I felt the flesh of the dream craving to manage through the hardship of what was now and what was real.
I need, no, desire to be a person of persons— not one that is correct, right, composed well or lovely due to pursuit. Trees are romantic to me. When they sway I feel I understand the youthful heart, adrift in a dance with something much too large to grasp, and captivating in it’s winding down to stillness’ clarity. In motionless standing, one can see the leafy feathers that cloak, clothe, protect the tree from the bare realization that beneath the skin are but spindling spires of bones. The train I sit in splutters, shaking me side to side, and I marvel at displaced gravity and the lazy metaphors that seek companionship. This train I sit upon is a bough of a tree and everything is so profound that I wish it wouldn’t be at all.
puncture something sweet
in the mutterings of a collective sigh for the return of a regular day.
the next following the anticipated
slowly sifting in the gush of the grains of sand
immeasurable to all but felt by endings.
the grainy dregs of coffee caught cold
please nobody (including the cup)
for forgotten potential squanders man’s efficiency
craving a caffeinated desire.
bone dry disheartenment
brittles the bones of a man with far seeking eyes
stonily kept on shape shifting desire.
and so disintegrating to dust flustered by the wind
carried to nether’s unsettlement
fostered by exhilarations promise of feast.
i. (a girl to the universe)
oh wallflower hope
good to taste and easy eyed
with lips bound in repetition
and likenesses surpassing visions mend.
in bodily furloughs
these inept arms would reach to you
thumbing soundless discords of neither
here nor there
and not the melodious steam trail of sunday mornings in the kitchen
and not the nightly clatter of china.
in waxing whispers the proclamation “God” wanes
amiss in the repetition of seeming similarity.
Suddenly this defeat.
The blues gone gray
And the browns gone gray
A terrible amber.
In the cold streets
Your warm body.
In whatever room
Your warm body.
Among all the people
The people who are always
I have been easy with trees
Too familiar with mountains.
Joy has been a habit.
Alex, 9, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil Where Children Sleep is an eye-opening project by photographer James Mollison that takes a look at children from all across th…
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,
And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security.
And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises,
And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open
With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,
And you learn to build all your roads on today
Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans
And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.
After a while you learn…
That even sunshine burns if you get too much.
So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers."
Can poetry comfort the grieving?
when finally your thinking becomes sound…