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A Sense of Time StillFracture a moment
Spread out the pieces
Examine its insides
Let it all crash together.
Push the first domino
Flip the coin into the air
Set the metronome's pace
Wind up the pocket watch.
A miniscule momentum
A flicker of a force
An inkling of an impulse
And time orchestrates its grand symphony,
And it will, unnoticed,
Proceed and multiply, grow
And end and start again,
Until time stops
In a moment of quiet.
Poetry of the ProcessI ponder for a moment:
What has inspired me this time?
Something rather mundane? Not surprising.
My mind, a lens; refracting reality
Into some profound and abstract metaphor
If it's a poem I'm writing – and it often is –
It becomes rather exciting,
As I spit out a few nice lines
But then I'll spend an eternity looking for perfect rhymes.
(I'm a bit of a perfectionist, you see.)
If it happens to be a bit of prose
– Which is rare, as any frequent reader knows –
It's more than likely rather morbid,
Or funny, or conceited and self-absorbed.
Non-phonetic rhyming (like the rhyme above) – that is,
Words that look like they might rhyme, but don't
(When spoken aloud) – is among my favourite
Techniques to use; and when I write one, I savour it.
But getting back to prose, for a moment –
Often, I'll write a wonderful piece
And, out of nowhere, there comes a sentence
That I don't like at all.
And it ruins everything! All that hard work,
But the Stars Still ShineThe pools in your eyes are leaking their salty water
And your sorrow bleeds through your hands
As they clasp your still-beating heart
Your sadness rent from you, violent,
Cathartic, and debilitating, but wonderful.
Your life may be shattered,
But the stars still shine.
You'll tear your hair out,
And panic will set in,
You might collapse,
Under the sheer weight of your anxiety.
But something drives you on.
You will mourn for kindred souls
And the flames in your eyes
May sputter and go out,
Choked by pain and grief.
But some cosmic force will push you.
You will die here,
Likely in pain,
As will we all,
Perhaps this is cruel.
But life still rages on inside you.
Your body will continue on,
Without you, in other forms
And in other things,
For billions of years.
And you will shine among the stars.
Heresy is HearsayMalevolent whispers and vile intonations
Threaten the purity of innocent minds
Conspiring words and muttered rebellions
Strike deep into hearts of the fragile kind.
Drifting into the paranoid ears
Of powerful men and vain personas
Floating on the gentle winds
Like hastily confessed sins.
For the Folly of the FallenThe sunlight rains down upon the ragged wilderness
And the shadows dance as the breeze rustles the branches
Of the hallowed, gnarled trees, their bows heavy
With age, the weathered bark stoic, and as ever
Impenetrable to the harsh forces brought to bear.
Angels' feathers drift down from the pale sky
Lost from the torrid wings of the ones who fell.
Ash floats languidly to the earth, alighting softly
Upon the roots and soil of the ancient arboretum;
The tranquility of the forest remains undisturbed.
Blood drips from innocent hands; a morbid petrichor
Wafts up from the dry earth, a sickening odour
To compliment the horrid sight. The mind recoils
From this assault on the senses; the nose scrunches,
The eyes shut tight, and the hands cover the ears.
War is a game of chess
Where the pieces bleed
And the kings never die.
The rain falls into reddened rivers
That would elsewise be clear and cold
But for the Folly of the Fallen.
The Sky Ablaze with InnocenceTributaries of blood flow down the arm
Of a dying man, pooling into his hand.
Miniscule red waterfalls flow between
His inanimate fingers; draining away
What little semblance of life remains.
So returns the hot blood of the Earth
To the crucible from which it was forged
The carrier of the animating force; life
Seeping back into the soil of its genesis.
Biological clockwork, rent from its frame
With no regard for Nature's craftsmanship,
Nor for the evolutionary legacy written
Over the eons by the blind watchmaker.
The wyrd of too many an innocent
Snapped by the whims of the rich;
Tapestries spun by chance and intent
Torn from the halls of the living
By the greed of the powerful.
