Unplugged

Machinations embody the presence of the modern air—

Yet, take away impulse

And they all just fill space with their cold grey stares

Between blood and flesh exists a soul

One to which only one can truly control

And despite the distractions that comprise the voids

It breathes, it feels, it lives

Although forgotten,

Amongst this flood of technological divide

Constructing patterns that adhere to path

Cannot find deliverance through wires alone

One must bite beneath the waves of efficiency

Unplug to find the gifts granted

When mankind first began

Sometimes one must return to nature in order to build upon what is already there…

Written and shared for tonights Poetics which I'm hosting over at D'Verse.  Were unplugging for the weekend, come join us with your poetry…promise we won't byte... 

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.  

Retracing The Steps Once Taken

Lengthening the horizon, debris commences astronomically, like painted dodecahedrons magnetically induced through immediate moments of hypocritical delusions otherwise mentioned as lingering afterthoughts.

Solidification of the earth and sky, blending blue skies with the blackening flirtation smitten by the acupuncture points of the densest night. Pilfering septets from kings uncrowned. Dangling hippodromes, stretching as far as the dilated pupils can comprehend, vigilantly cling to the forgotten expressions, otherwise known as the finalization of the askance void.

Drinking from the enigmatic cup of lavender while paying closest attention to all the future steins congregating upon the smallest ledge of real estate; these soldiers are filled with the most brilliant confidence, the most exploratory brilliance of purpose even as their insides vibrantly coagulate their plasmatic contents—coloring the panorama with a unique combination of artistic flamboyancy.  Here revolve the vivid portraitures—reds, as they ascend most pleasantly from having merged and swirled so decadently with the deepest triangulations of what would otherwise be predestined to be known as plagiaristic murals of obsidian sunsets and decentralized feelings of overture; spinning, and spinning, the sensation of tingling numbness enters as would any self-respecting party crasher, even after being labeled as the man who self-loathing was first named after. Enter the roll call, the soft and ever-echoic resemblance of slow-motion verbal typography—the lasting impression, a salted wound hidden conveniently by the cloaked marauders first hailing from the frozen lands most north of where the contemporary maps fail to define. Had there ever before been a more contrived notion of perfect balance, then that pristine moment, the one located immediately before the compounding principles of exhaustion sound their toll unto the hallowed morn, light would know nothing of where the scars first appeared.  The days of the calendar streamline across the foreheads of the silent.  All thoughts careen.  All dreams and fluctuations multiply.  Every hereafter is after here, an alienated mutation, one where the tongue is far too ashamed to attempt any retracing of root causes, any semblance of recounting what perhaps transpired while the present shell we call our physical limitation lay dusted over by that most subliminal of curtain calls, is internally known only as an altered fragmentation of a fragment still-birthed once before.  We then conjugate our assumptions; each non-verbally aware of the others desires for gelid anonymity, all the while remaining reverently comatose, both in spirit and of stature. But still, we smile, for we continued to breath rhythmically.  Ignorant of the finite details and the navigational circumference connecting the exterior and interior, deeply from within a euphoric treasure trove of experience coddles us through devotional retrospection, fore the tender flesh is unable to object at the present podium when not prepared.  Therefore, only one true conclusion can be claimed:  Calamity, too, was once a blessed child, born as the sons and daughters both, of some other landscape upon some variant precipice of strophe.   

Over at D'Verse, Karin Gustafson(aka Manic Daily), is hosting this week's Poetics.  She opened up the floor for delving into the many meanings once can take into account when working with the word Trip.  I, of course, went with a more abstract prose style here, which is only one of the many, many avenues one could have taken.  Be sure to stop by the pub and see just how many different directions the poets of D'Verse venture down.

Minister Of Self-Defense

A Minister of Self-Defense

Cruel purveyor of corrupted souls, Why is downfall so lurid?

Interpreting Brahman through such vicious prose—these are the decrepit plans of an oft frayed rage.  Depiction blurs.

THE HOURGLASS IS BROKEN. THE SENTRY’S BEEN SHOT!

A dance such as the insidious corralling of unwilling minions from the comforting confines of distends—subhuman refugees and salesmen, each the politician, taking care of tears denied.

FRACTURED SPLINTER. GLASS—A SHATTERED PANE!

Unfortunate fates seeping wayward, an origin, sleepwalking past the gates of guardians, withering from their endless dreams—unfulfilled—clenching, to a lifetime of faded frames.

THE MENTOR’S LEFT FOREVER. ALONE, TIDES EBB FAR!

Clustered beyond forgiveness, into a tightly knit yet poorly ventilated space of claim. Our imprisonment is based on passion; our companions addle words dimly etched to crypt.

BOOKS ARE MISPLACED. VINEGAR’S ONLY CHILD!

Macabre spirits spy shanties not meant for mortal eyes—

Words lose translation, as beats grow too frequent to count—

Despair is but a punctuation of the marks hate’s strewn about

FEAR HONORS NOTHING. CANDLES FORKED, WAX BENT!

If not for our own mirrors, the ones we peer into to understand, we would go unnoticed, blending in, to this, a sarcophagus otherwise revered of as the Promised Land.

A CRINGE BLEEDS MONTHLY. A VOW—an ONLY FRIEND!

Knifepoint. Finely tuned, hilt to blade. Ribbed to gleam. Jagged, sleek. Reflecting upon each tomorrow never seen.  The eyes of dawn approach while frozen knuckles creak.

OPPOSITION. INCHING TOWARD this Underbelly’s Seam…

A Minister of Self-Offense, on the defensive once again…

Well, wasn't sure I'd find the time to write a normal length piece, but this one sort of came to me, so here it is.  And I can think of no better place in the world in which to share it with, then with my friends over at D'Verse for their outstanding Open Link Night.  Stop on by and get full on some amazing poetry.