The Elusive Yak Such a wall Could be reformed. Such a wall I could wrap around my body Make it my shield Mark out my lands. Such a wall Could be duplicated; Spread up the hills. Spirals, edges, Curves to trap the warmth. I could be at the peak Of a wall such as this I could defy the ice If it weren't For the elusive Yak. Makes me go step by step And still step by step I go.
Spirit The air changes As the world breathes in to speak, This is veil shared to all Is pulled away from my shoulders. Suddenly I notice the open window And the room is an amphitheatre of cold winds. Now numberless forgotten footsteps are retraced, and we hear our neighbors sleeping in the other room. On tumbling down this steep hill It becomes all too obvious That I'm..."spirit". A thought, a noticing Definitionless. Describing everything else in this proscenium, But they never choose to fly up to where I've come. And I'm left trying to understand Why this sky never changes And why neither do I.
Zipline Searchlight beating down upon my closed eyes Whose presence disappears within the fallen broken branches. The light ages and cools without a conscious pass Where the holes have always floated in peace. The zipline runs through the leaves Its hooked objects dangle from above And beckon me higher to the trunk fallen close enough. The bristling leaves create the sky above From where others fall to mark where I sat I see all the outlines around me Answering when anyone is called.
I Can Lead as I Sleep(song) I can lead you all As I knock our rise off its feet. I can sleepwalk down the sidewalk Killing all the little creatures who wanted to dance along. Ignore the nevous people who let go of my line I tell you, its safer if you follow me I assure you I can dodge my holes. I will lead you upon the mountains As I dream that I'm a God And that you are all below me Following wherever I go Falling wherever I step. So fall asleep and be like me, Ignorance is your only bliss. 'Cause I can lead as I sleep Through all the weeping behind me.
American Bar Nobody's in the American Bar tonight And no one can make my usual White Russian. No one's here to stop the world Except for me And my oil on water on syrup in a glass. Everybody’s missing it! The Big Shot! The Golden Torch to carry us to a quicker eternity! I could carry them along with me, but they always ignore, Pretend to not comprehend. Don’t they understand? – I am the savior! I am the trip to the moon! I am the hand penetrating the water to pull you to shore! Why choose to keep on around this senseless land? Perhaps they don't want to go where I'm headed. But I have yet another soul taken, Placed in my glass jars of watery reflection. City of sampled orange beaches I've made I take another shot of its seas and compensate for its foreign taste.
The Wheel-Turners Falling beneath the feet Of that persona That I once was. Shrinking before the very entity That I sought to escape So many lifetimes ago. And how the three sprites of seasons turn the wheel that takes me to the stilled sky took me down once again. Back to where I began Sitting on the bed of the ocean Where I lost my waves to the same tempting sky which made them wish to engulf the beaches of sand. But the current from which they came Moved them along till they returned to my watery arms. Gravity, centers us back together.
Leftover That man was what the stories told of, Of bringing this world into purpose, Of putting to rest this bizarre series of events That rolled meaningless down the mountain for so long. Such was the man That delved his finger into the air around And felt a space between each wind Blowing through the tiny crevices of a sphere. Yet this was the one who came in the paper His name written on a scheduled Sunday morning Marked on a numbered box, year after year Which all the frightened people resolve To remember every time. And still everyone sits, together in the aisles, Leftover souls with a diminished idol Back in the chaos of this landslide of moments Lost all hope in the chance of significance.
Quite a talent you've got... some fantastic stuff in here! great images throughtout, I shall continue perusing!
Cordless Everyone now knows of the falling tower The squires are running hungrily through the courtyard In and out of the throne; each thinks he is king - of the city - celebrating the fall of a monumental symbol pushing the birds into the sky reshaping each castle. Forms of white dash around the protesters Trying to force the catalysts back into the town. Yet even they don't know their way through the streets as the bricks rise and fall into unfamiliar stairways and corners. The uncalled force of the king, they keep these halls the same Yet grow looser and looser as the years go by. Only the clowns sleep among the stones Unaware of the events in the world of dust. Lost in a bliss under the streetlight As the bulb is pushed higher and higher Into the future.
thank you all for your kind, thoughtful, and encouraging comments. I greatly appreciate all the feedback I get from readers.
Habit The men at the desks tear their vision from the sky For a moment To glare at the man, tapping his pencil Rhythmically upon his desk. He blushes and subsides. But his mind rushes forth again shortly: He again taps a ditty out with the one note of the eraser. The co-workers lordly remerge from their desks (taller now, it seems) Moving their grey pupils down at him, sternly He is once again SILENT. Moments pass, the grey is as still as ever... Two taps sound, louder than any before And then he notices the heavy strain of their aggravation. Stubborn tap, when will you learn to stop inhibiting progress of the real world? The pencil is reluctantly thrown into his empty coffee cup with a sigh.
Still Harmonica I have forgotten my dead wind dissolving in your crevices - The ashes of incense rest in your hollow closed windows. I pass by and glare at it, everyday Wishing I could toss them all out into the blended sea. When did they lose their divinity? They sank from the sky on the melting day; the rumbling roar of balance faded as it continued on down the tunnel. What's left now? Art? Out of reach. Still life with ruptured violin. Still life with the keys to the burnt car. Everybody yearns for a quarrel but the stillness continues to haunt them.
top quality work! you write well beyond your years, amazingly consistent... your imagery and use of metaphore I find particularly powerful... another welcome addition to the NC poets that've wound up here!
thank you very much, I'm glad you've enjoyed some of my stuff! every comment i've gotten for any post has encouraged me and helped me improve.
Mandala Planes I'd like you to believe That I think nothing more of this toilsome sand-painting Than fleeting stolen beaches. I'd love to ignore the birds who never leave from my window's view Yet never land on the windowsill - too close to the quill pen-scarecrow. Joy is the scarecrow, the column that keeps former planes on Floor 3 That playground slide running from here into the snuffed pool. I recite to myself that I know it from the first spokes of time that I'm an empty bucket lowering into a well. Soon the Great Hand will lower me closer again. My year of toils collected in sand and glue I walk into the hallway, clutching my mandala close. Looking out the temple window, I see monks gathered at the river a shadow of the Mystic Wheel - I know where it spins today. I walk over towards the stairs Eyes disappear from my face and restore in my head. Each step is a teeter-totter Between the skeletal levels of this confusing, hellish monastery. Through each x-ray vision I begin to grip the mandala Ever tighter against my chest... I won't sacrifice to your puddle today. My life may revolve around the speech of a sand-painting, this mandala But a toil as a grain of sand on a riverbed beach Will simply drive me mad today. I am not ready To break free. For the time, I will stay chained to preciousness.
The Glass Ceiling ----------Clear as day ----------Can be hard to find ----------Without passing it by ----------and getting stuck in mud. Little glass ornament forgotten December 26th The Christmas tree fell, shattered it straight through. Rolling out of the house and into the grass It fell over my eyes and made me watch from afar. By now I’ve lost all feeling in my heart for this. The small hole in the ceiling keeps emanating voices, it’s sinister. I damn all below, I damn all around! My senses focus through this charming gateway of desire To which I rush home from work everyday So that I may raise myself close again to my addiction, To my indulgence, to my fourth necessity, to my Common Western Way. I’ve become a panicking man falling backwards in the gaseous sky, the salmon backdrop that shows no pity towards its children. ----------Clear as day ----------Can be rough defined ----------When you need something to hang on to ----------But your hand can't reach through. ----------The last ceiling between me and the world ----------The glass ceiling between me and my aspiration.
