Space aliens speak a geometric poetry,
crop circles are left,
to enlighten each brain cell.
Soon we may think,
in pictures, patterns, and spirals once more,
employing the mathematics
of immediate insight.
The heart hungers,
brains are secretly rewiring themselves,
into cosmic bridges.
Life begins to express itself,
hieroglyphically.
The aliens have not yet arrived
as us.
we have yet to grow into them,
as all our words
are acknowledged as misspelled symbols,
a primitive speech, too disjoined
for these new times.
So far, a simple pictograph,
of reality,
one any alien could decipher,
remains undiscovered.
Yet we watch and wait,
as revealing holograms,
create new visions for us.
I Am A Book
By David J Walker
I am a book of Unread pages
I am a book
I am a book Written in stages in
A travel log On a road called Time
With the foreign stamps Of Passport Ministers
Checking my credentials along the way
I am a book
I am a book Of unread scripture
With the lectures on faith
In staggered chapters and the
Tattered chronicled collections of
Odd jobs We have asked of a Loving God
Written in a foreign language
I am A book
I am a book Of erotic poetry in
Pictograph albums Scrutinized and analyze
Then censored By holier than me censors
I am a book
I am a book With pages numbered
And then sealed Its secrets to be
Revealed in full on an unannounced
Judgment day with Disputes left in the hands of
A Divine Defender
I am a book
I am a book
To be colored Everyday
Where the lines do not matter
Only the hue and The view
In which you see me
I am a book
I am a book Not to be left On the dusty shelf of
A forgotten library Rarely opened in a
Distant history I am a book to be read
And even if misunderstood To be savored
I am a book
Pictograph Biography
David J Walker
If asked
He might or might not
Remember the past
The old man had notched the days
By the thousands in his trek
Around the sun
Each marking its path as a
Tattooed etching by the
Laser edge of history in his skin
Of every day and every place
he had ever been
And even if he cannot
remember them
The pictographs tell the
Story of everyone who had
Touched him
Hubby decamped,
Kids gone,
House dilapidated,
Garden gone to seed,
She took-up Tai-chi.
Facing East,
A half veiled sun
Behind her,
She became a
Pictograph,
Crowned by
A golden rice bowl.
You naively challenged fate,
with lies disguised as the truth.
And confronted love and hate,
with the innocence of youth.
Tattoos display Anger's mark;
inked with a defiant tear.
For blood badges, crude and stark,
pictograph, your life of fear.
Feelings, memories impart,
make you want to run and hide.
For lodged in a troubled heart,
the truth drains egos of pride.
Hope fades under neon light;
dreams dissolve, and trust erodes.
And friends, ingested by Night,
get consumed by hungry roads.
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