A worm's eye view never seems to be a problem
for those who prefer not to be perceived.
I inch along the ground,
cowering in the light
and moistening myself in hallowed raindrops.
The sky clouding over is my perfect afternoon.
Gentle breezes and summer downpours
are the creatures' form of relaxation,
while children cover themselves in the safety of concrete barriers,
These perfectly straight lawns
bordered by paved expanses
are insurmountable obstacles; guaranteed death.
After the rain,
childlike giants scoop us up
and force us to succumb to concentrated beams of sunlight
filtered through magnifying glasses.
Tears are wet to the palate
salty to the taste --
we cannot not live without
the water...nor salt --
and their expulsion associated with
many miseries, many deaths.
My focus though is on joyful tears --
laughter that pains the
ribs in a good way, after a funny story
well told -- a child overwhelmed
by a blessed gift becoming happily
emotional. We are lacrimal in a very
poignant sense~ for what reaches the
surface, through trial and error, while
intense, outwardly drippy, is substance
of a great connecting conduit. And despite
ambient fluctuations of internal springs,
over-all life is devotedly nurtured by a
Maternal Sky~ keeping dear watch,
moistening and drying according to
the ripening needs of her children.
Love is a game
and we are the players
You are the rose
blooming in hidden places
I wrote down my feelings
I always searched for you
I breathed you
I heard you
in the most sorrowful songs
My life is you
My feelings are you
My loves are you
You are mine
Love is a game
and we are the players
You are my water
moistening my lips in the desert
I always saw you
My nightingale singing in my dreams
I listened to you
You are my songs
in the sweetest words
My life is you
My feelings are you
My loves are you
You are mine
The tremolo of mourning jays vibrates
In bittersweet tracks when nightfall scans
An almost dim backdrop, gripped
By low warbles from birds' paean
Indistinct as dusty tunes--a whip, wallop
A whistle of drones becomes
dangerous and still;
Throaty on a lane of funeral's last rites:
The hazily drawn view turns ambient...
it is another blasted evening
Moistening wail of eyes with monotone lull
that I hide my face
from past autumnal romps
reminding me of chimes, soft cuddles
pressed in heavenly light...I whisper
to a young silhouette now cradled
By the starkest of blue stars...
Tunes stale,
while jays moan on the horizon, until...
If every cloud had
a Silver Lining...
If lightning were only
illumination...
and our story together
had a happy ending --
then, I would write,
only Happy Faces.
But, pencil points break
a tear marks a page indelible
will not accept a word, tears
with every new impression
attempted --
I read a poem, a little while ago;
a sad poem...and your memory
returned -- A grave is so damn
insensitive! I know...get over it!
Stiff Upper Lip recalls your tender
moistening.
Framed moments zoom, a night of review
as vignettes glide on frazzled woodland
of her mindscape like leaves brushed
in violet before moonlight’s pause.
Every motion, every image bursts
into tints of life- stages...
Embers within her flash: a peachy tot
screaming for jelly ; eighth birthday flops,
escaping from the party clown—
How the mirrors of light enter the marrow
and gracefully recite the stories and poems
from parental death, aborted friendships
to love’s waning kiln. The hum inside her
becomes quiet, awake and fearless...
she inhales dusky breath when musings
fall like twigs and brambles on her bosom.
Yet, the air’s chill hugs her shadow,
moistening her thoughts,
eyes reflecting time's montage...
glassy though amiably refreshed.
My freedom makes you cry,
You want to stop but tears keep moistening your cheeks,
But still try.
I'll stay in touch,
Though, it's my freedom your heart seeks
So much!
Cheer up!
My heart still cares,
Yup!
My freedom makes you cry,
Though, it's my freedom your heart seeks
Yup!
with the mere touch of green grass
a surging river of consumption started flowing in the body,
the dark clouds of despair remained stuck in the sky
the shower of pink period started moistening the air of my roof...
Clouds melt
on deep dolour,
releasing pain.
Small raindrops
drizzling,
as tears
moistening
grass in mass.
Sun rays
through raindrops
split in spectrum.
Bright rainbow
is pasted
on sky album.
The doors are big.' The room has benches.. people hussle
Around, some in suits and a few wear gowns; robes grim
Faces and keen looks, at times the benches are full at
Others less than a quarter full, a room of judgement of
Examination accusation and pleading cases, of drama dry
Of drama moistening eyes; there is fear' also a sense of
Retribution! And power.' There is another room there are
Rows of benches, in the distance a platforn and above the
Curtains where scenes are played, by good or bad or
Average actors, this is a place of people in suits and robes
Gowns with capes, and swords there are teary scenes shouts
And screams, grim faces moist eyes overacting reaction rage
You name it.'
There is another room..In another house normally on a hill.'
There are rows of seats, a raised chair like a court, there are
People in suits with darting eyes some are dressed in gowns
And robes.' There is drama here examination speeches and
Indignation, moist eyes; tears fear cheers' and reputations to
Earn or burn, this place is the seat of government..Does it in
Anyway? Remind you of other places I have written about.?
the porous sand offers the ocean an apology,
for moistening its lips yet reading out no eulogy
Gliding fingers trace music notes in the sands; within her; a mystical eloquence feel
What a soothing movement; mind blowingly graceful hands; pirouette goes this pottery wheel
Flowing through her sensual breaths; vivid image comes alive with every moistening seal
Light as air; possession of water, shapes the ground, fires it all; with visionary zeal
Loving the way; she hard directs the play; of this narrative, ever though, herself, genteel
Walking in Mother Nature's presence; beholding why, life on this Earth, is so unreal
They dance on the edge
Of nearly unperceived breezes
Into a swath of glowing light
They slowly open, as it teases!
Each petal like little poems
So soft and ever so gentle
Untorn in the warm amber glow
Healing our sore souls indoor!
Dewdrops moistening those petals
Making me totally sentimental
In silence you protect the core
The bee tied to this moment, I adore!
Holding on to you to feel stable
For the nectar you offer at your round table
And when each petal withers and dies
You blow with the breeze to fly
As you wave and say your last goodbye!
12.5.23
It was the feathered purple of a blossoming iris,
kissing the laden air
with trembling lips.
I was awakened by its fragrance,
the newness of its ancient story,
told yet again by a moistening earth
in silvery birdsong.
Sometimes,
I have missed the turning from gelid and motionless
to the softening sway that unerringly follows.
I have been embittered—
brittle and bare as a crooked branch,
scraping a vacuous sky—
but not this time.
This time, the tenderest breeze,
prodded by the fingers of a spreading sun,
finds me waiting—
eyes closed, smile turned eagerly upwards
to greet the renewal
of creation.
Imprisoned in thoughts at this midnight hour
All directions of the horizon, my eyes do scour
Searching for relief from this daunting power
At its base, however, could anything flower?
When black rain is the only moistening shower
Attacking demons, always looking to devour
My will, they be slain with intentional dour
Battling from my highest point, I will not cower
Never stopping, my intuitive will to empower
In time, will the keys I make release me from this Tower?
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