Pebbles in the stream
water carves their jagged skins
grinding them to smooth
time's current erodes all forms
each grain spilled feeds entropy
Age carves us rougher—
wrinkles, fissures, furrows spread,
chaos marks the skin;
it knurls the gnarled into grips
that drags daylight into night
For a rock, a tree
disorder unfolds; same way
each form cracked to dust
on path worn to final ash
as time decays, all texture
The pain is all I feel
I cannot see
I cannot move
I cannot breathe
It contorts as a dark entity trapped within me
Writhing, screaming, clawing at my heart
I cannot stop feeling
I cannot ignore it
I cannot turn it off
A persistent, agonizing, longing refuses to leave
Fissures of hopelessness brand my soul
Wider. Longer. Deeper
I cannot contain it
I cannot cover it
I cannot hide it
I am pain. Pain is me.
It will be the death of me.
tremors echoing
vast distances
one felt in the cold
silence of space
other in the messy
orbit of a late
garden of soul
gone to weed
measured in scale
too hard to breath
black rain of midnight
both leaving behind
fissures and fault lines
shifts in landscapes.
There is something in us
that imbues landscapes
with substance or senses
what is there hidden beneath
the camouflage of form.
It finds voice in myth
and survives in the shadows
of the imagination,
birthplace of our being.
It enters this world
through ancient fissures,
openings in the mind,
sacred places and in the crevices
weathered in lava outcrops
spewed out of a volcano
more than six million years ago
halfway between Melbourne
and Bendigo.
Hanging Rock rises up
out the plain like a cathedral
but houses no familiar god.
Here, something primal
breathes out of the lava pores
and sleeps within.
In the mirror of our smug certainties,
it is never seen
but festers in a fear
that we may awaken it
from its ancient dream.
Note.
Hanging Rock features as the main backdrop
in Peter Weir's haunting film,
‘Picnic At Hanging Rock’. Would suggest
a viewing of the trailer on YouTube to get
a sense of how this rather strange rock
formation sets off an interference pattern
on the imagination.
I see how I look inside out,
not how I look outside in.
My Amtrak races between mountains
and rivers, my traces, my inner spaces,
my dawnings, my inner longings.
I see how I look inside out,
not how I look outside in.
I leaf through fading pages
of crumbling books bound
with passion strings,
broken by wounded fissures
of regret.
I see how I look inside out,
not how I look outside in.
Others declare me a man or fool,
perhaps the father they never knew,
perhaps the boss who fired them,
or just the impostor they always hated.
I see how I look inside out,
not how I look outside in.
I slowly abandon their puzzling
projectiles, their momentary mocks.
Such a child am I, even the petals
of new love go unseen.
I see how I look inside out,
not how I look outside in.
I take the long way alone,
my feet heavy with clay,
I wander the deep gloam,
my mortal vessel, my only home.
There is luminous grass beyond.
There I will rest my head in
the resplendence and comprehend
that inside and outside
are just a revolving door.
I noted the stillness
in your hands, the
casual arc of your shoulders,
a deceitful ease in your voice—
as if the world melted into your anima,
your eyes spoke the nether language
(angelicus anima).
I watched your eyes oscillate,
a tidal wave of light,
gleams of individuation
propagating outward,
devastating all disguises—
quiet fissures in the
careful strata
of us.
Kentia palms catch a breeze
And sway gently in their rows;
This verdant sanctuary
Comforts me like the psalms.
I amble slowly between them -
My head tapped by the fronds.
I feel the warmth of the sun;
The fresh air fills my lungs.
A kintsugi pot rests on pebbles -
Beautiful but defiant.
Gold sealed up the fissures -
Reminding me of who I am.
BREAKING: [WEALTHY VENTURE CAPITALIST] BUYS
[PLOT OF LAND] FOR [INDUSTRIAL EXPANSION]
[CIGARETTES] AND [TYLENOL]
[TORNIQUETES] AND [ALCOHOL]
LOOPY DOOPY [LAUGHING GAS]
[COLORS] [FLAVORS] [SASSAFRAS]
FOR [FALSE SENSE OF FULFILLMENT], TRY
[ARTIFICIAL PRODUCT MARKETED TO MASSES]
[HOUSE FIRES] AND [CAR COLLISIONS]
[BURNING TIRES] [FIRST INCISION]
POKING AT YOUR [LUNGS] AND [HEART]
[PURVEYOR] TO SELL YOUR [PARTS]
[SELF MUTILATION] AND [SHEDDING SKIN]
IS ALL THE RAGE
[RUBBER HOSES] [PLASTIC GUMS]
[POWER DRILLS] AND [OIL DRUMS]
[SYNTHETIC SOLES] AND [FAT PAYCHECKS]
[POLYESTER] AND [LATEX]
LIMITED TIME SALE ON [INORGANIC BODY PARTS]
AND [FAKE IDENTITIES]
[PROSTHETICS] AND [FACTORIES]
[GASOLINE] AND [BATTERIES]
[CRACKS] AND [FISSURES] IN YOUR [SKIN]
DOUSED IN [DIRTY MEDICINE]
POINT ZERO
Birth slipped into fast flowing
rivers of patterned fissures
her arching brows brazen
searching sagaciously
microscoping every moment
tangoing across thorny
thickets
Hope gazed at her prayer
puzzle poised with pensive
pencils plaintively planting
plantains for pink parakeet
caressing spines singing
softly stirring custard
pudding
Love thought she was best
berry fruit from which fragrant
juice poured jetting jewels
a silver sabre silently stared
further from truth she stood
a sacked saga sagged
Death smiled enigmatically
held Birth, Hope and Love
in oblong esteem observing
Time’s oval ovaries to strike
sublime a node through
which she sodium sucked
Point Zero zipped in sidelong
zaps dishing each zappy
zodiac zones showering
all four with Infinity’s
zygotes zooming
Point Zero was Hero !
