Little towers, peaks undercut from the sun
Stretching higher before they’re gone
Rushing waves and sweltering winds
Brush harshly, scratching rock thin
A catalyst of working art
A conversation to start
Passing eyes linger upon its shadow
Watch it grow and grow
mark upon the setting stone
stretched before its blown
brick by brick
they rise and stick
a monument to our progressive wit
as dusk proceeds to vanish
our laughs turn to anguish.
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Maybe if the universe gave me a chance
or time did, to keep my wheel of life running
my heart would still pray, to time again
to keep the one I love, to hold my hand
by my side, till time does its duty.
I would watch, leaning on his shoulders
generations of the future, spinning galaxies
and turning time around their wrists, running
along the path, that unfolds like a carpet
opening portals to newer, stranger things.
I would curate the memories made, and recover
the ones lost, at times and tides tempestuous
make plaques and statues out of them, and
finally, a temple in which my children would come
and make themselves owners, to these memories, lost.
I would forever, keep doing this, till I’m tired
till my heart is tired, till my soul stretches out
to the golden thread of salvation, weaving
a fabric of age and the final time, shrouded
over what will be left of me, a feeble human body
till I’m contented with what I’ve become, and
slowly disappear like a mirage, fade away, for
the future child to spin my stories someday.
(from ‘MUSINGS OF A SPEARHEAD’- to be published)
You might be the future
Or you might not be
The present is keeping me from that premonition
But you feel warm to me
Like summer nights and lightning bugs
Continue reading Future Hopes
Listen to the hum.
The thought of speeding
down a side street
to beat a red light.
The wishing away.
The fear to face the truth.
The thoughts collected in
the blink of a traffic light.
Recognize your true reflections.
Continue reading Red Light Special.
There was a time when checkmate was her future.
Then, she pushed a pawn, he advanced a knight.
They meddled with the squares,
black and white before them,
compounding into a lovely shade of gray.
He predicted her moves well in advance.
He may capture her queen, but she’s a goddess still,
taking his bishop deep within her game,
moving towards the grid that’ll change her name,
that makes her cherish the place they collided,
the end they strive to attain, with her on top,
in his face, in the place, on the board,
where even if he leaves her tied up in a corner,
with no moves, insane, she won just the same.
Sometimes, when the weight
of it all enfolds you,
like an overfilled knapsack,
after an eternity,
you push it away,
your bones weary
and mind haggard.
But, you unearth strength,
like a new dawn,
Eos opening the gates
and welcoming the sun,
and there’s an instant ecstasy
a plethora of pain,
ancient galaxies can’t stand up
to the collapse of the climax
or the refrain, so you try to refrain,
but instead stagger through
until you are feeling so huge
and new, with the view
of the old you,
standing at the edge
of your own prison
viewing the skewed,
peering and wondering
how long before
you are no longer hungry,
but held even more,
with a lovely afterglow
after the low
of an aching, pummeled soul,
knowing the stellar is ready
to truly unfold.
Photo Credit: Genre Contributor, Rich
What is Poetry? – part 3
Poetry doesn’t necessarily rhyme,
it just climbs out of the mind,
out of a recess in time,
obsessed with success
and blind to the cold shoulder it usually finds.
It’s a mess, it’s sublime,
it’s a knife as a prize,
it is life in the eyes,
it is death, of a kind,
it’s leaving something behind,
it’s caressing the past
and the future that lies,
dormant though brooding
Who says poetry is dead?
I kept feeling like I wasn’t doing it right! I was walking out of this consignment shop with a gorgeous dress for 1/4 of the budget we put aside and I wasn’t excited like the women I always see on TV. I was happy. Relieved to knock it off of my checklist. Continue reading They said, “Yes to the dress.” I said, “It’s Cool.”