I ended up in this life—I have no idea how—
and along the way, I realized that the room—vast as it was—
had neither doors nor windows. "Had none" is an understatement, for they *were* there,
only behind the windows and doors lay painted walls—
depicting various scenes, various times of day, various faces.
And I swear, I’ve tried so many things in my life;
perhaps one day, a wall will fall,
letting me see the unseen, hear the unheard,
see, feel, hear, and taste the untasted.
But until then,
I must keep opening doors and windows,
because one never knows
what lies behind them.
colossal statues were three thousand years old
found in Sardinia in 1974
carved by the Nuragic civilization
depicting warriors on Easter Island
We thought they were only heads
Until someone decided to dig down
They are full-bodied
Buried up to their necks
How did they carve stone back in the day?
Is it odd kings were not represented?
Only archers, boxers and warriors
Many theories are bantered about
Easter island holds on to her mysteries
Intriguing and enticing archeologists
Keeping the Nuragic civilization alive
Three thousand years later
Perhaps that was the purpose?
The
other eighteenth
centurion was rewired to beat whip-
ping cream by trans-
ferring it to one of free flood plain car-
rier amigo acid barriers and then em-
BARK-
ing on his var-
ied
own
creep dis-
cussing raw plans in a goop text where he adds
a spam
and melon
ball twist to a clutch-
ing figurine piece depicting
an angle between those sidewind-
ers required for
hooking spouts
with ambiguous traces of lawful fake
muse bots
spread-
ing
gas unrest using automated pest practices
that
put real intel-
ligence to sleep behind the Wheel of Miss
Fortune's even
grey-
er and darker than usual
Legion of Heavy Petting Metal Maniacs.
To disrobe the lion’s ego,
would be to destroy a charismatic higher light
dethrone a regal rightous dominance
denounce a fierce protective energy
with pride of a warrior, never repudiate royalty
forswear fealty is to renounce a king of truth
whilst in his den, uncloaked he and his lioness
of regal virtue, love eternal and loyalty
when you engage with ultimate hierarchy,
roars of authority warn and ward risk taking rivals
with gifted instincts, a supreme stubborn strength
and a keen bond and respect for his own
an affectionate and generous warmth
confident yet cautious in their garden of Eden
defeatist disrobes the ego, only when defeated
deep within the soul, we yearn for substance
a spiritual substance sustaining us
the creature sustains as messenger
deeper significance beyond physical form
depicting qualities from the universe
butterflies symbolize transformation,
the turtle patience, the elephant a mighty sooth,
the lion links divine wisdom and perceives truth
SIMPLE GESTURES
frequent
figures
presenting
emotive
rhetoric
& active
commune
ideas
in
encounters
sustaining
split-minded
monumental
eccentric
adjacent
spheres
in
stark
holistic
prismatic
intellectual
kindred
senses
captivated
affinity
proclaimed
&formalised
in
purist
murals
depicting
contemporary
trapezoidals
What maketh bards delineate the fairer sex,
Whilst the withering, ephemeral bouquet?
Doth portray sanity—inner traits,
Else the bewitching statute?
Oh, winged boy! Whither begone art thou,
Devoured of bards’ sanity—poetic reasoning.
Methinks insane compare, loitering
Phoebe
Of waxing, waning—alas, crescent!
Captivating eyes, enticing countenance of traits,
Mesmerizing words oft maketh spell on bards.
Hardly be a lamp lit with water;
Akin to it, portraying is the illusionary love.
Perhaps thought may, sans language—
Bards lack not, depicting the fairer sex.
DAWNING EXCUSIVITY-:-
emphasise
subjective
analogy
Intriguing
possibility
in an AFFINITY
depicting
appropriate
irony
abandoning
hopes
with SYMBOLIC INTENTIONS
painterlinessed
enthused
advocacy
studied
viewpoints
Avoiding the girl-scouts
I hasten out of the store
trying hard not to see the people
huddled in their thin coats
as they wait for an infrequent bus.
This ice-chilled evening
with its stark revelations
is like the nag of an irregular heartbeat
sheathed like a thorn in my shoe.
Later, by a warm fire
sitting in an upholstered armchair,
a despondency chews at my breastbone,
it is a reaction hard to pin down,
to objectify,
a lingering presence.