Rivers of red flow though the clouds
As the Sun sets on this vicious day
The blood of the innocent spilled
Across the sky; the soil stained.
...Tension, is building between
our bones; cracking
these boundaries that bind
[lets not get lost in the moment
Our Wayward Starsguide the specimen
through the maze
and through the rain
rinsing our clothes
like they're still on fire
and somewhere, well
they probably are
and you pray
like tomorrow itself
is the fuel
that empties our dark places
like what lives there
goes away at dawn
but it doesn't
and i pray
like tonight itself
is the dark
that fuels our light
like what lives in each
feeds the ugly other
and it might
but, we're all prey
and the dream itself
is the place where
our chemical flames
hit the surface
flailing as we sink
in panicked clothes
from a distance
we must look like
lost, accepting the
drowning slow burn
of our descent
we look like what we are
I bet she smells of laurel and pineI've made a career of
standing on the back porch -
calling your name into
the wide-open ears of
You step from the house
to beckon me inside
but I swear a piece of you
is missing; escaped
into wilder arms years ago.
Asabikeshiinh (Filter)Asabikeshiinh (Filter)
I wear the dream snare like a chain.
The willow hoop filled with spider thread,
sway loose as the aves feathers
and the spun yarn traps the fallen.
I tread subconsciousness
like salmon swim
in the falls of Williamette.
And watch the net
take hold of chimera,
a phantasm of phenomena
as I greet the cousin of death
with a firm shake of the hand
and respectful grin.
But wisps of spirits tempestuous
reverberate throughout the lace,
as the new day slowly begins to take shape.
Light returns to Earth as my eyes open.
Conceptions' theories last so long
before absoluteness' presence grabs hold.
I'd rather immerse myself in abstractions.
Big BadI wanted to conquer the whole world, but
all I got was a dark room
and a fistful of dimes.
I remember being sixteen, an
American Spirit burning near my lips,
head out the passenger window
as we sped on like triumph...
You can laugh at the stars
for being so far
away, and it won't cost you
You can blow ash on the grass
and burn holes in the sole
of your shoes,
and it won't cost you
anything but time.
It was those nights
with the cigarettes
and the stars, there was
no promise in it,
no hope either. A big joke
we can all point at, we can
tilt the bottle and laugh.
The yellow half moon
half smiled with us.
The sun those nights
held its head with us.
Life without promise,
one big bad joke
and we were
the god damn punchline.
The Denial Of Truth?Why they
Don't listen to you,
Until it's too late?
Don't believe in you,
Until it's too late?
Start to listen
When it's too late?
Start to believe
When it's too late?
Couldn't listen to you,
When they should have?
Couldn't believe in you,
When they should have?
Hide YourselfDon't let the light touch
Your opened eyes
Sightless, there's never been such
Vibrant, open skies.
There's no one around.
You don't have to hide,
You won't be found.
In me you may confide.
Pull off that horrid mask
Imposed by our empty society
(It's an arduous, painful task;
Not often performed in sobriety.)
Let shine that inner fire
Of your whole being entire
Let yourself be truly known
(You might find you're not so alone.)
Break the chains of expectation,
Rise above your assigned station.
Free yourself from isolation.
Become your own creation.
Why hide yourself?
SolaceShe never slept well in the dark,
not without the children of the sun and moon
to guide her weary lids home.
Guided by the aftermath, she was always two steps behind.
What did the world look like to the girl who had been through it all?
Braved the heaviest of storms,
yet skipping over cracks in the pavement.
They said her eyes were the wisps of clouds before the storm.
To him they were reflections of pages overlooked.
She said it was like she lived the life of someone she had never met.
Laid out to dry, yesterdays news.
He knew her as the girl who was built to never collapse.
He wished he was too.
He loved her more than words could say, and yet her pain was such,
that at times, he feared she wouldn’t make it.
But on nights like these, even when it threatened to consume her,
he became convinced that somehow she would.
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