Constructing Destruction

Water flows until the water falls

Ever emptying its source

Concurrently fulfilling

Its destination

 

Into circles of synchronicity

 

Fire gathers itself slowly

Into a volatile force

Simultaneously consuming

Light and darkness

 

Impulse sparks desire

And alarms survival

In coexistent pendulums

Striking dual intentions

 

Constructing destruction

in synchronicity

 

 

The Art of Depression

The waves come -

they have an endless poise

upon the ear

of crashing, crushing power

and too, a soothing lullaby   

 

always the waves they are coming...

with a gentleness at the dawn

and with threatening cascades

across the long night;

thoughts, irrepressible as the waves

 

breaking the impenetrable silence,

the deep immutable silent truth

that rages on endlessly

within the circles and the rooms

that keep the shells, the precious shells -

 

shells; keepsakes of sentiment

atonements for existence set adrift

scattered along the empty beaches

devoid of corporeal sense ...

shells’ depressions speak of transience

 

deep depressions within the molluskan form

tributes to creation; to existence; to intention

that sound the waves’ eerie constant:

Eros demands the moment -

While Psyche is...     

Trees In Context

Across the canvass that is mother’s landscape -

Witnessed by masses of green trees

That seem the same but different; one cannot escape

That each is described by how science sees:

 

A trunk, branches...  rooted into the ground;

Annual growths come and go thru all the seasons

yet, though time waits not, the tree is still found

waiting, waiting for the eye to behold the poetic reasons

 

For a tree’s connection to the generations,

That come and go - as leaves,

While profoundly remaining at the core of one’s intentions

And, beyond anything one doubts or believes.

 

 

 

 

Art of Reflection

the long thin brushes lay in a wealth

of pigmentary queues

waiting for the silent canvass

to summon open the obverse mind

 

the gaunt three pointed steeled easel

a trichotomous pod with good standing

seeking turns to the light source

so to find lost values

 

the painter at the mirror of denial

his miasmic thoughts

churning like the magma at volcanic depths

 with omnificent fires suppressed and unreflective

 

the muse at the open window suspended

in equipoise between the arrogant artist

and the demure poet of self doubt

summoning the causes and the effects of reflection

Chaos of Insanity

Wildebeest, wildebeest - why do you run

Lurching in mass across the sun?

 

Your destinations found blindly

Your reactions sound wildly

 

Seeking the waters of optimism

While crossing desert of pessimism.

 

Wildebeest, wildebeest - why do you stand

In calm; peace, that you cannot understand?

 

While reason dissolves into chaos of insanity

Where instincts save or deceive; each its own profanity.

 

The need to run is an irrepressible drive

To find respite in waters of the river; alive.

 

Or to discover that salvation is as illusive

As the image of an oasis - just beyond the elusive...

 

The composition changing into inevitable death,

Whispering:   “Wildebeest, wildebeest - run to a last breath”.


 

A Tree in Stillness

While bellicose storms overwhelm the air

A mind is filled with confusing aberration –

 

A silence bides its omnificent presence to ration

Stillness upon a tree of bare

 

And unto the burgeoning light across range of perception

Until enlightenment returns quiet to its intention.   

Silence

An inner thought occurs and

 

 

Ahh...

 

 

Silence

 

Finds me

 

 

 

Oooom...

 

 

 

And I find silence

 

 

Ahh-ooom

 

 

 

As the circle completes -

 

Silence is me.



Arise

The luminal focus of Spring light

Picturing a sacred tabernacle

Against the dormant ground

Holding apex at the steradian

Between the moment of death;

 Life;

 And the ephemeral

 

 

Laying across the cold whitened ground  

 Under the blue

 A fallen one finds reason

 To arise...

Poet Buried With Her Words

 

 

The woman lived alone

Keeping life in a swarm

Of many a young girl’s fears

Along with cascading diaries of her lost seasons.

 

 

While specters picked from the garden of mad reasons,

That horded into possessed years,

Piling each and all; covering them with deep earth warm.

For life became an idiopathic tome.

 

 

The material possessions simply implied a prone

Submission for at once, they possessed the keeper,

While the rooms disintegrated into nothingness

Where the mind had divested of all logic and muse.

 

 

And, the musicians holding empty hands do amuse

For their notes of tone color; strophic; rondo hath a grim reaper

Adagietto infusing the air with the fullness

Of Mahler’s Symphony 5 in a slow... and final atone.

5-7-5 Repeat

clepsydra speaks time

 

emptying in serpentine

 

twists to note life's rhyme