Category: All

in shock, and the world watching
yellow police tape adorn
left-over bombs and explosives,
balloons, bows, and wreaths of flowers.
tale to tell and questions to ask
recreated in temporal sequence,
to hammer home to all
the space of its occurrence
as separate and separable is.
and the manner of its telling
of our spatial and moral locations,
places of the dangerous Other
and spatial imaginaries. moral spaces,
which emanate from beyond,
to the realm of unimportance
around a collective self-casting
with insidious shadows posing
libidinal images of other traces,
of moral places within the bounds,
of moral spaces in authorized places.

This perfect love begins on the ocean shore
Upon the timeless sand we walk, anxious hearts soar!
Easy are the words falling effortlessly from our lips
Under a full moon and surely bound by its grip.
Tranquil is the ocean breeze that tenders our skin
A Sweet mist fills the air as ancient emotions contend.
With enveloping music a sedulous angel composes
Now two beats in rhythm, we lay upon a bed of red roses.
Mythic etches mark new secrets in the moonlit sky,
A furtive treasure for all eternity this perfect love signifies.
Ocean waves undulate, creating motion, and so we go
Back to the village with fresh caught love, our faces aglow.
In a seaside cafe, this perfect evening is wondrously done
With noise of waves and champagne, now two the single one.

Blue as the heart that, softened, bleeds
My love is the wine, cold, I drink
And from her veins, hot, my mind concedes
To Her and Her alone, fear, my heart is linked
For in her veins, stirred, of redest red
And in her heart, shallow, of bluest blue,
There lies the death, around us, on us both
A pain our love no other chord can strike
My heart, her icon, bereft of iconicity, a ‘classicized’ dead
Heart! Blue, not crimson red, soured in dread!

No wings on my bird
To fly high and far
Waiting to hear your word
My heart yearns to spar

So where is she today?
Afraid of my grief?
Seeking another way?
Her time with me so brief?

In the shadows steps my guardian past
Faithful friend to follow me so, watchful
Each day, reminding us both that off the trusted path,
The past foments the future’s unbecoming.

We live in a world marked by moments in time,
Hopeful that the Past and Future will rhyme
With the experiences of a vacillating Present.
This is the clock, which strikes us content.

Yet, our world is a mysterious place without time.
Tomorrow’s dreams seem to fall behind
The experiences, which create our Todays,
Slipping quietly into the role of our Yesterdays.

How can we find meaning in moments that never stay?
Rolling in like ocean waves, they race toward us always.
Just like a moonbeam, ’tis impossible to catch that last wave,
Which remains forever beyond our grasp, elusive our game to play.

Subtle mystery is the sum of who and what we are, not moments
In space separable as increments of time. Yet, life foments
Mysterious experiences rolling in like cosmic rays from dimensions
That move within, through, and beyond constrained imaginations.

She flies in the wind, but has no wings
She runs down sloping hills, but has no legs
She sings in the words of many languages, but speaks none.
She cries, she weeps, she pleads, she entices,
She dares me with her memories of devonian ways.
She is my Tje, she is my future!

Sometimes my mind
wanders
and ponders
to consider who I am
and why I am here in the moments of the now,
and what turns today shall make
to bring a difference
to who I ought to be in the moments of the yet.
It is the qualifiable difference of each day,
but also, the consistency of the difference,
which contributes to the paradox of life.
And it is a paradox of life
that fills our hearts with
wonderment,
refueling us each and every moment of chance.
Our rememories steal away our thoughts
to prepare us with fresh picked promises,
assuring us tomorrow
will be worth it
all over again.

One morning upon my windowsill perched
A Golden Cockatiel who seemed to search.
Marking my morning with a yellow glow,
I think it thrills her to try to know
What kind of haven lies within this place.
Never moving, only peeking!
Gently she watches curiously my face.
Even though she flew away without seeking
Exactly what else was in this cage,
At least we shared a moment just simply to engage.

Through the screen an unfamiliar wind softly blew.
It is Sunday and the sky is blue because I am blue,
And I cannot think of any other reason for it to be so
Than that! And in my blue, that’s the way it goes.
The canal is low today, and at the bottom I see
Grey sludge that makes the afternoon air hang free.

On the porch, Mr. Egret begs me gently for a snack.
It is Sunday and I am blue, so why not make him clack?
To the beggar’s request, bird-witted, I respond!
Only to find motion in my sudden generosity to bond,
Which unexpectedly pushes me up and out. And losing my disparity,
I find a spot to ponder my blue mixed with avarian charity.

Today I worship in a most unfamiliar place of nature’s law.
Surprised to find joy in blue filled my doubt with awe.
Somehow before the day was done, afore the night did fall,
I thanked Mr. Egret for his call,
Which helped me take the blue of Sunday’s gift to me,
And cast it out upon the sea!