Untitled Poem, No Title Till its Done

Skin plastered against tattered holes
of a torn blanket.
Rough threads of
unwoven time
scratching against frozen thighs
She sighs, glancing beyond
a shoulder tucked close to
heart
beyond the cold
frosted window she see nothing
nothing at all

Fingers caress
these holes, torn,
of this blanket, worn;
She threads time
like a shoulder tucked
close to the heart,
the start of nothing
at all

The moon collapsed over horizons split
shattered space in
illuminating mysterious truths
as time melts
answers hang above broken canopies
towering conceptions move as the rabbit
dances
feet wrapped in dew fed grass
energy from within
fleeting realities in a world
undefined

I misread your
canopies as
cantaloupes -
misconceptions,
indeed — yet, if
one believes that
one reads with intent,
then the fruit
as moon may still
have been time,
well spent
:)

fingers lay bare
ripping flesh
of a once shared cantaloupe
now seeds spread
a gelatinous mess
in only one hand
viscid vicissitudes
drip from the mouth

half untouched
slices of
memories of time
unspent
he licks
fingers…

Spit the seeds
into soil, use your
toes to plant
the stars,
this softening
touch of sound,
from mouth to
ground,
for some of these
meteors fall
their way up

touch of sound
tossed abound into
vacuums of space
softening tenors
hiding a blazed fate
seeking to knock,
knock on Nebula's gate
Our eternal seed
unlocking the graveyard of the sun
or nurseries collapsing
in on life?

We found the Gate
too late — sadly,
our fate …

#smallpoems (Expanse connections?)

Doors and corners
of time unfold to
envelop realities
as two specks
drawn together
collapse inward
driving
their energy apart
so they stay
frosted windows, dew covered
toes
carried together, forever separated
on the winds of a fallen star

The ink door, folded
in the paper corner, folded
in the word floor,
- nothing
more is more
mystery than that
- this poem’s engine
still pushes for even more

They drew
within
two meteors
escaping the well
reborn in clouds
to have passion
drive apart


The frost on the window
the dew in the grass
time marches
as space collapses
life folded
like a Liu Cixin novel
new engines
always

Long we spent
on exploration
for the remains
of the meteorite

broken upon
entry and scattered
among the ruins
of this writing

the forest hides
the trees, the dust
we may never see

still, we wander
in search of
the stories

in hysteria of historia
meteors fall up
bent realities in
might of flight
escape the well
no meteorite
no broken shell
matter finite
stories ensconced
in quarries
of vacuum
bound by nature's
response
an eternity
together
flying apart

Light bends, too,
like justice,
every color becoming
one before breaking
back apart - the heart
understands

In this color of sound
incandescent notes
vibrate on

the neck of
    nothingness

for music crawls out
from spaces between notes
harmony driven from source
collapsing on the event horizon
of their souls

The gaps and space
play music
you can only hear
when you listen

its incandescent
notes glisten
with possibilities

the poems you wrote
the stories you found
the songs you sing

emerge as one as
harmonic convergence
points on the horizon

waves lifted
through murky
haze
sounds sifted as
time shaves
notes sinking
afloat
simple misery of happiness
Metronome just gets louder
as the beat is lost
night never rising
over the horizon
sun
succumbs
lost in a second act

Steady,

goes this
metronome -
the pulsing beat
of home

we watch
the arm swing
back and forth

and back again,
and back again
back
again
back

these poems
of great
unknown

the broken glances
and incessant sounds of
Maelzel’s stolen curse
no longer provide shelter
Order lost
Selective tones seek escape
of rhythm
 and rhyme
an Object to Be Destroyed
reconfigured in time
back
and back again,

A song like this,
deconstructed,
becomes little more
than spare parts
— broken notes,
tangled keys, half
harmonies, misshapen
melodies - we gather
what’s left - we,
the mechanics
of muse --and whistle
the tune back into the wind
to let it sing again

