old poems continue for better or ill

Tigers give birth here
Thoughts of rancor spill upon the floors
Babies cry out now
Dust leaps from cracks and doors
Forever wanting more
Sweet emotion sweeps the page of dancing fingers rustling sage
The forests colors slip through my running eyes
As the dew drips
In my pores singeing bonds
The world is ours
Have you ever sat in the ground standing still?
Feeling life penetrate up
Energy meridians filling in
Breathing happiness just like the sun
Floating carefree with clouds whipping against air currents of change
The carbon body a mere vessel
Or if you like better a blinking shutter speed stage
Life permeates the earth’s veins
Entering release upon this page.

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Scaling the concern of thoughts
Washing over like a rainbow of raindrops
Every corner of the mind drenched
Entrapped inside a box of saturated hues and sounds

The desert holds so many secrets
So many lockboxes of buried memories
Blown over by the grains of uncertainty
Blown over by the magnitude of its own size

The ever changing surface
Forever paints the present
The swaying shifts
Tilt the hillsides of our eyes

Perception molds conception
As our memories mold the bendable past
What is real and what is false remembrance
Melt into unruly shades of grey

Washing over like a rainbow of raindrops
Dripping through our pores
To decide our next decisions
While we overlook the past’s fiery furnace

The brain binds the strands
While the heart frantically chops away
The soul fuses the gaps
In efforts to remember the tears’ adhesive force

The cohesion of the draining dawn
Pulling us towards another door
Washing over us like a rainbow of raindrops
No one knows where the decanter starts

Scaling the concern of thoughts
No one knows where they will climb
The slippery surface of vertical limits
No one knows when they will fall

And so we are left
Squinting into the size of tiny droplets
Trying to read the words covering the downpour
Washing over us like a rainbow of raindrops.

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Digitized


Living between the cracks of life
Our youth are becoming blind to introspection
Trying to reach the peak of a mountain that’s already crumbled
Trying to see a sunset that’s already passed
Beauty within marketed into designer fashion
Everyone wants to be a runway model
Naïve to the magnitude of stars
Because our own outshine the rest
Strange times in a world getting colder
As the world constantly heats up
The culture of this country already seems forgotten
Digitized, we learn about forests from computers
We learn how to live in a net of safety
Recliners with pockets and options and gadgets
Television tells us what family should be
Until we forget that we think for our own
Molded by molds of words acted out
We are a nation of bad sitcom jokes.

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Lakes settle
To the smooth flapping of birds
Gliding onto their reflective air strips
Flowing with the gentle wind
Subtle ripples like dimples
Move across the wet landscape
Shaking through the sun
Branches drape
The edges like lockets of hair
Bending with the breeze
Bending through the air
Spasms of currents
Fight and collide with one another
Always ending with a draw
Because it’s not about winners and losers
It’s about composure
Reflecting with the stars
It’s about the dampness of our hearts
Seeping into a sound
Leaves float like carefree boats with no destination
Only returning home to be born of new life
To be extricated of their shell
Breaking down into vessels
Entering the breath of thousands
The pace quiets while the lake slowly settles.

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The Playing Field

Most people live quiet lives of outcries silhouetted against their own bitter soundproof minds. The few rise, like those rare flowers in the middle of the dessert, nourished off the strained, fed from the pain, the beautiful few who actually through their helping hands gain. The stark differences on the spectrum of civilization in any aspect is so illogical and irrational when analyzed it leaves one with a somewhat detached feeling of doubt as to if reality is even real, because how could something so pure become so awful twisted. The greed really is the creed, and has blinded the motives of those who are not even yet born. It has not laid out a road for them to take far before they walk, but far worse, before they even crawl. Such thoughts haunt concern and mock the very strands of hope. So the question becomes how does one hold optimism in these times? Through necessity. Through an age old balance of must that we confront in the face of harsh times. For the few who knew may rise above, lifting the faith of the masses upon their shoulders, to fly high, and if only for a second, give us all something to look up at and watch with the eyes of a child; a livid sunrise being torn through by a group of tainted yet soulful doves.