I crossed paths with a girl
And her eyes were like Asian fireflies
I’m not quite sure in the dark
How her eyes turned liquid blue
Somewhere between autumns suns
And October leaves and sapphire blue
I was baptized by her eerie youth
All to say her circus curiosity
And her eternal sunlit virginity
Felt like virtue’s half-lit curtain
Of failing signs of language, candles on the altars
Dresses that felt like novels in the light of the moon
And little hands like the wonder tools
Of unkissed cheeks on aloof balconies
Watching the world, and never experiencing
Never being baptized by summer blooms
Or feeling the night’s crime of seductions
I crossed paths with a girl
Who was young and in no hurry
Her insomniac words hung like mist
On the landscapes of the timid voices
That are like dawns and forgotten whispers
Or stray cats we liked to pet while sleep-walking
From one place to another, it’s cruel
How on the rooftops of our lives
We’re mute sometimes, we’re like butterflies
Who don’t know where the flowers are at.
Is there an expiration date
On silence, the silence that begs us to write In bloom we are silent
In dialogue with the universe
Then to remember the moment
We write about it for the
Rest of our lives, that is how
Mystic writers are born
Prophets who go by the name
“Anonymous” nice to read you
You will notice many of them
Shuffling down the centuries
II
With a surreal smile on their lips
In the arms of Spring
You will see them
Somewhere on the street
On the first murmur of the wind
Across the ember of the months
Through the river of language
Untying what you were taught
With hurried words that doesn’t
Need many breaths, they can say it all
Ageless, with buried open eyes
Unhearable, with the quality of silence
III
Beneath their stainless anthems
Nameless speeches to humanity
Is there an expiration date on silence?
I think not, only the extinction Of an audience, only the missing
Information in the cloud
In the space between planets
In the time between civilizations
That’s the eternity were beautiful words go.
Stillness
In the middle of the night
Hush like centuries
With each other
Only to know that we were not fixed
But changed, in the silence
Where nothing moves and everything
Flowers and exchanges
Reincarnates in place
It’s the quantum structure
Of how mutations occur
Like syllables on the vacation
Of the summer, that was
The rest of our lives
The hour grows and falls over us
Luminous, like the moonlit window
Clouds full of sunsets behind them
Surround us with poetic insomnia
I hear an anthem in them
That could be a teleportation of history
In the middle of the night
Where revelations occur
With each other
Tomorrow, the hours will be larger
Than ever and pregnant with something
Other that what I was today or ever was
I am here, at my beginning
Free in the will of the invisible
Where we are all algorithms.
I’ve swallowed
Glances buried deep
In the heart of soul
Between strangers
Who will never speak
Again with their eyes
My mind transfixed with sunstones
I’ve loved the nuances
Of a life that passes
Too quickly, all of the names
Are gone, all those doors
To my soul are gone
I’ve read books that
Knelt at the feet of dreams
While time folds my brain
Into a quantum piece
Of energy, what I was
Is going, ripening towards
The future that
Does not belong to me
It belongs to you
I’ve swallowed visions
Of a world not governed
By blood-thirsty schedules
Of minds not conditioned
To be slaves, to feed the profit
Of the few, and to lead dull lives
How much of the routine
Can you survive when
Your inner being is
In a quiet state of famine?
I will defy the movement of language
With syllables soft before the snow
For Autumn in the fewest chosen words
Along lines of simple alphabets
In the palm of my listening
I will observe you walk as a poem
Skips across ethereally this earth
With colors and bodies of Christmas
An instantaneous impression of beauty
I will sing a lullaby to the irreproachable sky
And kiss the poem-greeting letters
That dissolve as a soul among the trees
And the centre of music
That is a living expression of the times
Today the sun comes out in your poem
And I listen for the poem I will write in reply
I will be a hero of a recluse today, again
With an inner smile of jewel-pointed clarity
That the imagination is a universal thing
The night’s sheerness of black gardens
A voice from which religions spring
Spiritual movement completes itself
In an intuitive release of meaning
A letting go of the sadness of having come
And gone, like death, poetry takes me there
As a river of music, entering my blood
Chilling me with a serotonin symphony
The joy of being here, the glances and reflections
Of existence, mirroring poetry
Between silence and music
The snow and sun, men and women
The rain and drums stalk my fantasies.
