THINE EYES!
October 14, 2020
Compressed black and swallowed, it lays buried inside a canvas of melted, foolish lines.
Busted color leaked into solidarity on an open pupil.
Trapped inside a fluxing current smudged with bereavement and the blissful madness in-bedded from
the gluttony of au courant moments, moments true and peeled,
moments rotted and soiled in the profoundness bathing inside the ticking unanimity of ones own mind; visible existence.
And oh the things it bares witness to;
Transportive passions spun into the playful minds of eager architects.
Mid-summer sky’s, boiling, smiling, scolding the skin.
How it exchanges the dreams planked inside the weary tear ducts of tepid cooling clouds.
And blackness, born from a speechless space, an alchemistic abyss; one third of our lives.
What paradise finds home inside these jello eyes?
For it is they that wrote this, not I.
Eyes of white,
Eyes of gold,
Courted and neatly trimmed by the thoughts of Michael Angelo.
These glinting, darting, dancing eyes,
Why they have no option but to nebulously sink, in occasion, behind the squint of suspicious lids.
Safeguarded at all times.
But while they remain veiled beneath weakened lids,
They remain open,
fixated inside the belly of a crepuscular night;
They do not sleep.
Invisible Maestro
October 8, 2020
It pecked upon the twigs sloshed inside a pond of warm blooded mud just between a briars patch.
Through the rose window and beyond the rumpled Victorian curtain, my eyes were fixed;
Upon this bird, adorned in a black feather coat and emerald eyes, was calm tranquility, as it slowly tugged, no, merely kissed the twig, in hopes of resurrecting it from the dampness of yesterday’s rain.
And nearby a tree guarded this Rusty Blackbird from rays of light and the wind, from slight of sound.
Transfixed I was in the facile movement of nature, symphonically conducted by an invisible maestro.
Finally, after minutes of bearing witness to this dance, I saw the mud birth not one, but a string of twigs bound to each other, like the pearls upon my mother’s neck.
Delighted, or seemingly so, the blackbird dragged, collected and flew away;
And as I stood, weighted in a lachrymose farewell, a preponderance of thoughts pecked at the pool of mud gathered in a frozen place inside my heart.
Only, where was my maestro and does he know my name?
So I sat and took to ink and paper my plight.
And while heavy in eyes, I wrote this, blotted in the vanity of self-pity and below the breast, where forlorn feelings often linger without a tree to shade or wind to silence;
In hopes that I too, will be like the Rusty Blackbird, drenched in pined watchfulness from a distant window, with a pile of twigs at my leisure, in perfect time, as I too, will collect and fly away, leaving it all behind.
Men of Great Stature
September 27, 2020
Where are these men of great stature?
Whose voices disrupt built tension.
Lilac Lips soft with bones of timber that bring the heart to ascension.
Oh wonderous creature, muscled flesh and breathing hair, like blowing grass set a fire by a desperate prayer.
In the day, his logic & legs planked, firm like cedar, a focused dance with one direction,
but at night, billowing from the belly of his heart,
he folds into my arms where we lay with no part, mere perfection.
Honorable, his tounge forged with the stone from the tablet of Moses.
His eyes, ignited glass.
The color: pointed asphalt with a surrounding earth filament of tungsten wire
capturing not just face, but heart and mine own desires;
My lids, they close.
I am his,
of this he knows.
Your gentle hands, the craftmanship
Carved to hold me with one tight grip.
Rib torn for me, mine ears split for thee, summoned love born in the fashion of caterpillars floating from drunkard jars, colored wings detailed in the memories of future days of ours.
Cavernous, captivating and capsizing; You- These were the words that spilt from my veins, unraveled my nerves from start, when first your flesh paid heed to my thirsting heart.
The beginning and end of me,
a happy birth, and even happier death I do foresee.
And such a handsome face, salted or water fresh,
as I lick your lips to swallow the tears built in joy or in your fears, to refresh.
And you to me? I recall you saying, I was your tonic, your jubilee.
So are you that man of stature?
Finally come home.
Asleep no more, caught inside my dream catcher?
Tis it not your decision to make?
To have the courage to stay awake.
“Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.”
To love, to kiss, please more.
The Painting and The Man
May 2, 2012
By: Magnolia
It hung there, storing up perspective through condensed and frivolous verbiage from the common and glamorous tongues of the paralyzed hearted onlookers.
Not expecting or projecting need of definement, its colors bled through kissing the light, stagnantly with purpose hoping for excited yet mindful discovery.
Until one day it found it.
Upon first meeting, two unsuspecting hazel pupils met the color of her lips mounted upon canvas in the shape of two doves whose love was permanently brushed into eternal bliss.
With unbridled glee he was reborn through the eyes of her. The unexpected discovery of him through splashed yet planned oil, bled from the canvas on to his heart.
When suddenly the rush of blood, the untimely palpitations, and the unconquerable state of euphoria foreign to his coding, left him exposed and defenseless to his virtuous self.
Whereupon self-discovery ensued, fear spawned and cowardice prevailed. And in a fashion of willing self-destruction, he pricked upon his hope.
A clouded black beheld the hazel and he leaked of saddened red in the two ridges inside his head.
In a still room this empty frame once thrived, a canvas whose strokes of unwavering pulchritude rose above the rest.
Until at last, a pupil whose courage surpassed its fear of ascension into the undefined rapture of self- discovery, finally, passed the test.
And still the red craven room still stands stained with bloodied brown, blue and green hands.
Filled with apathy and no remorse from the numbed that lacked the courage to come forth.
