A freedom whisper was perched in my ear
and spiritual pieces did steadfast adhere
when I entered the earth’s global sphere.
As a child, I knew God was in all people’s ‘here.’
I never doubted the spirit vibes especially near
nudging me to seek truths as a mission most dear.
Compelled by an authenticity steer,
individuality and faith became my gear
to wear through each emotional frontier
where I held both joy and sadness sincere.
God’s truth as my ambition held clear.
I learned from burns we have naught to fear
as thickness in darkness brings light most sheer.
Above and beyond to lovingly revere,
God also serves as an approachable peer;
all we feel and think, God ever wants to hear.
Many forces taint spirit, they spear and smear
but prayerful desire enables truth to appear
that one day all his children may joyfully cheer.
The World slowly changes,
Everything in time renews,
Eventually they’ll make history
Out of tomorrow’s news.
The poor will get poorer as
The rich demand more and more,
Just the thickness of a wage slip
Keeping poverty from the door.
The politicians will argue,
Send armies off to fight,
Each side insisting they
Are the ones in the right.
The population changes as
The generations move on
With maybe a small chance they’ll
Leatn from mistakes of those gone.
The planet keeps on circling
On its predictable run
To inevitable immolation with
The fiery death of the Sun.
Will we have by then escaped,
Travelled long and far
To a new welcoming planet
Orbiting a different star,
The long held dreams
Of the virile Human Race
To expand our influence
Into deep Outer Space?
And will we treat that planet
Like a home of value and worth
Or will we wreck and plllage it
The way we did Old Mother Earth?
&
An odd hatchling was judged by many,
Life for her was hardly sunny,
Every single good old day,
Just saying his skin was grey,
Why did they say it was so funny?
Was it that in the princess and the pea,
A power was held inside this sweetie,
Such a sensitive princess
to find in such thickness,
such a small pea, he was in glee
Tomorrow creeps,
it crawls,
sludges and stalls—
but tomorrow brings truth,
light,
and dawn.
Tomorrow is discovered,
it is unveiled,
it reveals.
In the reverent halls of worship stalls,
and the back room walls
lined with empty bottles.
Pushing forward
through the thickness of time,
the membrane between autonomy and design—
tomorrow is promise, potential,
freedom in its finest state.
No levy could contain.
But tomorrow is danger,
it is sorrow,
a perpetual loop.
Tomorrow is the silence
after the storm,
the desolate landscapes
of ruin and regolith.
Tomorrow is a tide,
holding it all inside
Tomorrow is the scratch of pain
on wrists nailed by shame.
Tomorrow is a knife,
serrated with retribution.
Restoring pride
to lonely life.
Tomorrow is the stretched second,
everlasting regard.
It is the open road
for your getaway car.
Tomorrow is absolution,
advent,
attribution
Alphabetic yellows but you would melt my hairs should haze
The dim contour leasing the pounding in my breast
Would a war by all fragile ward fragility to lick your smoke at the corners
Of your mouth to which then French and frenzy make an ocean wider
Green, green is the blackest grass of long twisting cobras told unknown
Gallant as a child holding on to frays of reeds and a bite of snow
Nothing contained in the deaf phlegm of white light
The skill of work in the hot bloods of the thickness imagined
Weaving in the wives room and again to the lantern
To rub the brass and alleviate the dead petals in conquest by the fresh
The very tongue rials twisted as wires chill the season
Unlikely arrivals of the two by shy flaunt
Then veering is the roads aghast by ghastly refuse
Some do become lovers neath the sun ware the moon
But do others weigh the scale of surmise
As the sound of wind regales, forcing it's way through the thickness of the silence.
Never bringing happiness in shears as the sadness remains in different shades of blue.
While the tears stay trapped inside the tired lonely lids
As you try to picture a different view.
As the flooding of past memories brings horror to your truth, as your insanity believes in a different life that it invented during your youth.
No breeze from your wind, no moisture from your rain.
Held back by the anger that helped you sustain.
Night falls without a moon, days of red with no sunshine to blame. Cornered by your doubts and fears
Even after all these years
Wasting your emotions like leftover food
Killing your gains as they leave you for good...
Despite the bellowing of loved ones,
you've chosen to go it alone.
Thus far you've had immunity to folly and mishap.
Now you're long overdue, but nobody knows.