I search without finding
I write alone
more in love with the Universe
everyday I am alive
I walk through thought
until my shadow is a darkened garden
I walk though suffering
until I bear the pain of all creatures
empathy is my last sanctuary
I feel without ending
I write alone
I am as a crystal willow
A pine tree of water
A sky of unhurried spring
Clouds reflected in the river
Imminent joy pressed me to the
Sun’s invariable wilderness
I search without finding
I write of the luxury of existence
Her bare nude body of burning and singing
the world is a transparent atom
the splendour of a bird
the brightness of a flower
I reached the end of all reflections
A domain of salt, gold, moons
And forests rain in my imagination
I search without finding
pregnant with all the beauty I have witnessed
I travel along the edges of oceans
I search for an instant alive as a bird
aware as a leaf licked by the wind
in love with the tiger color of autumn.
To write poetry is
To create philosophical memory
To adjust the commentaries
Of all souls, to just one voice
To strip the inequalities
Of existence, of their mass
To write poetry is
To erase the written
Transforming what we have read
Making alphabets contemporary
Fluid, mystical
To write poetry is not just art
It’s neurological reprogramming
A quantum gesture to
The nature of beauty
And Meaning itself
To write poetry is
To return to an absence of meaning
The meddlesome mind forgets
The natural order of nature
To reduce layers of narrative
And return to a total peace
And a grand vision of the universe
As a talking thing, exchanging energy
In a physics of existence
To write poetry is to love the unwritten
Endings that all concur
To identify with the sudden
Rupture of beginnings
From which all thought originates
To write poetry is thus
The silence in between the words
And a solace beyond thought
To free oneself form the memory
That is an impression or a scar
On the mind, blankness is an ideal state
To observe time and space without attachment
To love existence independently
Of the personal conditions of one’s life
On the letters of your poems
I observe a black walking cat
A woman that must question her heart
To find the answers, without
Speaking we are a language
All we feel and do is a kind of vocabulary.
I lift syllables to plant
They will ripen in your mind
Like wheat of the ancient fields
Where our ancestors ate language
And leisure, like we have never known
We who labour like machines
As slaves might, while our lives
Is as a poem where the trees incandescent
Must watch themselves wither
As sheets of paper gone to waste
I lift houses of sound
To your legendary fracture of silence
These vacant lots of night-time
Where a pale puddle of your
Grip upon reality suddenly blazes
With figures of your once dreams
The summer has oxidized mornings, sunsets
A weightless winter awaits, as scattered
Pages are left to turn, each one
Words in the shape of a cloud of dust
As white as snow, as lingering
As the cold, and the murmur of a million
Leaves that once were, but are now only
The idea of color, the texture of earth.
I’ve felt the sunstone on my face
from rivers of ancient poetry
tall architecture of cold stone
the calming course of time that runs
full circle, like an enchanted realm
of a single presence surging the waves
the trees how they move in the wind
and crystal fields of butterflies
fragments of mineral, oxygen, pollen, fruit
I travel the body of nature, the only
body or soul I have ever known
beneath a yellow star, haunted
by the beauty of our parallel rites
the reign of spring green that knows
no decline, the synergy of oracles
that chant in the night, or how
the hummingbird burns, for the flames
past the altar, over the dreams
where a skirt of pure water waits
on the lap of the last sunstones
diamonds, rubies, emeralds
until I travel the length of rivers
back to my home, transported
from water to water, light to light
star to star, forever healed where all
is revealed, in mountains, in forests
in the stillness of a single total being.
Time with no help from us
Has placed you exactly where
You need to be, for no two moments
Are ever alike, or have the same quality
Of yesterday or tomorrow, today is
The silence on the snow
A visitor in your mind
Of alien truths that are not so foreign
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Space is a sleeping woman
Full of luxuries and stars
Love is the wandering pollen
That is invented day after day
We are all like nomads half sleeping
That haven’t quite accepted
Their place in the design
The story that is like a shared myth
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A narrative until the world ends
But worlds are born and die every day
Invisible to our eyes, but our hearts
Are spread thin like the darkness of history
The history that is the future
And the love that is simultaneously
All our ancestors, and all our descendants.
Listen to me as I listen to the rain
Listen to me as one listens to the footsteps
Of the sun outshining other suns
Without listening or looking but being
With eyes open inward, at divinity
Where divinity is everywhere
And nature is a dynasty of divine everything
With all five senses awake and
Crown and thunder and golden bird
Magically in tune with the inner language
Of empathy and pure identification
That I am you and you are a part of me
A light footstep of syllables that never ends
One continuous language, one love transferring life
From body to body, time to time
Until air and water, words and matter
All live on like this moment of memory
With somebody remembering what was once
But a clamour of history, a spark at the edge
Of a universe, teaming with so many forms of life.
The blog is dedicated to the people which care about their goals, dreams , actions including the ones that have paused , slow down or even stopped moving forward.
Wuji Seshat 