Parallax Poems - Poems about Parallax

Parallax

The way we look at other forms,
views appearance, not their heart’s storms,
failing to see God dwells in each;
within us too, He’s within reach,
thus the singularity field,
is God’s mind to which we should yield,
for which the way we may begin,
is to find Him in heart within.

By relinquishing mind’s thought crutch,
doing nothing, learning by touch,
in this way,

parallax

love songs soul sung
endear young hearts
have stung ego

Of mice men a parallax view

Why’d you dig that hole George, 
are there rabbits down there? 
Too many Lennie
like me they’re in despair 
Don’t be afraid to look now 
I’ll stand right behind 
Ok I will!
George took out his gun all primed

If I seem distant 
it’s not because I’m far
I’ve always been here
your binary star
Two for one was always 
our

Parallax

Astonished seeing wisdom in one so young,
we hastened to correct parallax of sight,
for did not this soul slowly climb rung by rung,
the ladder of wisdom, now at zenith height?

Our fault line is that we look at outer form,
whilst the soul within has faced many a storm,
life after life, reborn again and again,
revealing a gem that

Parallax

we fall and then rise
correcting parallax 
changing tracks
becoming wise

Parallax

Perhaps my love’s lust,
a deep desire to entwine,
inflicting a benign burn.


In the womb of space,
two feathers orbit bliss beats,
mirroring divine intent.

Parallax

How still is our stillness, if we as yet intuit
continuity of the sounds of silence,
within organic form with which we identify,
thus subconsciously inking wisdom imbibed, 
with memory imagery and conditioned belief,
deludedly proclaiming prismatic hues as truth?

Parallax

I had been driving for decades.
A yellow Buick, deluxe convertible circa '51',
the model with the three-speed manual transmission -
8 cylinder.

A deserted desert diner. The door creaks
as I enter,
green tomatoes fry on a skillet.
I throw my fedora,
feed bread into a counter toaster.
A woman appears, drying her hands.

"You've found me in my old age -
how impolite of

Parallax Past

Parallax Past

I am alone
For sure, for now
Almost as ever was
Never again

I have me
I am field and plow
Always as it is, because
I am, again

Around once more
Parallax past
Of all, amassing
Wondering if all these years, too slow
Are after all, too fast
Trying not to lose myself
In passing

Parallax Truths

You heed what’s preached, I observe beyond the pale 
We play cat and mouse, searching out our holy grails

I see blackness and stars, with no end in sight 
You discern an inner sanctum, and eternal light

Each of us ponder hard, unwavering in finding truth 
Yours a god of creation, mine the square of all roots

We

Chlorophyll Drunkard

.

Every calibration I do,
Blur to emerge the one weirdo.
Every navigate does syntax,
Oh, so higher at parallax.

I creep with my scornful envy,
And I know why they do beauty?
Because of an anticlimax,
Oh, so higher at parallax.

All gassing awkward in my brain,
Forever missing you the green.
Fill in my cephalothorax,
Oh, so higher at parallax.

Parallax

“thought rested awareness is not confined
escape oh hermit, clutches of your mind”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Looks 
deceive
being but
an outer form,
concealing within
true essence of the self,
which is revealed in stillness.
The dweller of the void is free,
witnessing waves rising and falling,
knowing ebb and flow to be but a play.

Our views rooted in narrow prejudice,
derived from low animal instinct,
confined to cognitive impulse,
serving

Parallax

I've been driving for decades.
A yellow Buick, deluxe convertible circa '51',
the model with the three-speed manual transmission -
8 cylinder.

A deserted desert diner. The door creaks.
Tomatoes fry on a skillet.
I throw my Panama,
feed bread into a counter toaster.
A woman appears, drying her hands.

"You've found me in my old age -
how impolite of you."
She says between disapproving

Parallax - Prose-Poem

I've been driving for decades.
A yellow Buick, deluxe convertible circa '51',
the model with the three-speed manual transmission -
8 cylinder.

A deserted desert diner. The door creaks.
I'm a doppelganger of myself.

Tomatoes fry on a skillet.
I throw my Panama,
feed bread into a counter toaster.

A woman appears, drying her hands.

You've found me in my old age -
how impolite of

Parallax

Is this the heart I'm meant to see?
Is this always what I would be
When you looked deep down into me
And I thought I was free?

What was human then?
The perfect lie?
The ways we'd always try
And fail to deny
Ourselves?
Each other?
Hand in hand
Soul in soul

An eye?
For an eye?

And tears
Despair the only sin
When we once
    Were

Are

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