Sunday, April 11, 2010

Nothing to keep


I feel like a watermelon
Not only I coordinate the signature colors
of a watermelon...
I also feel watery
and maybe a little seedy.
My hair is as wired as the magnified scope
of the fruit's cherry-pink region.
So, fruity is my adjective today
only because I feel like a watermelon.


Sunday, February 28, 2010

The angel sings when the stars pop


180 degrees upward,
tilt your head
upward
and
onward.

A flutter of wings may stir inside
as the asterism of Ursa Major broaches the night sky.
Clusters of glowing dust may just have ignited the incentive of jewelry;
the way
they dance and sparkle
could have sparked the first necklace...
ever in history.

So,...
sip, sip, stir, sip, one more stir...
this cup of joe just is not doing it.
The tremble of my sleepy hand
carries the carafe past the stream of morning light.
Oh, the heavens of this daylight...
maybe a different roast will just do the trick.

Sometimes the daylight only brings on
a certain hibernation:
sleepiness.
sleepy.
not so sleepy.
almost awake.
awake!

Oh, Ursa Major,
make my night my day.
My carafe may be in pieces
but I shan't care more.
I am awake!

What is thy potion?
I ask the cosmos in vain.
Threads of wonder weave into a rope.
An anchor lies at the end.
So, onward and upward...
bend your neck backwards
and tilt your head upward
about...
180 degrees.

Saturday, February 27, 2010

Just like an adhesive


Have you ever thought
of flesh
as a form of adhesive?

It is so the truth
as the sun meets the horizon,
I sense a great relief
for that sleep is near.
Maybe be it the glow of night
that aspires the adhesive to loosen
just enough.

Creatures of the night,
creatures of the day,
creatures of the same adhesive:
Different drives,
different lights,
different approaches,
yet the same creatures.
How very interesting.

I love the daylight
as I love the moonlight.
Still, a certain freedom stands about the night.

If anything,
it is like a little bit of freedom
from the sear of daylight.

Valid or not as a rhetoric,
there is a power about the night.
It loosens the adhesive
and
allows a bit of freedom.

Put this in any light you like.
It is the nature you breathe
and bring to create.


Monday, January 4, 2010

Believing


Like a fine thread,
the mind is helplessly aimless
just until the
fine thread
connects to a needlepoint.
Finally, it then begins to weave.
The mind needs a sense of belief
in order to connect to the core.
The core of a being holds the soul.
The mind is but a mere tool.
We just have it backwards.
It is a commonly preferred or merely believed falsehood
that the mind holds such power.
Think about it;
The mind is where doubt resides.
Besides,
we all know that there is
infinity.
Even science knows it.
Now that there is infinity at all,
it's clear that we all play a part of it all.
Still, we stumble past the bit of knowledge
we believe to be vital.
Right then,...
we fail the face of surrender.
If only,...
we begin to surrender.
Oh what we would discern!

Thursday, November 19, 2009

a fallen leaf

If we don't know life, how can we know death?
:Confucius:

Do you just love it
when a faded-way-past-the-stars memory bubbles back to life
in such a small space of the mind?
Well, the mind is relatively tiny when you give half a speckle of the cosmos a thought.
Let's just call it a falling leaf.

The leaf tears away from the thread of its branch.

There was a time...
When I was young and quite reckless.
There was a man twice my age.
Something like untouchability laid on his walking grass.
He had that twinkle in his eyes.
He saw the same in mine.
Our eyes met.

Far from romance,
but it had to do something with passion.
No,
not of passionate romance,
but of ever so plain passion
for what floats of the life mission.
Who knows what transpired as his plan
but now it is the unthinkable
because
the story unfolds now.

The leaf tears away from the very branch.

He was a magician.
He believed in magic.
He needed an assistant
who believed in the same as he did.

Showered I was with gifts;
a yellow rose,
sonnets,
poetry,
thoughtful letters,
and
most of all,
the very alive twinkle in his eyes.

The leaf floats in midair.

Never did I feel more alive
or in more awe of the mystery that seemed to roam within life
especially when questions were terribly beyond rife.
You see, I was barely of the driving age.
I had years before adulthood would wind upon me.
So, I never did much but smile
and accept his gifts.
Might have written him once or twice.
In my dreams, did I assist his startling magic with far willing exuberance.
In "reality",
it never took place.

Now
I can not help but wonder
how
no more than a chance encounter
showed me a profound wanderer
to say the least.
I thought it over and over
until that space of invisible matter
called time took the thought
and parted it bit by bit.
a little past soon after,
I barely could remember.

The leaf gently glides on the ground
and now is amongst its brothers and sisters.

Now
Think of a falling leaf.
See a falling leaf.
Watch it until it reaches the ground.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

the sense of being alive


So, is it....
how
to connect
or
what
to disconnect?

Then, you might have been told
that you have your own road.
However,...
others may beg to differ.
They say, be like a heifer.
Follow the rest,
stumble onward in a straight line lest
the ultimate destination be a slaughter house.

Why leave the house
just to choke on false prejudice?
They say damage lies within the loss of objectivity.
I say...
to live rationally
is a shove towards ethereal spoliation.

Rove from the objective eye for once
and walk by all contraries.
After all,
being told how to participate
is but an imposition.
An imposition to what, you may ask,...
an imposition to the development of what is often unjustly shriveled.
The shriveled lies in the dormant core of a human behind a mask.
Lies the shriveled in so many
that it makes my head spin
like a disembodied fin.

Do not let this confuse you.
Let's just chalk this up as
a pep talk
about a way of life.
Like a beehive,
you never know how much life lies within
until you shake awake.


Monday, November 2, 2009

a thought on a piece

"Take Your Son, sir!"
by Ford Madox Brown (1851-6)
::oil on canvas::


Words dribble like the salvia of a starving dog.
Actions leap like a jaguar capturing its prey.

Still, bless all the children that roam in this... world.
Let them be with whole hearts
and know love.