on the edge of tomorrow
my breath burst into silvery stars &
swelled
to touch the moon’s reflection
in a single tear
that sprang from wonder.
in this muted affection
you can still perceive
a slight trace of home,
calling endlessly.
Potential
Going Home
fading bruises shape butterflies
that flutter from my lungs
to mingle with honeyed visions
& the pale air
I am whole now
in a broken kind of way –
& after all
the bonds will hold.
Slim
on a larger scale,
does the weight of
words left unsaid
increase?
perhaps
we should pound them
and weigh intention,
not letters.
Phantom Nights
hold your breath ~
let phantoms fly from your disgusted soul
to tear jagged-stemmed blossoms
from ever-b(e)aring flesh.
hold your breath ~
and rage along the edge of sanity
’till nights dips into morning
and sandpaper screams subside
on tattered tongue.
then
breathe the sunrise.
Dewdrops
misty mo(u)rning shivers
in the crystal clear cold
& dives, frog-legged,
into the still green-stemmed ocean.
it is a marvel to see
strain strip
down to nothing but
a dewdrop necklace, suddenly smiling ~
and deep within the heart
the golden dragon
stirs.
Perhaps
in vivid daydreams
mountains move
ostentatiously.
_______________________________________
5-3-5 syllabic Kelly Lune (the American Haiku)
Anthology
I could be
a moment, tipping
over the edge of space
to fall
and never fall
again.
I could be
a letter, lost;
curving,
curling black on fading white
where words are left
unspoken.
i could be
a trace, sighing
on the shores of nowhere, turning
with the tides
as faces
change.
I could be
a life, swaying
on the thin line between
high heaven & rock bottom,
placing careful steps
in worn out shoes.
I could be
this world, unscathed
and never fully grown, as ages float
among the clouds & leave
the faintest kiss
on greying hair.
I could be
whole
& scattered all the same —
but in your arms
I simply
am.
Perspective
in the flapping lives of vulnerability
lies the secret to unwanted treasure.
forges belch mediocrity & shackled minds
hammer Gods to plated earth ~
seamlessly.
it is the twisted path of the ancient
we see crumbling at our feet;
and forth we go
to nominate oblivion
as our shepherd.
is that all there is?
____________________________________________________________
artwork: Salvador Dalí’s “Archeological Reminiscence of Millet’s Angelus”
Free(d) Spirit
upon the winds, a fatal blow
sends maybe to another place,
and stirs the beat of cold, blue hearts
to meet the serpent, face to face.
upon the winds, a battle fought
with teeth and nails for dearest life,
and purest words evolve from ash
to cloak in light this endless strife.
upon the winds, a second breath
springs from the seed of newfound pride,
that overcame this horrid beast
now fuels purpose, strength and stride.
and on this morn, a soul reborn
perceives the world in more than grey,
lets color flood the dankest dark
upon the winds, she greets the day.
Technicalities, Submerged.
sitting through this blatant lecture
of how and when and why
i doodle seahorses &
flip my mermaid’s tail – in time
to inward seaweed smiles.
at 8:34am i pray
(through glyphs and flowing ink),
that my hand will always be small enough
to fit into
reality’s gaps.
Life 2.0
manicured nails chip
scratching society’s flawless surface
& thoughts turn rObOtiC
while we frantically count ourselves
through the days (1:35:40 until dusk).
we have to squint to see the sun
among exhaust fumes and pesticides,
neatly fold dreams into filing cabinets
& spasm home to the guttural sounds of
late afternoon traffic.
isn’t it time to
inhale the mud
and breathe roses
upon stainless steel?
42.
4ever we see(k)
e(igh)ternity’s head stand
& ONE tied
to the 5-pointed star;
water
earth fire
air ether
is that really
all there is?
if 1and6 is me, i need another one of these ~
for 2getherwemake3,
but that’s a different story.
“What do you say, Valenzetti?
Are we Lost,
hitchhiking the Galaxy?”
… but the answer is always
42.
__________________________________________________________________
… a rather cryptic one for Laurie Kolp’s prompt about numbers over at dVerse.
Hope you enjoy nonetheless!
What’s your number? Come and join us at the bar!
photo credits: images3.wikia.nocookie.net
Lessons
i am the lover
we won’t part
and dawn holds our dreams
i am the faithful
never part
and dawn clings to dreams
i am the villain
so we part
and dawn shatters dreams
i am the reformed
impartial
and dawn evokes dreams
_______________________________________
5-3-5 syllabic Kelly Lunes (the American Haiku)
The Li(f)e (for JC)
the faded doormat declares ‘home’
at the foot of this haunted house
where we close our eyes, salute tradition
(and endure, only to wither)
as time grows long and parched;
where our shells dwell and hearts take flight
to the tunes of a ruinous, stagnant past
nailed to the doors; totems of yore
sealed with bloody kisses, entombed
to bury prospects forever.
here we vegetate; naked eye and callused feet
ancestor’s footsteps well-stocked with glowing embers
where the blatant chains weigh us down
we hold the torch till days turn to dust.
how shall we roam free
if trapped by shame,
if held by a name –
if our graves are dug before we live?
claim tomorrow, repel the bonds
and find your Own, far beyond the ruins.
__________________________________________________________________
… my part of I Have Longed To Fight This Li(f)e.
JC, you are right. It is definitely interesting to have a look at both pieces separately. Totally different when each stands alone. Mr. Thomas’ work can be found here. Thanks for the nudge!
I Have Longed To…Fight This Li(f)e
I have longed to move away
the faded doormat declares ‘home’
From the hissing of the spent lie
at the foot of this haunted house
And the old terrors’ continual cry
where we close our eyes, salute tradition
Growing more terrible as the day
(and endure, only to wither)
Goes over the hill into the deep sea;
as time grows long and parched;
I have longed to move away
where our shells dwell and hearts take flight
From the repetition of salutes,
to the tunes of a ruinous, stagnant past
For there are ghosts in the air
nailed to the doors; totems of yore
And ghostly echoes on paper,
sealed with bloody kisses, entombed
And the thunder of calls and notes.
to bury prospects forever.
I have longed to move away but am afraid;
here we vegetate; naked eye and callused feet
Some life, yet unspent, might explode
ancestor’s footsteps well-stocked with glowing embers
Out of the old lie burning on the ground,
where the blatant chains weigh us down
And, crackling into the air, leave me half-blind.
we hold the torch till days turn to dust.
Neither by night’s ancient fear,
how shall we roam free
The parting of hat from hair,
if trapped by shame,
Pursed lips at the receiver,
if held by a name –
Shall I fall to death’s feather.
if our graves are dug before we live?
By these I would not care to die,
claim tomorrow, repel the bonds
Half convention and half lie.
and find your Own, far beyond the ruins.
__________________________________________________________________
I tackled a marvellous piece written by my favorite poet… Mr. Dylan Thomas’ “I Have Longed To Move Away“. May he forgive me.
Another Wandering Soul 