Grazing Consciousness


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Each day feels like the day before death

As if dying were unusual anyways

The pesky landscapes dinged with light

How they seem to know the last worlds

 

Mimicking the last words with recognition

It’s on that day that we realize fully

The funerals of memories and attachments

It’s all been paid in full with experience

 

Each day these wonderful things

Turn to tragedies, and we hunger to

Remake ourselves into people more original

But living, like the taste of salt

 

Was ironic and filled with little moments

Of self-preservation, instinct, betrayals

Meanwhile the emotional experience

Never seemed to anticipate satiety

 

As if the heart knew past sensory addictions

Or if the soul had measures that our minds could not see

It was death, liberty and life that led us on

Keeping part of the bargain in blueness

 

And the comparison with the greenness of

All things that seemed younger than us

I can barely permit myself to yearn any longer

Like Russian music, it’s a vast unravelling.

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the heart grew cold


37

the heart grew cold

I am the punctuation of blame
I carry glorious embarrassment
Lyrics of shame
———————————
So beautiful I dance in my own darkness!
I am thus arranged
Flawed, figured, curved in cursive
———————————————-
Space of blessedness
Syntax of struggle
Heart
Absolutely
I can
Write, having been stained
——————————————–
By a shine in your answer
Pan
To tell
The tongues of tales
Of men
I am the waiting, patience, sacrifice
———————————————-
Of women, mothers, having worked
Their entire lives without
Poetic justice or reward
Maybe only
The ever-after
Of what children might become
————————————————
We all grow and find
Pity
Trembling
—————————————————-
In the flesh of regret
Gone astray would I
Mostly love to sing to you
But that day can never come
For you are gone
And I am trapped in poetry.
———————————————————–

https://soundcloud.com/intemasolutionsinc/poetry-the-heart-grew-cold

Abandonment of Sensation


64

He lost him completely, himself and desperate
He tried to find his soul in the
Thoughts of each new friend, each new lover
He tries in the union with
Each new experience, every passing year
To touch upon the essential
Act of feeling alive, that so elusive
The Spark that sometimes flees with time
The forms of pleasure no longer
Convinced his body that he was young
No longer gave his being the ultimate high
It is as though he never existed, and that
Is the irrevocable fantasy and hallucination
Of existence, he can no longer feel the passion
Of what once was, and never can be again.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/A-Rose-407797819

A Spartan Lament


What moved me, was not
That we were meant to be together
It was they way you offered
Your hand to be in my hand
Your palm against my palm
The way you insisted
My manhood might go headfirst
Inside of you without a sheath
Warm, like a bird caught in a snare
I shared myself with your sharing ways
You were grieving, using me
As a heart hoarse with hope
And I loved you, loved you deeply
What moved me, was not
That you rejected me, after all
I’m not perfect, it was the way
I kept loving you, and nobody else
Muscular in tenderness, from all
The abuse you once endured
I became a carpenter, carving a house
That I could never give to you.

Like Water Forever Restless


And still we dream, comrades
And still we let the sun
Caresses us before the night
Enters us like hushed immobile years
Oh I know the sun’s breast

I’ve felt my manhood pulse
With the yearning of mountains
Gold washed is the fountain
Where I held you, the best
Of my everything, the height

Of my wealth, in poverty
Having you, was my last resort
Of a life without a companion
And still we dream, comrades
Of better times, while the sun

Keeps heaven’s azure rays close
Brisk is the air in the white-capped
Future, in the distance
Where love and the ocean pounded
To break on my heart’s shore.

Abandoning the Sea


23

My last poem broke through
Harbors, like lost ships, journeys
Ready for the scrap yard
Junk sales, that’s where I found my love
The rusted submarines of

So much idealistic passion
Like spilled cargo, that never
Reached its final destination, listless
After years of searching the wrong
Seas, continents too prosperous

Broken contracts, memory white
With the regret and guilt of loss
The kind of romantic sailors that assure you –
The Sea can make you go crazy
Ready to rejoin the world, without skills

My last poem is ready to sell-out
And be a different kind of martyr
I try not to count the ships, as dreams
Or the people I lost along the way
But that way of life ruined all prospects

Art, were the ruthless waves
Where I sacrificed and risked everything
And lost, my last poem was an admission
Of the darling pupils of my muse
That I will never see again, least of all in verse.