Shoulder Of The Road

I’m at the shoulder of the road,

Meters past the vibratory bumps,

Inching towards,

Where the wheels and lamps align,

Sidled up, parallel as can be,

Beside the painted lines,

Under the lamps that hang,

And here,

Where gravel and grass unite

I watch the flash of life speed by

The eyes focus as long as they may,

Until either the darkness overtakes the

Landscape, or another pirates my line of sight

Dialectical Improprieties (The Razing Of The Kaleidoscope)

Bludgeoning the pursuit

Parabola in disrepute

Lies, shills, burning through

Core amendments digress

Upon a lot of all things hirsute

Every day problems magnify with poverty

Every illness is a damning edict, a death

Sentence, when you cannot medicate, a

Torment to live in such an infernal state

Aspect telemetry

A vision of Gethsemane

Hypnogogic resumes

Bio-energetic mediums

Served cold by flustering hypocrisies

Wretched septet

Barbarian bee

Caustic diadem

Procurer of persistently consistent migraine economies

Tamping down what could have been

In some other facet, convoluted by and then stirred to ease digestive properties…. wistful preoccupations or

Another enduring scapular placed upon

The neck bone of an otherwise removed staple of productivity

Robe—unworthy

For these genes—

False representative to the sea—

Waving to the minions below,

Bellowing inconsiderately

At his entourage, who cast

The vain impression, that

They are far above the

Polities of repressiveness

Forced frenetic scapegoat cur

Born of a plebe with better bite than bark

Star-Howl-Moon-Hollow

Kindred kiss,

Like kissing yourself, but better, much, much better

Kismet is stolen

Fate is betrothed to the enemy of wherewithal

And the bushes are on fire,

The damn bushes are on fire…again…what the…

Coalesce in my arms

Heal as my aura rebuilds you as you were,

Perfect, in ever sense

And if you choose to live—indeed it’s life you’ll have—

Free of debt, there’ll be no chains, no entitlements, no

Rigors latched to blame, no dirty shackles constraining flow,

Nothing, nothing like that at all…just free, forever free, to go as far or near, as high or low, whenever, wherever—even if those places don’t include me

And if you choose to die—I will grieve so much; the tears will smother the ceilings with their ebbs and tides…

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.  

Imagination In A Time Of Denial

I’m not sure what I was thinking, as if what’s been static for thirty-eight years would change in the blink of an eye. No, thinking like that is what people keep to themselves, yet, I continuously slip open the side of the drapes, crinkle over the edge of the blinds, and peek, out into the world beyond these walls, where, lo and behold, the same image that’s been etched into these eyes for my entire life, was still as it had always been.

Then I closed my eyes, pondering deep within.  Here, I traveled to some other realm, a place where nothing seemed or felt the same.  The beauty was outrageous, the air so pure and fresh.  My eyes were then reawakened by the unfamiliar smile spawned upon my face.

Quickly I went to the window, pushed the drapes slightly to the side, crinkled over the edge of blind and peered outside.  It was here, at this time, that I realized, for the first time in my life, everything, everything I’d ever known, had changed, and the pinch felt as real as it ever had.

Inkwell Runneth Dry

A tornado haunts the wind stream

With a riveting polarity the torso is severed at the point of exemption.  In the midst of violent acrimony, the jagged lens of an anguished shadow reveres the shuttering flow of arithmetical limbs unadorned.  Upon a barren sunset, the tragic reminder of totalities betrayed, emanate, yet never emancipate, those demons harnessed to the tautest of sinew.

Razor blades showcasing their discontent to those of disconnected premises— preambles used to offer a free vial of gaslight to any outsider delicate enough to witness the upheaval anon and still remain focused as strongly as they are at the present moment. Oh, the afterbite!!!

Lifeblood changes when immersed in bubbling rivers of grief.

                 

             Diagnostic postscripts remain unresolved.  This dilemma is for no reason other than a sudden, yet momentary lack of ink.  Consignation must unfortunately be delayed until the morning after the morrow.  Such contrivances and misgivings occur whence the inkwell runs dry.