit
Like haze on a full moons glow
Orbs opening
And a bead of sweat upon thy lip.
Pain can remain
And lost within thy brow
A handful often mistaken rashly
Just as this lingering upper back kink.
Slow drawl of a morning
Crinkling paper
And ever building list
Of tasks I wanted to remember
Last night
Trickling in
As my coffee
Trickles down
Bamboo lined pour over
Where my awaiting mug,
Earth tones of pottery,
Catches the mud
My memory unearths.