I was born the day the sky fell apart;
it dropped down on us
in radiating rivulets
that very day
we were convicted to be A-OK
& sometimes I wonder
if that same sky was fated to be
the origin of indifference.
Society
Plastic Surge(ry) (Haiku)
in another life
beauty may not be skin deep —
truth barely breaks free.
(Extingui)Shed (Haiku)
all the warmth seeps out —
thunder on the horizon,
thunder in her voice.
With A Touch Of Rain
a head up in the clouds
could be painful these days;
crammed between
all those categorized, frozen smiles
I never imagined
clouds could run out of space —
but man makes it possible.
Exi(s)t
lone hours sift through
parchment hands
fragrant smile lingers
spectral lifeline stitched
to the rim
of a coffee cup.
Neverland
in those merciless hours
when truth and faith collide,
it is not the easiest task
to be Peter Pan.
Dro(o)ps
there you are, speaking
in shivers rather than words
& clouds of unfinished business
fog up the windows
as the windshield wiper erases
not solely rain.
Once Upon A Time
her life stained the wall
in guileless colors
while he
rode her to ruin
& shivers
ran down his boneless spine.
2525
filtered sunlight caresses
chalk hearts on mag(net)ic pavement
and i salute those rebel kids
for still knowing
how to play
there is a myth, clinging helplessly
to the bare branches of March
officially permitted
to drown in wifi waves –
stamped and notarized
life is in a hurry,
sporting business suits and clenched jaws
(get out of my way! no time, no TIME!!)
and i wonder
if there is a code in these fateful digits –
the true message:
2525.
Care
turn your back, playfully
and fumble
for your identity
in a lipstick-laden purse,
smiling butterflies upon
the ones who never care (to dare).
when Goldilocks hits the pavement
she will take the fall
in bright red stilettos,
fishnet stockings
and well-worn dignity.
would you dare
to care?
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?
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artwork: Salvador Dalí’s “Archeological Reminiscence of Millet’s Angelus”
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?
Blurred (Haiku)
fear-patterned fabric;
the ghost of me – portrayed in
small, roughened stitches.
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photo credits: favim.com
Ghostdancers
– Miyelo 6, Viggo Mortensen
Tokša wanweglakin kte
Tokša wanweglakin kte
Nihun k’un he heye lo
Nihun k’un he heye lo
Later I shall see my own
Later I shall see my own
Your mother said it so
Your mother said it so
(Oglala Lakota Chant)
***
heartfire roots
grow beneath a crust of modern life
and struggle
not to be forgotten
what we don’t see
isn’t there
isn’t there
i s n o t t h e r e
& we firmly grip the leash
on our minds’ journeys.
what we don’t see
isn’t there.
Isn’t there.
a blink,
is it there?
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Claudia over at dVerse invites us to write about Fata Morganas and summer heat illusions for Poetics today. Grab a pen and join us at the bar!
photo credits: Viggo Mortensen
Reli(e)gion
knees scraped & bent
i cower
before “Thee” –
coins weigh my palms
for the sake of my soul;
submission equals holiness,
the Self is devil’s tool
& belief
gets trampled underfoot.
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inspired by a piece i wrote earlier today – guess i’m not done with the subject yet.
(find it here if interested: Pay your religious fee… today!).
Another Wandering Soul 