memories

Raindrops pass through, unnoticed even as they ripple across still waters
until the root soaks up the best intentions re edifying long codified inventions
where cells are duplicated in the thirst
and plants spring forth from their forgotten grace
when the rain fell in places where waters run scarce;
where hearts penetrated each others ether until
the quickening in them erupted; now still.

Abrasions

like sandpaper those intimations sought to rhasp and wear me thin;
though I'd never let them win.
I'll survive through stifled screams, if just to dine on bartered dreams
and throw the yolk of their choke hold asunder
and revel in the resultant thunder, that storms through planes of indiscretion
hoping every blade of grass repents; although in softly flowing patterns, there is nothing it resents.

Time may do the same of this mortal human frame.
Life as well divines its interpretive hell.
where was divinity lifted to? where was it when it fell?
What imperfect pedestal; erected by less than perfect beings could make the less than godly sing?

I seek for less and more than I am, and remain a single being; ripped and torn through time and space,
forlorn of lost love and somehow found, in places and spaces where demons freely fornicate with angels on those fertile planes of sound, yet we swim through salacious salvation all around.

Touch these thoughts

Touch what these thoughts have done to all the other thoughts, 
sense what the unseen mind elates through the flavor of these words, 
for when those intimations fall silent, 
this world pauses at the dawn... 
tempests of pain brood beneath thunderous ringing; the pallid wind howling mercilessly upon opened dreams... 
until the soul becomes convinced...
that those wretched sounds are words. SMC 2011

Sadness blows in gusts

Words pierce the soul like knives,
when lies contaminate dreams.
trickling like warm red drops into streams,
they moisten the hopes of a heart
into the putty of a clay makers art.

Sunlight becomes the antithesis of salvation,
where shade makes love to the day.
sadness blows into every crevice, with the dust from the badlands,
where romance and youth were wasted away.

Art becomes itself in the moment the artist has long passed his day.

words

Ink, somnolence, ocean, time, rhythm, rhyme...
These are some of the words that stifle my voice in trying to describe what I've yet to elate.
Only a fool dare contemplate an ocean before he drowns of its obviousness.
only a poet cold hope to unlock the mystery of death to spare his breath,
where at last gasp his pent up penchant for lyric timing breaks free from pentameters grips
and slips and fits to mar the page where bards become shards in fits of rage at the realization that even the greats left misspellings and misquotes in-situe woven deeply into their wisdom's foolishness.
Parry the phrase that labels us hacks and beat down the moment it lacks
the naysayers always say nay at what they fail to comprehend, in the humblest beginnings of the end.