Long Ash gray Poems
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THE NEBULA IN THE MIRROR OF SLEEP
From the blue nebula I fell through bells of haze,
a stranger to the world's hour, through the river that dreams its own face.
Blind planets drifted in the milk of a living silence,
and the blood of light was growing inside ash-gray trees.
I dissolved into shadows with the scent of a shattered moon,
like liquid stained glass on a cathedral never begun.
Through the boundless void swam fish made of memory,
with scales from melted recollections and pollen of no category.
Your soul, a comet with eyelids of green velvet,
stirred its own echo through gardens no one ever loses.
And then I heard time blooming underneath the snow,
like a transparent lily teaching darkness how to see.
I undressed my being of its chimera bones,
and my heart drifted like a white and severe jellyfish.
In temples of melancholy, inverted springs were singing,
and clouds were sewing wings from abandoned glances.
Beneath the mantle of sadness, embroidered with salt galaxies,
our destiny was carrying a bell filled with distance.
I searched for you through the mineral sleep of blue stars,
where forests of angels grow on the skeletons of hermits.
But your face kept becoming smoke in mirrors without contour,
a god of black glass inside an uncertain empire.
Then forgetting — a flower with roots in the infinite —
slowly closed my gaze over everything I had crucified.
And I wandered through centuries like a flute without a song,
with the universe pressed against my chest, like an incantation.
The stars kept deep silence, in funereal levitations,
and shadows were giving birth to ships from sliding light.
I still carry in my blood that perfume of beginning,
when I lost myself in you and made myself lost inside myself.
And the nebula keeps growing in every thought that dies,
like a psychedelic garden of bells and distances.
Empty of life yet full of dream, I flow through cosmic echoes,
toward your unfathomable abyss, from one dusk into another.
Is Beethoven's ensemble fairer than nature's psalms?
Amidst a crowning sun: ears and eyes are drugged,
drenched with tender notes, orchestrated by greens,
inhale deep, the aromatic blossoms from the vine
with their lilting swell, brushed shades of fine wine.
Listen, listen to the sudden leap, the vibrato of bird song
or the raucous winds rubbing against house-corners
and the blithering brook carrying tales of who?
As you walk attuned to the crunch of the brown foliage.
When the cobalt skies turn to ash - gray mode,
hear heaven's vault lament, drizzling sobs to loud weeps
when day's face in angst pout or blush beside the beloved.
Feel your feet push or pull deluged by the liquid fingers
of the sea; in whites, they murmur ripples. They tremble
and stir, savor the flavor, a brief interlude:
Nature's power: tones, sharps, curls, pants. It slants
aiming to reach a rest upon blues of sky at its zenith,
The darting patterns curves, verves are diapered
wanting to delight, to wonder, to shock, to soothe.
Burning snow falls quietly on
cold rusted wire and brittle bone.
An ancient creature looks to the horizon
feeling is body built of razor wire and old bones, cold,
a delicate tone transmits from on far...
Wraiths walking in the burning
snows depths, as it falls, it drifts...
In eyes buried burning bright,
across this delicate armature
of wire and bone skeletal hands clutch.
Bloody foot falls leaving no footprints,
upon the burning snow lies cinders of stars.
Transversing transcending reflecting
in a vast landscape of desolation.
While ash gray clouds drift
on oceans of spirits they race,
undulate flow to rhythms eternal.
In frustration and rage as brittle fingers trace,
each a wreckage of eons past
like broken fine china ruined
in department malls,
dead cars and neon bars.
Alone in shopping marts
eyes of the damned...
Faces blistering burning bright
listening to black concertos
in dead concert halls as eons fall.
Someone something ethereally framed
by elections runs glistening bright...
A silhouetted figure in distance thunderstorms,
lightning wreaths it fragile face
it walks among the ruins
the wreckage of rage
in ancient graves,
Insane dominions blaze...
A boney fingers trace
secretly a wooden oblong box
full of oblivion and infinite,
feel the burnt primordial clock,
a face still cracked bold but
keeps the time as death comes
as memory of all is lost.
As mortality is crucified
on wire and bone a thin
delicate in tone resonates in grace.
Walking still onward in the burning snow
feeling the drifting imagery,
cascading across its face,
an armature of wire and bone
walking forever in foot falls
of time as it falls apart sublime.
In the darkening cityscape
lightning filigree fragile and frets.
Alone on horizons distance edge
lingers an oblique and obsolete monstrosity
it drifts in the burning snow
forever alone in the forever more...
Under the heavy and ash-gray wing of the evening,
In the melancholic waltz of memories awakened in rains,
Through the night stretching its hand like an old bell-ringer,
Ringing the bell of departure and appearing desolate in the mirror.
A veil of sadness weaves the starry vault above,
Where the moon, in silence, watches over mortal frailties,
On this fertile earth, yes, once it was fertile,
The echo of steps disintegrates the soil in strangers and wanderers, fatefully.
