Another one on Perspective

Lessons Learned

One of life's,
Main lessons learned,
Is the pain by which,
Perspective's earned.

Muse

MUSE

A cafe to share remembrances,
And in the corner,
The lurking shadow of truth.
The muse,
Within the heart,
Never dies,
Or fade,
It is we,
Who erode and accumulate….

I wrote this in response to the line by Illyria, “the pay’s reliable. muses get old. they die.”

Reflection on a Haiku

Sadness
Is not
Like a poison
I believe
It is more
A bitter bitter fruit
That must
Be eaten for
The necessary nourishment
It provides....

Shared sadness is enriching and proof we are possessed of hearts.

What Painful Hope?

What painful-hope can be found in,
A bomb strapped to a child-heart,
By an angry-loving father,
Sent to visit those others,
Called not fit to be brothers,
Paradise-promised by one who talks to his god,
I find such a cruel and hateful deity,
Deserves not worship but pity,
No pious supplication,
Only intense renunciation,
And it’s idols ground to dust.

There is in the dust

There is in the dust,
of our more active days,
words left unsaid,
I find them by listening,
to the voices,
of distant friends,
over electric presses,
that never stop.

There is always one of the blogging multitude that has the right word to waken what is for the moment sleeping.
Peace

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

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!

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.

A rain dance

Rain, rain come today,
and fall, and wash,
the dust away,
bring a drink,
a soothing swallow,
so that I can speak,
and the goats can wallow,
and crops can grow,
and all can eat,
bread made from,
this hot,
and too dry,
summer's wheat.

A responce to a friends need for rain, if I had the power that rain would arrive on schedule.

Unfinished Reflection

Awoke
to scattered thoughts of destiny
an unavoidable singularity
to in-spin-infinitely
time, space, substance and soul?
to stand at the pass, hold the last bridge,
ridden perhaps by
one of the four
horseman of the Apocalypse
sounds a little too heroic-
perhaps just a product of the times
going vegan, walking and riding and swearing off cars
sounds a little too Birkenstock and Prius-
maybe perhaps even
the omnipotent producer
of the times
through angular momentum, creativity, and causality
Sounds a little too
and then
Destiny
Singularity
there is only one center
and that my friend is you
and you
and you
and you

It is all about perspective, right?

Electric Friend

I miss I
mirror for my soul to find reflection
words as feast
to nourish this beast
of untamed intellect
I found I
some years ago
while travelling a lonely road
although I know we are seperate
and distinct individuals never destined to meet
in meat form
there is a subtle connection
where the words of one
call from my soul

Perspective my butt!
get back to punching the keys kiddo!

Painful Memories

When the dusts of roads traveled
become your clothes
and the path that you walk is
more of thorns than rose
the pain of those
memories I suppose
are the signposts
to lead
you back
to you