Email Poem

Your IP Address: 18.188.195.92
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
Untitled

We dance across the heavens, like shining stars,
to the never ending beat of our universes heart.
Its song, time – sometimes – becomes dull, grey,
aches of sentiment, in the throes of lofty sentimentality
that becomes red dew, flowering over the cornea, of a rose
releasing its sweet fragrance, ever so slightly, lightly
down the sides of its imaginary nose.
Sentiment, envy, desire, so anther life goes.

B. J. “A” 2
April 18th 2003

Untitled

I stand on the edges of a desire,
a desire to be all that, – in this life –
I have never been, – in all likelihood –
could never be, for it is not in me.
Yet, in me, it is, as I read biographies,
autobiographies, ancient histories,
I see the dream – illusive as it seems.
Heavy sheets of liquid crystal hang,
fall before these old brown eyes.
Only, the telling comes in ripples
that dot the landscape of reflections
painted upon the cold black surface,
of a pavement that lays before me.
A sad portrait is painted every day,
it comes in the reflections, of those reflections.

Life has flown me through valleys richly
carpeted in jewels, emerald green and serine.
Life has dragged me over rough, ancient mountains,
dropped me over sharp edged, rugged cliffs.
Life has hauled me across screaming creeks,
down raging rivers without a paddle.
Life has thrown me into the fires of hell,
upon plumes of smoke, sent into the ether.
Life has guided me  into heavenly spaces
where one will find beautiful places.
Life has shipped me into the shadow less abysses
of blackness where light of night stars hang
in the endless skies where one opens eyes

B. J. “A” 2
April 19th 2003

Untitled

Life lived – looking back –seems to have been as poverty laden
as the life that lays before these tired old feet – its faden
with inactivity, motiveless, motionlessness passages of time.
The richness in both – lost to another time and state of mind.

And who really may care ?, about the poverty in both.
And who really may care ?, about the richness of both.
And who really may care ?, about the memories of both.
And who really may care ?, about the life or death of both.

With Easter at hand.
It seems the hand is the only one who cares.
Assumed death ?, assumed resurrection ?

B. J. “A ” 2
April 20th 2003
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required