This is the poetry

This is the poetry of all my years
with the rhythm that drops like water molecules
and the tongue of holy fires
that shoots with the breath that never-stops

This is the poetry designed for rants
that elegantly convey the big-mouth chanting
of an oppression and growth
of a thousand preaching words of subjectivity

This is the poetry of freedom
it gets enchained in singularities
and skips over synchronicity for thrills
of divine flavors past Shakespeare

This is the poetry that dares to search
for new manners of the riddle of words
into the silence of the great canvas
of art always becoming more personal

This is the poetry of body shaking pride
the quick and childishly glib facade
of the imagination stretched as far as a new nation
that connects all philosophers and poets in time

chanting a single written phrase
This is the poetry from the universe of life
the experience that no sociology can comprehend
the dreaded degree of loving necessity

when I talk to myself in poetry I talk
through all the wild poetry of your eyes.

Poetry Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/The-zoo-397858926

This Soil Spilt Through My Hands

we’ve ignored each other for a long time
been cruel to each other for profit’s gains
short-term, we’ve strictly ignored the environment
with nothing to usurp patriarchy

I’ll avoid the superpowers because of competition
when I was a boy I loved the world more
cared about things, believed that I would
roughtumble the divine forever

we were very close
God and I and all of nature
we’ve ignored each other for a long time
but gradually I was led to hate you

because of religion and higher powers
we were turned against each other
to make others rich, we lost blood over it
to make other rich, we ruined our planet

we spilled toxic waste to hide
our wrong-doings without long-term sight
i’ll avoid the penalties, I’ll make sure there are none
i have no conscience for descendents

but i cannot ignore you forever
i cannot live on this soil indefinately
my own pollution will cause me to die
God and I and nature, and all of you
will be find each other in other forms.

Photography Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/A-good-nights-work-398482247

Shamanism of a Stolen Metaphor

One of the limits of reality
was the ability to imagine
to enrich a year via

direct-contact with the Universe
It was the lofty perpetual secret
of being secure in nature
a difficult song to face

the pure rhetoric of
the language without words
the enrichment that came from spirituality
an empowerment of the vibration

of faith, the chi of heroic surrender
a luminous pause before action
a trumpet before morning
to share the day that can substitute

all memory with gardening hope
the ability to alter the past
and the future’s whims

Photography Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/September-morning-398490252

Evolution in the Information Age

Time became the acceleration
An algorithm of fractal patterns
Of the new physics reincarnated

The reader became the book
And the observer, became the experience
It was the global telepathy of a new Era

The tweet became another signature
Of the collective-mind in motion
The house was never quiet, but the world was One

The scholar to whom the world was true
Knew this was only a passing expression
Upon the mind of futurity impregnating herself

Time became the notes on the page
Of conscious being purging itself
Getting closer to the stars

Through broken cartwheels of choices
That would determine how many lived
And how many died, the supreme decisions

Of corporate turquoise monsters
Who would re-write the books of history
A continual conversation of the elite
With their doom-machines, supercomputers.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Bird-in-ocean-398451836

Notes on World War III

God and all angels sing the world to sleep
For the end of the world is man made
With the blue tongue of greed, control
The Moon burns in the mind of history

Where war and politics are the domain of the corrupt
Staring, at midnight, into the Angel of Death
A catastrophic power play of midget nations
Yet life is itself, the fulfillment of petty desires

Money, the pillow of the head in the dark
Power, the bent over guitar of the green day
Organics thick-lipped, riot and rebel
For a new world that cannot be born

Till the old world dies of its own inflation
God and all angels sing the world to sleep
That we might die, for others to take our place.

Art Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/D-R-E-A-M-S-398472986

Salvation of Many Wings

I am content when wakened birds
Wake me from my dream
Before they fly, they test reality

My reality is an illusion
Remote as a vision in perpetual flux
Of misty fields, by sweet questioning

I live a half-life of indifferent blue
Upon the grey and white shores
Of what I call birth and death

The years pass, I am a biological spark
Neither the golden underground
Or the woman of my dreams can release me

I am content when wakened birds
Whisper to me that I may fly too
They wake me from my dream

With feminine whisperings of procreation
A much more friendly part of paradise
Where labor seems natural and eventful

April’s green endured desires for June
Tiptoed and spent on wings of consummation.

Photography Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Panorama-Of-Ondic-398431868

The Death of Motherhood

Life contracts and death is expected
As in a season of coming Autumn
Life blossomed and love was had
As last Spring when everything changed –

When the wind stops, when the flowers
Wave their imposing colors
So temporary, like all things
Calling for pomp, begging for luxury

All to be included in the clouds
Nevertheless, life’s abundance trumps
Life expands and beginnings are necessary
As in a season, to break all seasons

The future was an ideal of beautiful proportions
Where everyone goes in their native direction.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/44-398449586