My mind shifts through a symbolic iconography
effigies depicting:
a lost and hungry dog,
an ill-treated child,
a stranger I refuse to call brother,
places long deserted,
places found far too late.
A love unpicked from a now withering vine.
That same presence
sets a table and chair before me
that I may write, try to explain
this tumbleweed of unnamable sorrows,
a phantom, that even in happier times,
I recognize it as a coarse impression
akin to a grating scar
beneath a tender tongue.
Tomorrow may emerge as a frail old lady,
struggling with full shopping bags,
head bent to a cold uncaring wind.
Many might offer her a lift
but in my present brittle mood
I probably would frighten her,
so,
I don’t.
The gifts of love
sent from above ~
a peace that passes understanding
is beyond outstanding;
the grace of domestic tranquility
provides stability,
it fills a home and overflows
to the world where it glows;
a cottage radiant
looks salient
with a sky so calm,
that brings hope like a balm;
colourful flowers
have healing powers,
a garden within a fence
spreads joy immense,
Nature bathed in breathless serenity,
It's "A peaceful time" depicting divinity.
A poet sees what the sun can’t!
Future, we foresee, with our vision;
Transition of the world we work for.
Ink, we spill on papers incessantly,
Depicting the defects of the land.
Keeping our life at the altar,
An endless war we wage
Against the tyrants of the world.
We advise people to be practical
And stay away from superstitions.
The art of questioning, we teach,
How to be vigilant, we preach.
At Stirling Castle, history,
Imparted by a guide,
Allows us to imagine
What the artifacts provide.
The weapons and the uniforms,
The chambers and decor,
All displayed in ways to show us
Things we’ve never seen before.
Yet upon some walls are tapestries
Depicting what we know
Of the story of the unicorn
And how they laid him low.
For most visitors, they’re magic
And, although we were impressed,
They are copies of originals
And don’t quite pass the test.
In New York, we have the Cloisters
With those tapestries on view
And we’ve seen them many times
Because that’s what we tend to do.
We may not have ancient castles
Back at home, but we have art,
Often purchased by the moguls,
Super-rich and super-smart.
“In my empty heart – only memories” by poet
Today our mother had his bed removed
and took posters down – even things he’d drawn
depicting stuff of which she’d disapproved.
Those posters that revealed his heart – all gone!
She took his dresser out, and all his clothes
she folded up to donate to Good Will.
His nice suits in the closet – even those -
as well as knick-knacks on the window sill!
I understand the pain she’s going through.
What good is there in taking all away?
The rest of our family's grieving too.
I press to my face a saved shirt of grey.
It was his favorite. In his empty room,
my tears release. I’m standing in a tomb.
A world that once was. Is no more. Scattered shards of culture, lie dormant beneath its ruins.
Waiting to be discovered, then discarded by those who would deny.
Future traveler's mingling with the past. Contaminating mankind’s storyline.
Weaving webs of endless possibilities and our beginnings.
Savages turned scholars who’s knowledge of the heavens surpasses our own
Temples align with precision, marking seasons. Depicting time.
Knowledge passed on from future time.
If I made ends meet by meeting millions of millionaires in meetings galore,
would you care to explore my heart?
If I made up my mind to resign, and spend my time at a diner,
behind the scenes,
would you find a way to care about me?
If I took up poetry, and wrote hundreds of stories,
told in metaphor, with rhyme and prosody,
creating irony in euphony,
depicting pictures no eye can see,
neither mind comprehend without a beating heart,
would yours skip a beat?
Would you see the beauty that breathes beyond ink and paper?
Would you see its creator and stupor in thought?
Would you suffocate in the fog that envelopes body and mind,
unable to find the words to tell the story of your sentiment?
Would it spark a desire to explore and admire my entire being-
every minor detail?
To be real, do you even know me at all,
or just the stale version that pales in comparison to the whole?
I want you to know the whole of me,
and want to hold me for it.
Like a picture frame encasing the beauty of the ocean,
the moving curtains wafted by the breeze,
the waters sparkle and blue skies enhance the view.
We found a piece of paradise in this haven of peace.
A well needed rest from the hurly burly of our busy lives.
Time is slower here, the air is clear and we can breathe again.
The palm outside the window waves to the glistening sea
and brightly coloured birds add to the perfect palette of creation.
The window like a picture frame depicting utopia.
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