trapped, no way through,
the lines behind
got longer and longer.
bridge swayed –
life jammed in major pickles.
stagnant
through the years
in all the complacencies
finally broke free.
rebuilt
in the feel
of the terra nova
laid down by the poets,
and philosophers
in the settings of the sun.
that aura,
like energized pathways
to all the fingers
of new roadways
leading to all the great seas
for all the great sails
when the lines
peak on a new horizon.
the troubled one –
the one that nearly died inside
was brought back to life
in the resurrection of the soul.
it is here
she grabbed him by the hand –
the lovely erato
and took him to a place on high,
and new he had suffered deeply,
to explore the various aspects
in recovery and individuality of all that is eager
to get away from past routines.
later that afternoon,
they went for a walk,
and sat under a large willow
where there was a mattress
made out of interwoven vines.
and knew that if it lasted further,
he’d slip back into darkness.
peaceful as it was,
she handed him
the muse cyrstal of love.
she leaned over,
whispered in his ear,
and then was on her way.
he took the crystal
and started to examine it.
on the back side,
the words all of the suddenly appeared,
kinda like the magic 8 ball –
but fashioned as an
ultimate charm creator.
it was like a flushing and fusion mobilizer
for any soul twice bitten
that needed constant mystical intervention
as the words in their mesmerizing read:
ALL ENERGY CREATIVE COMPANION –
MUSE BRINGS THE LOVE –
ALSO HER LOVE TOO.
whatever he did,
those cyrstals kept working,
and when he wrote,
the sweetness flowed out.
later on, he threw out his tragic mask forever
when he met the love
of his life at a poetry reading.
while bullets whistle in battle…
big sam worked at the factory
under government contract
packing bullets for shipment;
heard that a graduate from high school,
took a bullet that paralyzed him
in a friendly fire shoot-out.
big sam took 3 days off from work.
DEFECTIVE HELICOPTER IN FLAMES
reads the headline.
it sits in front of J.T.
in the early morning,
with a cup of coffee nearby,
only to spot an acquaintance that died,
and put his head on his arm at the table.
he had seen the description of the malfunctioning part.
After all, he worked in quality control.
it’s tough times,
even in fictional times,
but i lay my wreath upon this
to rest in a somber moment,
where my eyes
close slowly in the wake of this emotive.
little witty-
downright down to earth.
meditating prowress
and tells it like it is-
zen of intuition
bears fruits of thought.
much discipline-
skilled guru
mentoring in astute methods.
only the eager
can be taught such vividry.
rub this!!
a little mystic-
damn vital and powerful,
it can turn an insight
into something magical
and special
before your very own eyes.
common sense
can be a guardian angel
if you have it.
when i was younger,
i rode behind another
on a motorcycle,
he took me for a ride
that turned my stomach
into all kinds of knots.
i didn’t expect that,
and have never done it again.
throughout life
that is the way it has been for me.
i didn’t know how to protract
on how things would turn out.
maybe it was meant to be
to take this longer route
in the tug of war
to fully come to terms
that something was missing.
sometimes one needs guidance,
and i wasn’t truly getting it
in the triangle of life.
at times is was like the bermuda –
the soul completely gone.
eventually, i returned to books,
philosophers and the poets.
a good number of them,
neitzsche, rand, bukowski, neruda,
whitman, poe, dante and auden.
it helps with the best
of modernization in all the blogs
with links like chains
propelling all of us together
in the diversities
of the word and images.
but here i am.
when there were clouds,
and it was raining,
it was cleaning out the toxins
for better days.
that happens in real life too.
but the sunshine
makes it worth it in its slow curl.
keep it up sunshine you’ll wrap me up yet.
overlooked –
not thought of.
it happens
when one is timid.
it’s a life thing!
either it’s figured out quickly,
or a series of missteps
come into play.
it gets hard.
there is little wind
in the soul
when the eye of the wind
isn’t a true one.
but here,
i have found a line
for hoisting the sails.
the winds come
in different angles.
sometimes the journey
isn’t what you seek.
it is what you find
that defines the journey.
aptitude of felicity
runs through the lighthouse
with pierced light
of celestial circumstances
to places on high.
a stately existance
ringing in a body
of resonance.
catch a name,
dance into the twilight,
it’s more than holding another’s hand.
it is hard to write
when one is content!!
no sense of urgency,
when love can be written
at any given moment.
somebody is writing about it.
i’ve fallen into the trap
of the hot steamy plot –
it’s like laying here forever,
though, it’s just a dream.
that’s the beauty –
i don’t have to try
and catch the moonlight.
it would have been nice
to light a couple of candles
that were perfectly placed on the dinner table,
or to look in the mirror
the morning after
and reflected, it was nice
that she cared after all.
it is hard to write
when one is content!!
why do poet’s
feel that they have to spill
their souls all the time?
can’t they leave something unturned?
look at it like this:
poet’s are not chosen –
poetry choses them.
it may sound cliche,
but they start to see and feel things –
it has to get out.
it can’t be bottled up forever.
if it was to be like that,
we’d put a little fancy design
on the bottle and call it:
POETRY IN A BOTTLE
that philosphy –
is of little proof
in artistic curiosity.
it’s not serious – really.
dig deeper –
protract a little,
there is no time –
a cynic is needed.
don’t fret for the poet –
exploitation is everything.
don’t wallow in books for very long,
for they’ve turned out a fake or two.
hunger, passion and interpretation
are all dangerous spawners
in regards to the written word.
sympathy and bad company
enounter each for good reason.
disappointments always follow the lucky ones!!