Tag: poetry

Lost in utopia

The lizard has lost its manners and is pulling a grumpy scowl across its face
The blue flower strays lackadaisically in the wind
Tall towers stroke the sky

We’ve lost our minds but we haven’t yet lost the universe

A half formed thought streaks across the sky in plaid letters
What do the letters say?
We don’t know.
We’ve lost our language and misplaced all our punctuation.
We flow through abstract sequences, colors bleeding into other colors.
Inanimate objects tell us what to think
Until…

We finally hit our head
feel our own blood run down our forehead
and wake up.

Wisp dreams

their dreams were wisps of smoke
            they prayed for rain
                   through the understated mahogany of the trees

the dotted stars faded in the morning 
           but the wisp prayers still hung in the air
                   unable to be blown away  in new gusts of wind

only the softly falling drops that finally came three months later
          finally washed away the answered prayers
                   like salt being washed from a wound

the cleansing rain awoke a new dream
    this time reflected in puddles that would last until the rain stopped
          and the new dreams echoed into the sky
                  with the rays of the sun.

stillness

stillness halts and lingers
ignoring the fantasy of truth
ignoring the framework of deception
and puts me on my guard

I cancel the stillness with an obscene amount of mental motion
my stillness feels like boredom
so I break its bonds 
and think I’ve found freedom

but until stillness can be still
fleeing it only leads to an illusion of freedom
a sticky web of the subconscious
that knows what it wants but keeps forgetting 
simple steps

be still everywhere
except your breath
be still-breath-be free

Be free of ugliness 
 of never ending cyclical motion

let stillness linger
find freedom

the map

my heavy heart
is swift of foot
but somehow lies dormant

under red sands
and marbled skies
for many many sunsets

fried over 
it’s hard to recognize 
the scars
after they bake
in the sun
for years and years

one scar bleeds 
into the next
until they form
a picture 

if you examine
the picture 
at different angles
it’s both a secret symbol


and 
a 
map

a map 
back down
to where
the sources
of scars
lie buried
in the sand

shattered owl

shattered owl why do you weep so sweetly
attend to your broken feathers 
that stick out like shards
waiting to cut
the next one to come near you

let your sorrow seep out slowly
not in a gust of words without mindfulness or compassion 
or without kind attention to the strength of their candor

concatenated tears can be beautiful prisms in the moonlight
once you see the beauty in them 
use their strength to heal your mournful yowl

there is strength in tears 
but 
pain does not need to be our proverb

the latest illusion

the day dream must have misspoken 
about where to place the trapdoor moon

I followed the yellow brick road
but when I got to the end of the rainbow
I was lost in the clouds

an airplane with no landing gear
an artist with a blank canvas and no brush

someone wants me to be it
but they are afraid to tag me
I’m hiding but no one is seeking

so let the rain drop down from my third eye to my soul 
and form an absolute puddle
and in a mad stroke of evaporation
form the next illusion

The Point

Slogging across dewy fields of tall grass she faltered 
searching through mossy swamps 
she got lost in the depths
of her own thoughts

She pierced herself on her own pointed arrow 
that she spent a good amount of her life staring at and sharpening 
with her mind

And she perished this way

And the world kept turning
and the grass continued to grow high 
and confuse those who wandered through it

This angered her
how could she not be the key to the grass and the swamp and the arrow
how could she spend her life dedicated to slogging through these fields
and sharpening this arrow 
when its point only directed her own path in the end

She was not the solution, she was only her solution
and this sorrowed her

She was missing something big
she had searched for that something big
until she perished and never found it
all the while not seeing that 
all she had to do was……

look up.

The grass isn’t meant to be sorted through…its meant to grow
There is no secret in the swamp
The arrow is not the way.

You are part of the path only if you look up
and see that you are not the only one walking it

look to the stars to see this
look to link souls with other beings to learn this
until you learn this
stop sharpening your arrow
and look up.