Month: April 2015
Resolution
Meditation
Profile
a profile of ourselves comes alive
inside the photograph painted poem
that can shift focus, pull out, draw in
to the blend of shade; the touch
of our breathing texture,
let all the sunlight in
to fractal into blur
sense’s emotion
fist an impression
on the still sequence
of life’s great escape
the story of a changing story
and all that we may lay waste and forget
is rolled over in scriptures’ corner of canvas.
The dangerous truth of ourselves is our art
The identity of presence stems deep
beneath the myth of the psyche.
The ultimate freedom,
our true birth
is the art
our vermillion
minds spill as dye
to flush veins
that won’t fossilize
themselves; in life
we must try
to unpack the self
of its own truth
Swallow the heartbeat
cloud of blue mind
you float
in the bobbing bottle
of longing being,
half submerged
in the dark water’s past, amass
in the symmetry of what you see;
the glass echo of hollow whispers
alive in the tunnel
of an imperfect moon,
the dream navel’s
revel
a calm chaos
of nakedness
dappling
in water’s silent
phosphorescence
piece back together
in the cresting mosaic
of lost reflection, the embrace
In which to hold the depth of the sky
Their plane is his to board
devil cat up and boarded a plane,
took flight in the effluvium
caught sometime in the cloud
of our bird’s eye mind
he lit a cigarette; cloud plume
spume fiddles and fills like
his brief case brim spills
loaded pills, that the skychains
don’t even want to claim again
Giants swat above the city steeps
great minds pick at the picnic of his
one for every day
in his week
sometimes, when they come
to see him, he picks them apart
like toy trains in his playground
of infinite infantile thought
kaleidoscopes
each one the same
each one the same
until they believe it
sometimes, when they come
to see him, their flailing arms silence
in their regression onto him
how many fall in the simmer
haze of refraction in reflection?
all about devil cat they lay
wandering over themselves
in the suspended heat of his despair
“It must be the effluvium
caught in the clouds” they say
but they know he is up there
and will never come down
such is the law of the gravity
they created in weighing him
moonsong
The old crust veneer of the gilding to this life
spills through the crack in time’s leaking vessel
–
Undone in the mangrove whirl of shadow imagination,
–
our lust; the last leaf, dried between the weight of words
forms the silence of the tomb, of an unopened book’s eternal verse
and climbs the mast of our blind balance of body
our star stuck resin, the amber sap of inured self
and seals inside the melt of the lunar gap
along the sky layered in lapse
—
to harness the open map of mind, the un-constellated white
satin braille of the sailing stars, against the backlight of night,
where you will find me a moonchild, on a honey scar crescent
–
gathering glowing pebbles of my first words
in the scratch and claw of my true birth
The Butterfly Psyche
Mungu Wetu
Morning broke this morning,
sleep caught like crystal dew
in the prison call of the sun
dawning far away
–
from the grey
bland aftertaste of day,
the horizon’s lifeless grain;
a mauve shawl of the dying winter
emerging in splinters, wanting to dawn
more, more than just day, today
–
Flitter falls, fell with the night,
first eyes, found first blossom trails
on silent fairy lights, carrying in the wind.
–
Feet step on delicate origami worlds
–
scattered miniatures of all we hold,
revolve in the breath they blow
into life glowing inside ourselves
within the starblood centers of the blossom
uncurled and alive from where they fell,
the mist has pressed them onto themselves
into one amassing tide of perfume
of the most delicate youth, running beneath
the powder fall of thoughts,
of possibilities,
of life
–
That morning masks and mutes,
numbs the focus of the falling life
and renders the sweet stung scent
blanched by its own discovery
–
when in the full circle of a year,
all stops, acutely aware
as if hung on a weightless impasse,
clung to a belief that will never come
and through this infinite, the miniature worlds
of the blossoms curls, grow slowly apart;
mark the splintering of their white
by creases of crimson spills of sight
and find refuge in the fight to grapple
and turn a shadowless light;
a transparent disguise
to their inseparable selves
–
one hundred and forty seven selves
fell into the blossom’s plight
in my first sight of spring
each whispering
-When we fall, we fall
each and all, to the one floor
from the same great height-
and on they fall, and on we fall
converging in woe, ingrained
in the dirt pressed from our identity;
the fossil set of our equal footprints
mar on the blossom grounds of life,
unable to live out of difference,
outside of season, too afraid of seeing
ends, when they are the beginnings
to the hemlock spin of our blossom creases,
blown into concentric spiraling designs
of the forgotten fingerprints of spring
Teacher of my poem
Dance along the delicately elongating night,
the quick whip of the wind, winds the dunes,
the sand sea-skates in whispers of the land’s
thirst, thin swifts on chalking cliffs, lift and lay
the day’s eclipse to the myth of metempsychosis
–
and how it sings in the hemlock of my minds veins
–
The fossils eyes on the black obsidian of my being
will remain in the solemn refrain of the winds way;
Unfastening the cobwebs of my broken, slaking mane
as the dunes melt into the land, that was the sea,
your musing perfume, the nakedness to swallow me
–
The dandelion’s dendrite dance of your thought
reflexive trance, is the dunes delight;
the rhythmic redress of the land
in the awaited monsoon
veils under the insatiable moon
and I,
I am words, clung to the earth
lost in the shade of my shadow
–
weightless for all I may weigh,
I sink slowly to float again
–
in the quicksand of language