Posts published in “Poems”

there was an attic
limping/lifted, i crawled the stairs
to find the memories forgotten yet there
yet in this mind’s eye they will never leave for i know them too well;
the roundness of the plastic,
the bucking of the horse,
the little lamb’s words so comforting still

in this attic,
this compartment box opened and sprawled with heat,
in this attic laid all my dreams once given, now taken-placed from view;
is it right to forget that which was so once wanted,
so lived ’til forgotten in fore-given’ess?

these sweat’d flakes of ice fall prey to finger’s tidyngs,
making art in art so clear,
pushing from place ’til image nears
and fallen these eyes become,
as relenting thought’s forcings
break ‘part the ‘cicles,
paving way for unpump’d heart
in journey from fill’d to froze to molten start.

with these
       whisper-wing’ed,
                           lacklust’ words
                                i find nothing
                                        is as safe
                                                in breeze
                                                    as mind.

Within a thousand shining/smiling days, your rays find way to lay upon air, upon cloud-less sky of eyes in ‘guise, fallen-razed along ‘rizon’s edge, stretched-stretching ‘yond the view of you.

i have no goals,
                       merely
              fallen logs
                             not yet fashioned into bridges.

Though made of holly bush a maze may be
     — with tower’d slopes on leaves haze’d green,
          and darken’d nests of space laid seen
           ‘tween the branches hunched in lean —
one may find this twisting root unsheathed
to be but gentle Atlas of ‘Rachnid’s silken’sea

 
from mind of mine to you,
Ocean, my
                Mother Waving
                           within this sphere of light upon the surf
                                                       in broken lines shining
                                                                             shining upon the shadow’d crest of edge of tide;
as flow these crashes, tumble’d, come
                               lightning caught in fever’d gulp of wave
as though
              as though
                            as though breaking to be broken from the breeze of buoyed, blister’d Moon

this life,
this world
        [we live in],
is but an egg
     of unknown many,
     as though in bushel kept with wrap of torn-open shell
     countless with its offering

if i could turn around
                and turn around                                                                                                                  i would
                        to see your frown turn upside-down                                                               i would
                                                        in quiet rise of corners’ creasing skyward-bound, i would

all/everything
     is but a foremoment
                 in thought
                     forgotten,
                     and remembered,
                     and forgotten;
        though you,
                 you remain,
                  you..