THE COLOR OF DREAMS

We were Sculptors when we lived
When we were alive, we Perceived
Beauty palpable as air, striving as water
Mutable were our art-forms
We loved as if there were no Tomorrow
Weighty, with visions of wisdom
In our Body, we gave ourselves to Nature
Totally, hands moving like Priests
In flesh, in bronze, in wood, in stone
Embroidering our love for the World
Again and again, as if that was all that mattered
Making music, from points of Eden
Writing pristine alphabets of significant
Hellos and goodbyes, all meeting each other
This hid our extreme fragility following
The new moon’s curves, down to her epiphanies
That all Diminish, or goes insane attempting
To reach Divinity, eyes the color of dreams.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Untitled-451862555

If Roses Could Speak

You walked blithely Where you stayed In the arms of the Rose Red Rose, White Rose, Pink rose Where you stood touching her I felt your perfectly Natural brightness of giving In the blaze of the dove With the sun-rose …

Maybe, Perhaps, O’ Alright

We will use the subtle color “maybe”
we will write magic like before “perhaps”
finally they, who said
‘We will be haunted by the greatest glory’

remembered, the fruits of their labor
under a blinding light of alphabets
the dreamers choose another reality
we will stay drilling our chorus

a neverland of birds, open palms, psalms
the clear water of fresh thoughts
that chime from the future-grafts
space-time collides with the landscape

of the heart, that spells a figurative unity
across our palette, template, painter’s reference
always a wider frame-of-reference
We will throw divine colors into the mix “maybe”

And love all those who cross our paths “perhaps”
it’s all we can do, they said
‘We will live as if, wildly haunted
By the greatest glory and miracles.

Art Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Rocamadour-Watercolor-For-sale-original-413027068

The Last Sunset

Sunset, so long I’ve waited
For your fantasy of color
That I could almost taste

The beauty between your fragile
Minutes, the aches of orange
The dusk of flashing pinks

I did not expect to ever find immersion
The kind where I could truly forget myself
But it was a necessary union with nature

Sunset, now that I’m finally in you
I look back at my self with the eyes of clouds
From pale blue warmth, sad goodbyes

I can’t stop the flood of inches of beauty
The river of time, glowing with sunsets
You bathe me in golden-yellows

This is the home-star I breathe in
As intimate, as the sound of rain

Sunset, so hold me here
I’m dying on the inside.

No Remedy for Being Human

We couldn’t contain the sunsets, or
The sunsets were lost on us
So stranded were we in our personal tragedies
We didn’t stop to let beauty matter

Grudging and thin, we wanted
Our place in the hierarchy
The artificial world we created
Inside of nature, unnaturally warped

By being a consumer, by exploiting others
We didn’t have the time, or
The sensitivity, to let the light in
The swirling colors, they

Existed outside of our ambition
Our pressure to be respect-worthy
We weren’t artists, we were just people
Trying to be normal all the while.

Under the Hands of Art

This rapture of the colors shivering
Strikes at the heart of my instinct
I secretly want to join

The future without consequence
To flood forward with the whims
Of imaginations not born yet

To strive, astonished and irreversible
Cutting all sense of abandonment
With the infantile revolt

Of seeking the last freedom
The hidden God within the eye-of-youth
Like a revolution of pure enthusiasm

I secretly want to join
The optimistic hoards of perfect melodies
A specter of notes, proverbs of lost moons

I give myself to quantum fragments
On a green canvas I plant my hunger
As an illusion, that no longer wishes to exist.

Age of Embers

I am a blonde text
A glimmer of silver strains
Of lyrics dancing for eternity
The ageless paleness
Of the strange norm of color
I am an extinct language
Of shadow and wood fire
The respite of Spring’s desire
A cruel pang of origins
I am the last embrace of hope
Unable to recreate tribe or home
I have no talent to fashion suns
In this abyss of lost aloofness
I am a blonde text
The last weary complexion
Of opaline poetics, lost art
A marine diversion of untranslateable feeling.