Lyricism Wrought from pain

And in this time, of my material poverty
I’ve come to realize an important thing
That I have no riches but my spirit
No prosperity like the kingdom of my own thoughts

The love of the universe
Trapped inside of me, so innately
Yes these must be wealth enough for me
Not friends, women, comforts, luxuries

Can compare to the range of joy
That sets its bounds of beauty upon me
In the cosmos of my heart’s secret place
I also like most all that comes

And least of all, all that goes
For change is oft too unpredictable
To draw the sunsets from my mind
Or write a golden lines that stands

As the best, of my unoriginal mind
Life is but a thought, sailing in breath
A great league of breaths that hushes
Over everything, beauty breaks the heart

In the right way, even as we
Found more joy in sorrow than
The reverse, tonight is wonderful
Tomorrow is profound, and that my dears

Is the hidden love in creativity
That the heart knows the songs
The music it must make, not me, not I, not we.

Fugitive from Utopia

The hand beats the air
It’s a poet who floats up for a moment
she could take up residence
in a nest of stars, or gallop from light rays

With words longer than dreams of flight
Her hour is the silhouette of infinity
With visions that last a lifetime
Wild in her brain, needing to be written

That’s a poet, not an angel
Pale and fiery, passing by a rose
Saints wept in her handkerchief
She seeks happiness in little words

Making no promises, but rapture
And authority of visionary commentary
mystic union, she could take up residence
In the folk wedding, of spirit and mind –

The hand beats the air
She was born to be a poet you see
Dead Nefertiti’s voice flown from her mouth
which lifts you, wing-beats of days and nights

She is a fugitive from Utopia
She walks from the unforgettable sea-shores
To catch her muse, that voice
That breaks between one wave and the next

Sifting through the costume of silence
Behind the veils of time
For the pause of moments
And the whisper of the monologues of the earth.

She is blurred with loquacious tongue
Of the eulogies of countless white-haired men
Ancients that spoke with the tenderness
Of a handful of birds who visit the bird-bath of song.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/El-colibri-406816561

Lost worlds of writers & being

Our words are lost worlds
where we may never come again!
a thousand fragments for

each person, thoughts that pass
everything will pass, said the Seer
the boats inscribe our circles

the fish lead us to our new world
the day there’s not a single gull
the world will sink, in change

hang on, words will leave you
memory’s roots will drift
across an inkless body, your hands

which once yearned for flutes in frost
for flowers on branches of other worlds
will find being and form in

the imagination that comes from
another kind of life, musical torture
for language, that is never fully at home

to express spirit, to re-live all that has
been lived, and which can never fully
come again, alone in the sun

we are all unique, you write:
i am the self like all other selves
that draws beauty in the night.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Ocean-50422805

Thought

“There is no frigate like a book
to take us lands away” – Emily Dickinson
——————————————————-

There is no reverie like a book
No dream like a religion
To take us lands away
Prancing into the make-believe

There is no reverie like a world
Shared by only a few
That oppresses many, by select
Random and most inopportune

There is no right or wrong in inequality
Nature bears not a human soul
No good or evil in hierarchy
Only rules to play a meaningless game

There is no reverie but society
Social norms of the zeightgeist if you please
No dream like politics
To let a few outrank us by decree

Civilization is a long oppression
There is no falsehood like history
Art whose use is only temporary
Thus all of man is mostly make-believe

Though they pretend to be most important
How frugal is the chariot of the human soul
That takes so little from open life to barren life
Where does it go? What does she learn?

There is no reverie like an evolution
That cannot be seen, cannot be touched
No dream like a God
Who never shows a power, or a face.

Photo Courtesy: http://browse.deviantart.com/art/Badass-London-Sundown-382329516