Poetry
Verses on consciousness, cosmos, and the spaces between
Serious Engagements
As five fingers unite between sheets,
defying friction to shield skin from cold's breath,
the cloth of the universe crumples into blackness.
God's thumb and forefinger pinch the earth,
turn our world inside out and bury its treasures
— like seeding a womb with stars.
The soul within
dreams and wishes on comets and space.
Space, comets, our wishes and dreams, lie within the soul.
How then do we love this world: from its center or its frame?
Of the Forever
The gifts of light are undying.
Its wages are not unfiltered sights,
not of the ugly but of the forever.
Light spreads us across the cosmos,
stretched almost 300 million metres.
Immortalized in one second.
Recorded on the stills of the heavens,
all creation -- re-birthed and un-deathed.
Beyond our eve, we are of the forever.
Witnessed by every satellite eye.
Our feats will blaze among constellations,
our sins will stain the fabric of stars.
We shall be recycled with the ancients:
Atlantis will rise, Christ on the cross.
Time worn aliens, beings of the forever.
The gifts of light are undying.
Our romances will mirror genocides.
Never to be forgotten, never to be forgiven.
Cold Origins
When it snows, majesties feast in Heaven.
Heart-eyes see the white of joy
Neither floor nor wall divides.
Heaven's sky combusts
With the stomps of fiery chariots
Across the season of iridescent stars.
Angels slip through half-drunk smiles
Potent mead from pure honeyed clouds.
They wind between legs of crystal
Laden with Christ-wine and ambrosia.
An orchestra syncopates seraph steps.
A harmonious heave of hips.
Wings fall off rhythm; angels die off beat.
God conducts resurrection well
He rekindles their Halos to dance evermore.
Right of God's pride lay mane-less
One who toys on the most high table,
Who breaks the shaker: salt of earth.
Who falls snow.
Before Coffee
dance with smoke against blue sky he said
i craft cloud beds for him and me
swim with life light of oceans he said
quiet will test our bond pressure strengthen it
flit with day-mares on verdant earth he said
can i watch sweat meander your bare back
die sleeping with your hand in mine he said
i'd rather fade heaven might separate us
Light Orbs
What weights the soul?
Good and evil are over-abused, too relative.
Their bruises skew life's fulcrum.
The wretched machinery creaks,
unyielding.
Weightlessness is tiring.
Iris
Do newborns steal color?
Hue-shifting crimes when resplendence drabs.
Do irises that have never rinsed light into shades
discern white of gowns and of hospitals?
Did their pupils swallow the earthiness of huts where
dark-skinned hands -- world bringers -- birthed innocence?
Did they steal:
the blazoning of their mother's floral red dress in heat or
the verdant-praise green of leaves under heaven's morning eye.
Falsity
Truth unclouded is I don't know why I went there.
Lie of it all I spun to a friend in need.
To exaggerate her selfishness,
I donned on my sweater.
My mind game's last piece placed.
I embarked into quiet of night.
The Meadow of Bones
I
Echoes of the last foot fall diffuse at edge of night in equinox.
Soul-silk, the moon dances and folds on the surface of the babbling brook
While Heaven's white is dusted to reveal the stone crowns of a hundred tombs.
The Names that life has discarded bathe in moonlight; the bones are thawing,
There is clamor and grave-talk of Spring amongst the dead.
II
Wilted dreams fog the night -- a sacrifice of bloom.
Bones quiver for the penance of red veined hands.
Dead whispers unearth legends of smoldering desert bones:
Of Baba Habu's grandson who buried within his grandfather's
6 feet of eternity a note
that dried fingers yearn to introduce to sockets that once held African eyes.
III
The warm scent of rain casts a spell to reveal death's maiden;
She moans blasphemy as her snatches are sweetened by living flesh.
The desiccate remains of her wards split and crack with excitation.
Spectators of a love that defiles their sacred ground;
The dead have little interest for respectful deeds.
IV
Death's absolution does not spare the spring; it augurs.
Blood that has seeped and stained winter's lingering gems
heavies the western-most knoll -- a 3 foot long coffin.
A muffled wail of fresh bones howling for the liberated soul.
The wrongness of rotting youth shiver the meadow of bones
whose inhabitants are pained to remember what they never forgot.
Ennui
trapped
bars surrounding
unsteel!
forced
living prison
fuck me
fuck
captivity
right now
You Don't Know Me
Burden his smile with expectation
like plaguing a wound with fingertips,
painful is addictive.
Nix his words with your beating
with the sound of pulsing blood and arousal.
His mouth mimes only your secret desires.
Center future around drained evenings,
wine and passions. He makes love.
Craft poems of him.
Dream him tracks that lead to waking.
The unknowing predator seeks not the hunt.
So you stalk and machinate death encounters.
He wins because you have never met.
So when he storms by, revel in his frown.
More poems coming as they mature...