Letters lift me
When my world drowns
Hearing smiles in her voice
I know love exists
Cherish every minute
Days, weeks, hours
Counting as she sleeps
Waiting for her to wake
Breathing small hours
As our paths align
Brushing through our destiny
Drinking outrageous fortune
Our cores braided
Bodies untouched
Searing blood in our veins
Heavenly tides of emotions
Transparent hearts
Hewn of fire and glass
Fusing with critical mass
An indivisible new shape
I never know my body has rotten
until it appears through the wall mirror
these remains are heaped upon an autan
next spire takes a hearer turn for queerer
now urban commercial cores of gulag
I am a particular schlockier
for signs which are cheap to erect as clague
extensions can be found from that nearer
some convergent, others conflicting stun
I suspect having to do with my craag
this penetrates deeply into a gun
into the family into dague
extreme lengths to which I loosely spun
remain a shadow in place to slither
metal beads dropped in
a great jar of liquid glass
will anything grow—
from inorganic kernels
tucked within a sunless hall?
rainbow branches rise
as brittle flames pierce the seas
crystal cores blooming
art and science harmonize
in a forest made of glass
this everyone knows:
plants grow green under the sun
nature teaches still
primordial elements
are mysteries yet unearthed
Don't meadows soften the uneven routes?
Don't rugged trees have within them sweet fruits?
Aren't wavy seas engulfed by endless shores?
Doesn't truth shield the cores of mores?
My inner shrine has secret sacred zones.
Stumbling blocks could be used as stepping stones.
Thorny paths can turn into floral beds.
To till my soil of soul, I feel no threats.
Monsoons amalgamate with moist rainbows.
Doesn't each soul have silent volcanoes?
Pearls of optimism are splendidly spread.
Picking them, with faith, I must go ahead.
Don't meadows soften the uneven routes?
Aren't wavy seas engulfed by endless shores?
Don't rugged trees have within them sweet fruits?
Doesn't truth shield the cores of mores?
Stumbling blocks could be used as stepping stones.
Thorny paths can turn into floral beds.
My inner shrine has secret sacred zones.
To till my soil of soul, I feel no threats.
Sunbeams are spread over the winter ice.
Monsoons amalgamate with moist rainbows.
Though flesh is weak, isn't spirit suffice?
Doesn't each soul have silent volcanoes?
Pearls of optimism are splendidly spread.
Picking them, with faith, I must go ahead.
in the mouth of desire, inverted spires
lean toward the grots of Hell.
tongues forked, skewered with sapphires
in the mouth of desire, inverted spires.
Adam's apple burning cores, as moths for martyrdom's fires.
on the path to perdition: many had attended well.
in the mouth of desire, manipulation stirs.
the crone fanning her cauldron
a hot vat of ruin, Wiccan shrieks and whirs.
in the mouth of desire, manipulation stirs -
a warlock's cherished heart of burrs,
tears of crocodiles, his every gentleness abandoned.
in the mouth of desire, sirens sweet, curses
lure purple wearers and weavers, beasts with saints,
low_down to the broad gates, gilt black, swinging purses.
in the mouth of desire, sirens' sweet curses
but wisdom's rare jewels, bereft in their verses.
for want of wisdom, man's sovereign will faints.
Wrapped in the solitude of one blessed night
the moon-eyed moon wanders lightly and alone
inside a vast and deep, darkly expansive sky
Dark cores of light glide
through a dormant ether,
as butterfly shadows play softly against
a dense canopy of leaves.
A still figure appears as if by chance,
underneath the cadence of the light,
swaying like wavering puppets on a string
she meditates on
the fast appearing stars ...
Creating magic from the tatters of the night
she's an invisible wand to the world
but unto thyself, she is as full, as the moon.
There are Scores of fiction and nonfiction mysteries
so enthralling we Call them page-turners,
thousands of Romance books and riveting histories,
many shelves of Illustrated books for eager visual learners,
almanacs that advise us about Planting and seasons,
psychology books That describe behaviors and reasons,
science books deemed to possess Ultimate reliability,
DIY* books for those learning to Rely on their own creativity, . . .
The list is almost Endless, but there is ONE Book of the ages,
which God inspired. The Way to the soul’s Salvation is within its pages.