You've left no itinerary nor coordinates.
There'll be no search and rescue
upon that avalanche of arrogance.
The pickaxe has slipped from your hand.
Sliding into the sweet blackness.
Days layer upon a twist of broken bones.
Blue ice licks its own thickness into a groan.
You've reached the black pinnacle of the purist, alone.
Under a robin's egg sky upon the throat of icy cliffs.
The alpinists ascend a blizzard of sorrow and bliss.
Sowing a string of prayer flags into the white heart soul of spirit pass.
An Ice Fishing House, Abandoned, in Need of Repair
That same shed waits
by the trees.
Waits on its skids
for the lake to freeze,
and the for the creaking
joints of bickering
stoop-shouldered men
as they push it out to the center
of a pool of glass.
It houses the stories of fishing
in winter, pulling sustenance,
wriggling, through chiseled
portals into another realm.
Old men would wait
like death, slow,
their breath
turning to steam
until they could abduct
their prey from the world below.
Trout would flop
with the thickness of a muscled fist,
striking ice like distillery rage unhinged.
They would twist and corkscrew,
mottled black and silver slapping
the frozen pane of the lake,
waiting for suffocation to take them,
as the old men drifted up in
the steam of twice-warmed coffee,
and the willow-the-wisp exhalations
of ribald stories, retold, and finally forgotten.
On a night when stars weep their ancient light,
I lose myself in the whispers of paper, in the song of ink,
Like a river of memories winding through the hills of the heart,
And I wonder if writing heals something within me.
Traumas are a veil of mist dispersing at dawn,
Leaving only shadows dancing on white pages,
Transformed into fine lines of art that people applaud,
Yet in the applause, I hear the muted echo of my suffering.
My fingers touch the lines, feeling the thickness of life,
While my tongue presses against my teeth, reciting slowly.
Sadness and pain pierce like thorns into flesh,
They burn, transforming into ashes that settle on the soul.
Does writing heal any wounded corner of mine?
And if so, how much can it soothe my pain?
How much of suffering becomes a rainbow on paper,
And how much ink turns into living scars?
In this continuous flow of my consciousness,
Metaphors are born from an open wound,
I seek answers in the echo of deep silence,
As letters are laid like stars on the sky of the soul.
Weeping Willow tree, no sun can shine through.
Nothing can grow beneath you.
Because of your rapacious roots, nothing can grow around you.
Your grievousness is your companion.
You stand strong against strong winds,
yet, you weep because no fowl will perch
in your pertinacious thickness.
Cool foggy morning
in the watery stillness
a fishing boat glides
disappears in the thickness
its holds bare for no fish swim
The fabric that binds hearts together
is the very myth we hold:
what love truly is
and what being loved truly feels.
But the truth is, love is more,
love transcends the thickness
of what two hearts pump
the blood that flows through us.
Love is the fire in our veins
a force that shapes and molds
it’s the courage to face the storms
and the warmth in the cold.
It is the unseen thread
that stitches souls together
a bond unbroken by time
enduring through every endeavor.
Into the safety of imagination where I retreat
the incessent drums of society no longer beat,
and the world becomes my own creation
where I retreat into the safety of imagination.
I'd rather dwell inside a wondrous dream
and dance within the sacred stream
than live outside in man-made hell,
inside a wondrous dream I'd rather dwell.
So the doctors diagnosed me, I have a mental sickness,
but they're the ones who really suffer thickness
while I can simply lock the door and lose the key;
I have a mental sickness, so the doctors diagnosed me.
Beneath the crimson
Skies of morn
A rare gem of beauty
Was slowly born
Of shimmering silver
And effervescent smell
It’s vines of thickness
Grew so well
The petals crystal
The thorns so sharp
Irrefutable strength
Set it apart
It’s life was short
Darkness came
Petals fell softly
As if in vain
When solitude is all I'll ever know,
and the moonlight's all the friend in my world,
as winds of warmth for me will never blow;
a realm of mine to build will go unfurled!
Like a fortress, mental walls of thickness
protect and insulate my gentle nature;
hints of my manic-depressive sickness,
like my surrender to a dismal future,
sometimes show. But from time to time, the God
of angels and heaven inspires a hope
and joy that no sly trickery or fraud
can bring into being or genuine scope.
Whether in madness's hell or elation,
I find peace in the God of Creation.
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