A Communion Of Souls

Staging and pealing,

Twisting and reeling,

Rolling towards the webbing

Caressing every regret with an ebb-like flow

The striation is a pattern,

A crazy design weaving forth its amber,

A designation ready to remember,

What it means to truly to have a love that can and will only continue to grow

From fore to aft, side to side

An angular procession, blending to and fro

All that is inside and all that forever shall be

Surrounding every memory you forge anew

It’s all a mystery enveloped in a personal,

Yet universally illustrated Mise en scene,

Only polarity can show the frayed and the perfected—

Forever discovering the artistry, what’s already known,

What’s yet to be seen—whether pristine or faded with flaw

The wild hair’s accosting,

Grasping the ventricles of air

The passion fills the tempest

With the most impossible of stares

It’s an airy companion,

Holding true the prophecies of the divine—

Blending history to the present, merging and melding

Yet again, into whatever, however devotion

Will choose to paint tomorrow’s lines

There’s a breeze across the valley

Engulfing the sated and the hungry—(Here’s a secret)—

The craving never stops—yet, the wisdom of the moment,

Is the enchantment that the frozen mind steals from the soul—ever a reminder, to remain open to the thoroughfares of life—whether pretty or demonic, the colorations and the prism’s of attraction, exist if one desires to search—in which, he or she will then proceed to find

The wizardry in wishing,

An automatic cauldron,

Taking chances as it’s misting overflows

Moonbeams and the dewy drops of stars

Holding tight the apprentice

With a glance espied by tenets wide and far,

A portraiture of awe, a sculpture of splendor—artwork

That only the ancient muse dares define

Couldn’t be more romantic

If her eyes ensnared my own,

Invigorating this flora with each vine that love emotes

Casting forth one vision

     Opening a common sensing,

              A sight that’s only present

In a communion of souls

                  Imagine a world where the exterior truly reflects the beauty that is ever there, always and forever near

Over at D'Verse we're discussing the majesty and mystery of all things beautiful.  I'll be hosting Poetics tonight and would love for you to enchant your night by sharing your own work of beauty and reading all the beauty shared by others.  Tonight's a night for the Beautiful, and I can't wait to find out just how the poetry will ignite us with inspiration and the Beauty that is, of course, everywhere and found within every one and every thing.  

Insight buried in a box of dust

Relinquish power,

cede control,

abolish apprehension

of everything unknown.

Tension writhes in fear

It’s leaves wither in despair

over a coming cloud, that is

told to be of foreign origin, has been

foretold to bring the swirling whirls

of disruption and the wrenching

gusts of disturbance,

that distances the warmth above

away from the barren vacancy

existing below,

it provides a commonplace, one unlike

what most had ever grown accustomed

to seeing, to breathing in, something so strange

and wonderful, you ponder it’s meaning, and

amateurishly chart its probability of having been

created from heaven or heathen

and this borderline somehow

offers a tingling sense of desire,

a curiosity, an anticipation, an uncanny

combustion of fire—waylaid in its dormancy

while all the while impatience shrugs

it’s vengeful neck, from which the body heats

to an ungodly burn—painting thoughts, color

and emotion in an increasingly frantic harness

of terrible twos at thirty-eight, transforming

the pleasure of the new, into the jaded askew—

and so the grey floods the freeway with the oil upon a seemingly gentle feathered brush.

And so charcoal dances, always is, dancing in the distance, waiting for the dry-erase wipe of pleasure.  Anticipating conditioning will coil in the way it always does, and bleak ennui shall once again fill the ever-combative attention span of the what’s next to break societal view.

and it’s in this fledgling composition, where

wisdom could grow to be unlike anything

we had ever known.  But sadly, patience and savor

is not encoded within.

But the composition accumulates its dust-filled coat,

wearing it like a badge of honor, understanding it is

but a statement of the current time, knowing, knowing

that one day, a hand shall wipe clean the dusty frame,

and there, in that moment, these eyes will truly see,

the wonder and importance of what lies beneath.

A Question of Artistry (part I)

Masked men

Plates of white

Tailor-trimmed

In skull-black

Artistry.

Columns of withered

Wearisome antiquity,

Shying away from the

Fact they are historic,

All they feel is ancient.