Parts deconstructed
A whole ripped into
holes
Harmonies lost as
Memories faught
The incessant beat
Waves of time unfurling
On the superb shore of souls

Your voice floats
above mine, balanced
in the places where
we fill in these holes
with harmony -
words resonate,
shimmer, pulse on
the page -remember:
the beat’s below us,
a soft cushioned
landing of found
sound

and your whispers seap down
traveling not to ears, planted firmly
but to gentle crevices hidden against
my soul, soft edges
where truth has yet unfold
into holes of harmony
a cork of cacophony
build a solace of silence
in truth now known

Whisper me this:
within the solace
of silence sleeps
some semblance
of shared truth

As truth awakens
From a slumber
Of their souls
Whispers of stories
hang on threads.
While the yarn unwinds
two needlepoints pushed away.

Whole cloth
concoctions,
composed by
the creative
collective,
critically connected
and conceived
by community -
letters as string,
woven into words
as yarn, knitted into
fabric as stories,
whispered from mouth
to ear, from head to
heart

Breath paints windows
In a fog of reality
drafting past winds of
nothingness
in condensation
of thought
Tattered cloth brings
hope of truth
Memories worn
into tattered threads
Hide holes allowing
Cold in, soul warms
With each memory

The window paint
drips with ink,
this may well be
the way we think:
ideas smudged
on ancient glass
and broken parts,
we finger each piece
of the broken heart
by writing backwards
for others to read -
we mend the holes
with tattered belief

Carried on a whisper's breeze
the moon fleas
and dreams dim
within our emptied pen
sky once painted
pounded
by mortar and pestel of
past poetry
now
hidden
beneath
canopies
tossed in flames
unburnt
as time never touched
tattered souls

Canis Major wags
her tail, brushing aside
sky stars and scratching
her moon fleas,
the playful pup of night
calls the bluff of Ursa,
the Milky Way suddenly
a vast field of play
and possibilities

What happens when the brightest star
dims that which is within?
Knowing your beacon
opens floods
The sharp one,
a trianlge
dividing the two
into broken threes
of past memories
Even Pulpin growls
warnings of
warrior, nimrod, king
the same?

All light
deceives
the eyes

the soul
believes
the lies

stars
bend
stories
end

we take
the loose
piece and begin
again

let loose moorings
of a crescent
moon while
our heavenly wolf
howls
Through words
spilled,
we seek, yet never find,
a path of souls
Inanna, Venus, Ishtar, Aphrodite,
bits loosely joined in
stories that never begin in
poems with no end

All moorings
eventually
break free -
the wind
chews rope,
the rain
drenches hope -
whether
we hold on or
let go remains
to be seen

dragon drawn chariots
chasing
firefish in
rivers of knowledge
drawn
from endless wells
of ignorance.

sewn together,
stiched in time by an
arrow piercing the eye of wayward gods
wreathed,
twisted in folds
will the flesh of the hunt
serve the sullied
at a feast of the righteous?

Can those who hear
the Way on the river
beating upon our shore
a hundred time over
actually know it's sound?

leaping into expectation
upon thread bare
histories
his
consistencies unwound
chasing hopes eternal mysteries
unbound
racing fates
scissors
through blizzards of hope
all poetry
meant to be set free
so he sails
seas of misery

Scissors cut
poetry, poems
into pieces,
stanzas become
sails, these tales
race fate, erase
fate, sea history,
the mysteries of
these stories may yet
free hope from
its misery

words roll with waves
churning frosted thoughts
through the chop of
thoughts
atop peacful crests and
violent troughs
truth sought
stanzas swell
as wind bells
chime through a
rusted, but trusted
buoy

Some say
the crest of
the wave is
the best of
the wave but
I say it’s the lull
of the wave,
the slow-motion
slowing-down,
calming, floating
of the mind
part of the wave,
the bobbing buoy
of words at rest,
that that is the best
kind of wave
there is

#smallpoems at sea