©GhairoDanielsPoetry
&Song2021
Poetry is a state which catches me off guard,
in some corner of time,
between the shadows of a slow Sunday
and the nameless light of an empty street.
It doesn't come from a book or from a dream;
it rather comes with the subtle echo of days
and the quiet touch of hours—
a way the universe might reveal somehow
in its nakedness, within its fissures.
a whisper of itself: of the invisible.
I don't know how I can express what I feel,
or how to name it.
It is light's touch upon the soul,
an ancient lullaby in the chest,
a revealing that seeks no explanations
but only unconditional surrender.
And in that revelation, faceless,
poetry becomes flesh,
body of words that spills out,
and I feel the entire universe
in the fragrance of the eternal—
a moment in which all is one,
and my heart expands
till it gets lost
in the vastness of silence.
I was awed by the noise..As breath indrawn.? Of mighty
Giants in unseen form..' immediatly after grew the
Vivid lemon walls..towering ramparts a firestorm! fissures
Of red, glints of blue..With a marching noise a crecendo
That grew..Then the road before us began to move as
All types of creatures; as if in a torrent flew.' Snakes and goannas rats and mice, wallabys you name it? All in a trice! no
Animal lingered! or fought with another' they were escaping
From the powerfull flames that smotherd..The octane roar drowned
Your senses alright..!! Sugar cane fields ablaze at night.!!
I'll always remember the workers nearby with machtes at their
Smoko's and that lurid sky.'
earthquakes and fissures
routinely affect politics and relationships
as they act on the earth's crust
tectonic plates clash in subduction zones
they separate at divergent boundaries
a quake strikes
will I engage or detach?
wisdom will prevail
I will not be smashed or fall between the cracks
The aging street mourns its faded splendor.
It remembers having red tulips and roses
in manicured, fertilized, emerald lawns
in community yards lining its borders.
But neighborhoods gradually decayed,
and nobody’s planted flowers in years.
The asphalt’s once-black fresh-tar patina
is now gray and chockfull of countless cracks.
In those rifts grow rows of feral weeds
that no person planted or wanted.
Rooted in forgotten fissures of the world,
weeds lift their hearts and heads toward the sky.
Survivors of severe environments,
baked by blazing sun, infrequently watered,
deprived of easy access to nourishing soil,
and squashed by droves of mutilating tires.
Yet, still the stalwart weeds survive,
paragons of beautiful resilience.
Glamorous, fragile flowers are transient.
Plain, ordinary weeds are forever.
For humans who feel our messy lives
are more like run-over weeds than roses,
weeds’ wild fortitude foreshadows
an unexpected, untamed eternity.
Beneath the knots of time hidden in fallen planks,
Feet dangle, shattered by the shadow of oblivion.
Through an eyebrow of sun clothed in pollen and decline,
A hand strikes a bargain to see how light spins a new face,
A shadow play mimicking that all is sublime—
Will the morning be born with another chance at rebirth?
Deep are the marks of denial that weigh down my efforts,
In the tomb of night's silence, I find myself a fortress.
Abandoned in thought to rise from the prayer of the evening,
I reject the bitter pulp of disillusionment that poisons my palace,
Love has left me with yellowed skin, a testament of solitude.
Moved by the peace of the darkness that enwraps the blinded sky;
A queen in a black onyx gown with a crown on display.
Cleansing my strength through the weakness revealed,
I regain elegance through the Spirit Father — I felt you guiding me in the night.
The cool balm of twilight for my scorched wounds,
You witnessed my ascent towards dawn;
Rising above the fissures of insanity,
It is as you said it would be—I am alive,
Enriched by the supreme gift of existence.
Clouds bursting on clouds from the uncured rain,
Where stemmed wicks snuff out flower smoke,
Fissures that droop so much deeper—
The air full of seed will burn out the storm.
Where stemmed wicks snuff out flower smoke,
A girl ringed in twists of ivy.
The air full of seed will burn out the storm;
She is set like the sun on the many tones of the sky.
A girl ringed in twists of ivy,
Fissures that droop so much deeper—
She is set like the sun on the many tones of the sky,
Clouds bursting on clouds from the uncured rain.
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