If restoration

Is all that can be

To save their days

To share,

To brighten their reds and greens

To offer future children

Countless days to stare

Is that enough—

For these elders to keep breathing

The Kisses

Standing on a sanded section of time
I noticed a miracle
There, in the distance,
was a swirling dance of air
Particles blustering in syncopated rhyme
Twisting, turning
and then she appeared to me
Angelic with her sand-painted skin

Stuttering inside I watched her approach
I looked to each side but I was
alone

She spoke a tongue I knew a bit
enough to converse, but still read lips
closely,

I think she knew, as the American in me
probably was screaming loud.  And I think she slowed down,
just enough, perhaps altering the normalcy of her sound

My wares were there to browse
Mainly goods for wear

and then
to the orange plaid patterned shawl
she looked at me

eyes flittered about
careful blinks between the grit in air

dangling gently from her arm
so pure, so perfect

The tag twisted in the indecisive wind

and she said, diaz besos

I thought, a barterer, haven't seen one of them in quite some time,

normally, normally I would have shook my head, nunca, nunca, perhaps I would have said

but 10 kisses from a beauty as such, was too hard to pass upon, was too much to say nunca too

And so I nodded in approval

and as she leaned in,
I closed my eyes, hands wide open
to hold her near

It was then, the 10 coins appeared.

Anyhow, long story to make a simple point.

Over at Pat's, he had a contest post, too which, in reply I made one of my usual corny jokes.  But that reply got me thinking about language, and how easily the mind can twist words that sound similar to how one wants to hear them.  In this piece, the native speaker altered her normal pronunciation, assuming the foreigner needed assistance in understanding her, but this, combined with the foreigners infatuation, misheard her all the more.  Anyhow, just thought I'd play around with this idea of miscommunication and how attitudes, emotions and/or stereotypes can alter perception.

Foreigner

The grouse flies worlds away

From where the hyacinths calmly sway

To the symphony stirred from whispered wind

A fossil I am to you

Despite the partition of age

Your so much like I was back when I was

Not a fallen angel, where poor decisions had

Slipped their cursors upon my screen,

When time was but an ever-growing play, without curtains, without actors on the stage.  Just a play

Pursuing a question I’ve yet to find

Perusing the shelves as I dig

Through countless words I cannot read

But love the way they sound when spoke

Its probably something ridiculous or damaged wisdom well rehearsed-

Yet when I hear each syllable roll from the tongue

I think of hydrangeas’, pastries and seduction

Vacuums, race along the route I take

Past the small café I’d always wanted to try

As it looks so lovely each time my feet scuttle by

Yet, I’m never thirsty then

I’ve been here a week, perhaps 10 days,

I’d lost track after the third,

As it’s hard to determine the patience of each hour,

When you’re only speaking aloud in the warmth of the shower’s flow

Nobody knows me.  Nobody cares to approach

No one seems aware even.  It’s as if they’re life is in slow motion, yet they are too busy to adjust the speed.  I’ve made a few attempts, but quickly they creak their necks, as a dog would do, when they listen, wanting to understand yet barriers born determine the breadth of this experience.  Quickly the separation occurs, with a polite nod and perhaps a smile.  I thought everyone, everywhere spoke English, I thought this little book would allow me the privilege of making that first foot forward routine, yet I guess just trying is not always enough, and it must be hard to try having a conversation with someone that’s consistently thumbing through his pages, looking for that perfect word, ignorant that some words change effect when paired with others and at what point in the phrase or sentencing you choose to place them in.  It must be frustrating; I know it is for me.

But despite the isolation one often feels, as he or she wander about, by themselves in a crowded spot, you know, it’s amazing to watch what you can see, to understand without understanding, to believe, because it’s everywhere, a living time capsule-breathing, each breath telling its own tale, history lives in every thing.

And then I turned a corner I’d yet to see

A dark alley, tumbling with trash, lined with sleeping feet, clothed in wares I’d burn.

Run I did not, I paused as long as I could stomach the stench, why?

Simple answer really.  It was the first time a semblance of home resonated. 

But upon the edge of this external corridor, I reached a place I’d often been, just never knew this possibility existed, an alleyway, invisible yet in clearest view.

This was when I first saw you.  And I knew.  Home had found me.