Oh, sister in destiny, proud land of heroes and poets,
Now you are the stage of a tragic act divided into many separations,
The brotherhood that was said to unite us, quietly dissipates,
Oh, mother, my homeland, how we sold our hopes for silver!
The air is laden with a heavy burden of heavenly pallor,
From the fields where wheat grain by grain whispered songs to the sun,
No longer pours gold, but only regrets, thoughts that fade,
In all we try to have, the shadow of the nameless ones lingers, who.
We live, simple people, with broken nature and torn souls,
Under the sign of signatures on forgotten and voiceless papers,
We struggle between walls of indifference, singing only in the boundless,
While life drains from us, vomiting the poison of bitterness.
Peacemakers of sweet whispers, now hoarse in pain,
Apologize for an unjust curse that can no longer be washed away,
A nation born from dreams and fierce struggle, slowly fades under humiliation,
As if the ancestors were only ghosts in the heavy history.
Mad poet, who dares to write in verses an elegy,
When our house is a game, a bet lost in our own room,
Now, even the dead in stones bow in a silent prayer,
For Romania that wears the gray coat of helplessness and payment.
But do you hear the bell that separates time from immortality?
A prelude to what is to come, over everything that once crackled,
It's the evening of the last ball, where our steps are counted in stars,
From dawn, we will be only Romanians from everywhere, in an endless song of regret.
Perhaps, tomorrow – it will be desolate here, silence will speak more clearly,
And we, with hearts in chains, will start a bittersweet exile,
Farewell, lost brothers in the relentless wheel's motion,
Goodbye, motherland, I throw you a last kiss, in the wind, a farewell.
Every season I think is my favorite
until autumn comes painting the trees
oh Autumn you are such delight
carpeting forests with colored leaves
Oh clouds who the sun do hide
the wind move's your cotton puffs
these such times our cherished days
where the weather's goes turning rough
Fading are the days whose warmth
will emerge to the rising chills
and trees undress their lofty boughs
standing naked upon barren hills
the colors of the fields are fading
the sky dawns with a dusky hue
the fledgling rain in it's delivery
stays the grasses wet with it's dew
You've redressed the bounds and landscapes
and the sunsets have started to blush
birthing all the rhythms in nature
and of seasons transforming their flush
The sunlight's zenith will be shedding
exchanged for the blankets and veils
where the finery of your mountain valleys
wear ash gray along with your dales
The cauldron of life's ever stirring
expression is cooked on it's range
the shades of the paintings dynamic
and it's canvas always subject to change
Like spices you alter the flavors
of the years ever changing their gown
where the fare you serve on times table
finds the trail to joy you lead down
all rights reserved
2017 Poetry of Providence
C. Michael Miller
Ecc 3:1 For everything there is a season,
and a time for every matter under heaven:
Cruelty wears a crown in a cloaked place,
cold-blooded grins behind mirrored faces.
Remorse walks the halls bartering tattle while I fracture.
They crowned me in shame, but
within a queen still rises.
They buried me in a fire of hell,
But like ash-gray smoke, I rise and swell.
I am the silence of the crown,
gone through ups and downs
stumbled in the dark multiple times
but my spirit still my heart and mind.
I am a teacher, a child, a guardian and a shadow behind my past.
But a strong woman who will still rise from the stillness of darkness.
Inside of me multiply like smoke and breathe:
into silence of forgiveness and hope.
Yes, still I rise, a whisper stitched in storm-
a sovereign spirit-fearless and warm.
The tortured self becomes the flame
not burned but lit beyond their shame
like the shimmering star, shining bright afar!
This is me, a version of being a woman in time and forever be!
At first, the purple sunshades hide where dreams cling,
the mind is distracted by how night's feeling,
it drifts along asleep on soft feathered wing.
Now, crimson blood spurts were shapes are annealing,
form re-appears, through razor sharp, edges and seams,
the self slowly stirs, to begin the healing.
Red ochre breaks through, streaming in bright light beams,
piercing the veil, as purpose begins to rise,
shaking the cinders to scatter ash-gray dreams.
Orange inflames the will behind shut eyes,
to rush right in, to show what it held on hold,
sending hot flames aloft, to lighten dark skies.
Yellow crowns the day-break with buttercup gold.
The mind and soul, now awake, can stand up bold!
Once, there was a time when I wallowed in darkness
wading in the shallows of my flaws, I confess.
Shadows of hovering ravens were my only friends.
I was lost in time as stars died, but made amends
by untying myself from yesterdays to stop crying.
I stopped living in a morass as if I were dying.
Many who remain tethered to their past try hiding
but freedom will take flight in those hearts confiding.
There is a gentle wind that blows through a soul
leaving glittered traces of stardust to make it whole.
Whispers murmur to wings that brighten the gloom,
lifting the muddled veil of death so life can resume.
No longer do I cringe at the dreary thought of death
or gasping for air as if I were drawing my last breath.
One day I will fall as carrion, my body lying supine
and I become a banquet feast where many might dine.
If feathered creatures circle me in skies of ash gray,
who then will come to chase the hungry ravens away?