Living Color

The painfully gained palette of,
a perspective's spectrum paints,
a sad sunset behind lonely trees.
The night's cold caresses chill
and down I lay in remembrance still
and lose myself by bleak degrees.


I wrote this in responce to "Wednesday" a poem by Concrete Jesus a fellow blogger

CJ's site

Future Framed

Nights
Stained
With
An apologetic darkness
Hearts
Pained
With
The senses being helpless
Future
Framed
By those
Captured
In hideous madness
Souls
Trained
To ignore and deny
A very deep sadness.


A bullet does not change an enemy into a friend it ends him and the chance forever.

Thank you Gulnaz, the line "Night stained by apologetic darkness," woke up my muse for a moment.
peace

Broken Images

Pieces of a broken mirror
give broken images
but each
piece is perspective
in and of itself.
the hardest part is context
a red cloth becomes
a pile of saffron or
the blood on a bandage or
a stain from yesterdays cherry pie...

Broken images
reflected
lost
and then found again.
Does the eye see it
as many pieces of the world scattered or
as the world reflected in many windows shattered or
many makeup mirrors held in many soft smooth hands
what use a broken mirror's melted sands.

What is art but
the view
from the artist's shard
harmonic reflections
disonant deflections
shadow deceptions
and pieces, pieces, pieces.

I think sometimes that broken images
can show more than a crystal clear
photo.

Falling into life

The speed at which the years pass can become frightening.
Life
is like jumping off
a very very large building
First the fear of flying
then joyous abandon
to the freedom of free fall
then the casual consideration
of
the possibility
of the ground,
and then finally
the absolute certainty
of the ground's
inevitability.

When I die I hope that I get a glimpse of the title of the booklet of me.

Whoa now

Embodied energy, embodied cost
we must embody
responsability
for what is lost.
We must cease
defining our relationship with the universe
as one of predator to prey
Man consumes everything he touches
from dirt, guano, shark fin soup,
rocks
if it can be priced
it too
can and will be thrown in the pots
Predators that
are too sucessful
are soon extinct
peace

Nested garden?

When I was a young man just old enough to ask interesting questions my father told me, " Life is like a garden and when we are young the garden is a small one contained safely behind the warm walls of our parents and our family and as we age these walls are replaced by the walls of our friendships and as we age further our jobs become the walls and at the final stages of our life our mortality becomes the walls.
I am glad I have seen some of the garden.

More on perspective

The great writer finds the nut of that perfect sentence, paragraph, or story within their past's pleasures and pains whether real or imagined. It really is the writer that does the writing. We the reader know that the author is all of their characters, all of their hearts, all of their fists, caresses, and kisses, all of their skinned knees and bandaging hands because it is the author who writes it, creates it, forms it from that pallatte of their soul, palettes of many colors or not.

Where are your words?

A place in my heart
is bleeding
for the words of a friend
I am needing

This canvas of life
we all travel
without her words
will unravel
to a
static and stale
crumpled, dull and pale
ticket
used and forgetten
in the pocket of a sport coat
at the lost and found.

We are missing you!

Random kindness

Time can be
As much
A friend
As critic.

Don't regret mistakes own them.
Don't believe the lies you tell yourself.
Don't fear endings for they are in-fact beginnings in disguise.
Don't hold on to memories for too long for they can end your living.
Don't ever miss a good sunset or sunrise for they the tracks of the tears of creation
Remember who you are and give yourself a hug.
peace

I knows

The animal hunger of lust
where egos and hearts must
either join together
in a snarled and sweaty froth
or run from one another
like a post, windstorm, and cloth

One must not fool with mother nature!
It needs more.. but it is a start

Alone in beauty

Alone in beauty she walks
A hallway lit with her reflection
She wants to see herself
Without
a mirrors deception
She takes a pen
And jabs it in
To her heart and begins to write

Beauty dances

I hope no one
frightens away
these beautiful and delicate butterfly's prancing
the flowers softly droop under their leggy dancing
my fascinated heart's gamboling from glancing
at life love without pretense

to those who would forget
what life love is
love life it is not
remember when
you ran in the rain
and smiled
for you knew not

Quiet silence

Body as foreign country,
landless,
the sounds of sirens,
voices in the dazed,
darkness,
of my missingness,
bones numbed to a stillness,
a
silenced
quietness


in response to I :)

On beauty and posterity

I would write a poem to beauty
but
a soul is of the surface
not
life is much more magical
and comical and tragical
:)
The hope
when we are gray
and youth has gone it's way
that
the mirror will tell a tale
of a fully balanced scale
on skin lines of truth
not scars of lost youth
Aging is not a slow bleed but a ripening.