Do It Yourself
The poet is a physician of sorts
tending care to the physical
of his craft -- His patients, the
hearts and souls of humanity --
Latching belts on sleds of words
a-summit he descends, precariously
no safe tracks when in lyric free-fall
Altitudes and scathing depths
are the wails and screeches of
his siren journey down -- when and
where, a dicey pit travel...critics
offer no parachutes...and his lovers
often unavailable, amending their
own wrong steps. Can a writer really make
it safely to the other side, through the creative
pressures of ever revolving mantles and imperative
crushing cores!?
Masterpiece of pain
Each night is a masterpiece of pain
that lingers in her broken heart
trying to find what was
and what is now
she sips memories and lives
the curse of love in her cozy
domicile where in the midst
of broken stars she lost it ....
—a constellation of pains
that still stands upfront
monumentally, gazing at its beauty
the day that only matters
is a memorial event that swallowed
the one she had.
Now sitting in a canvas of thoughts
journeying to the unreached cores
of what was—
a thing that flickered like a storm
in the autumn winds
now is pain that whispers its lines
to her ears for the love
that was stolen by time
leaving only memories
painful —deep scars
broken —unhealed wounds
dimmed, weary eyes
and hope // soons
She gets lost every blink of an eye
in the mysteries of unreached paces
of love / what was.
©® MZEE MACH
26th Dec, 2024
The lonely shadow aside from the worldly poles
Wrenching like an unhidden find to hold
And the horrible ink of dreadful poison swiftly mold
Eyes were injurious red like a bleeding bed
Thoughts of frightful threads wrap
and rashly roll the clutching traps
Shadow envelopes like a black door
Tears were tip and tapped one after more
Shadow of shades deeply shallows
Only the gist of suffering and melting melodies
Are fluttering over the sleuth of emotion
God knows the happening in cores of motion
Sometimes, a burial bleed on the surface
Lips bewail like a snubbing scroll
And silence echoes in the cavernous hell
All Alone in the stiff stage of sicks to bell.
Crowds of irritated people joined the mob
Anger and violence, a volunteer non-job
Breaking windows and kicking in storm doors
Frustration lurking at their cores
Some were unsure why they were even there
One of them picked up an office chair
Loud cheer went up as he flung it into the air
Now a thug and felon, to be quite fair.
Written: December 06, 2024
___________________________
We were born into tribes
cinctured by bonds and praxis
welded by ambits and dictums
an eyeless chasm.
But scope a sounder view
just under the shimmering surface
and the outcome will be luculent
our parallels often outshine our oddities.
Our blood is crimson
all of us slipshod weeps
all of us longing for love
all of us fail to face our fears.
Our zeal fashion fetching flow
our souls seek seraphic symbiosis
we all itch for a warm welcome
and achieve startling accolades.
But, we build walls,
and draw lines in the sand,
we judge hinged on appearance,
and ignore the outstretched hand.
But if we may just foresee,
beyond the color of our skin,
and the language we spree,
we may find kin.
Because in the recesses of our souls
within our deep cores
all of us are noxious
rhapsodic around finding fulfillment.
So let's slip away,
from the chains of tribalism,
and gasp our kinships,
with love and hope.
For only then,
can we for real unite,
and transcend our differences,
Into a world of light.
The colors of the flowers are vibrantly swaying
The wind caresses them it seems with kisses,
whispering sweet nothings inside cheery cores
Daisy’s white pearly petals are speaking
Yellow sepals smiling, too yellow! Spiky discs
spinning peeking at me as I subtly study them
Dance little flower dance so alive,
I just want to hug and squeeze you
until you feel all this love as well
colors so vibrant
turned on, tuned in, so alive ~
I feel so much love
You are beside me. I am beside you.
None else is seen around, besides us two.
Cessation, by ceaselessness, is erased.
Unknowingly, are our hearts now replaced?
These streams of fresh water that flow around
These song-filled swaying reeds that make no sound
These tiny lovebirds that chirp our murmurs
Aren't these springtime nature's play performers?
As rains soothe the earth with love, let's be soothed.
Ups and downs of our hearts' cores are smoothed.
Ships in our seas of bliss make merry trips
Should even by slip kisses slip the lips?
We've got more to give; why should we give less?
Should, when filled with love, souls feel any stress?
Drinking from the wells of God-consciousness
Shouldn't our souls be raised to Blessedness?
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