Dreading dreams I dont doze, lie awake in my bed
Reading magazines, sudoku, anything except surrendering to that
Ever present potentiality. How have I come to fear my becoming?
And how to keep that night from looming?
My heart, in it’s cave, is terrified
20170814. A quadrille on dream, from dverse
Beside my bed
Where I lay my head
Is where I lay my words down
Though my tablet isn’t clay
These words may as well be.
This light I speak of, isn’t.
It’s more a weightlessness than photons
It can be felt in the eyes,
If they are lightly closed,
But not so much seen,
That’s just a trap of language.
This light, it is felt.
For the prompt at Imaginary Garden, and open link night at dVerse
Bits of black hide under trees
Behind boulders, buildings, caves
As the day star hunts,
And they fade and falter there
And the brightness burns them pale
For the trees are not as friendly
To the darkness as the rocks, under them
Shades grow faint and wan.
In evening time they grow long again
And begin to reach each other
Hand in hand they embrace the forest
And tell their story all night long.
And the story they tell is this:
Of how their mother caught fire
And with her burning banished father.
Father wept, out in the cold.
Distant, stern, grim
He reached toward her
Every chance he could.
He gets closest hiding behind planets.
They are too much their fathers kin
And know not how she feels about all this
Though it is her radiance that defines them
Also it divides them, weakens and chastise them.
At night they tell their stories,
And grow strong again
You remember how the heavens trembled when East met West. The abrasion of opposing ideologies, like the curving line that snakes across the yin-yang. And how our insatiable lust for perfection outshone even sense and reason. How the new always won, and became more economical then the repair. The idea that thirty thousand dollars for a new car somehow makes more sense than an eight hundred dollar repair. We do it to ourselves. with paints and dye and even surgery. Across the fine-raked pea gravel of our garden lay the last dying leaves of the art of mending. The wild thing within us caged, buried, tortured by neglect. No wonder. No wonder…
In a culture with
No room for imperfection
How is beauty known?
Water fills the ocean
Light fills the land
Culture fills my mind
As I sit in the Strand
These ideas are poured right in
Through open eyes ears and hand
And out my throat it spews in rote
It’s clear I’ve joined the band
Where everything is shiney, new
Out trash ain’t even broke
It’s just stuff that we outgrew
Even if I wanted there’s little choice to mend
The newer models out now
It’s got new features too
Never mind that old vow.
In this frantic rush to keep up
With the Joneses consumerism
How can the imperfection make
An impression on this dark prism?
There is something about being a man
That Poetry bleeds for, every month.
She ripped out that new-planted seed.
And his nameless anguish landed there
And put on that coat.
He laid blame
At her feet. Her feet, where the
Flesh, from contact with earth.
Feels so different than everything else.
Save her soul.
20170805. With real toads. 55 words.