Home » 2020 (Page 22)
Golden white light
of a new days morn
pours through glass
another day reborn
In the ashes of night
there lies but a thorn
plucked from the side
no flesh had been torn
White sheets toss n tangle
cold toes on the floor
unfathomable visions
eyes closed I see more
Her inflow of breath
his outflow explores
the depths of her hair
do please stay the course
There’s reason in knowing
what comes from the source
in the golden white light
of a new days morn.
Blades of grass
beneath my feet
rise and fall
and spring back
towards
my perception of sky,
and my eyes are blue
and my vision is clear
and I’m seeing sevens,
while my shadow flutters
and becomes the tree
which stands still as death
O Heavens! O Heavens!
your child’s due rebellion—
a gift,
now I can finally see.
It’s a warm sensation
like the Sedona sun
pours light unto my eyes,
how I’ve had everything
I have always needed
right here inside of me.
I just needed to let it out.
I’ve often wandered
through this life
marveling at
the wind blown trees
and buzzing humming bees
and usually does it seem
I’m falling aimlessly
on fantasies
but lately could it be
all this time
there was someone
day dreaming just like me?
When a short walk
feels like I road trip
you’ll know.
Let breath become the ocean
each inhalation I do see
the shores of freedom’s water
are washing over me,
and with each exhalation
the ocean starts to breathe
I open my eyes gently
to gaze upon the sea.
With all stones cast
There’s a pot still boiling
And a kettle left black
There’s a house still standing
With thinly cracked glass
There’s a kink in the line
With a reel still intact
There’s a spell in the ether
Waiting to be cast
With all stones thrown
There’s a hole full of flesh
There’s a crack in the arrow
There’s an angry protest
Each body a story, color, and time
Each arrow head sharpened, pristine, and divine
Each voice becomes voiceless, estranged, and unkind
With all stones turned
There lies not a soul
The truth is but squalor
Results are annulled
In a garden of daisies
Rest youthful and old
A graveyard of rubble
for silver and gold?
In the house I keep each wall shall be
A coloring book for poetry
Where colors burst in harmony
Where war and peace succumb to paint.
In the house I keep each window sill
Shall only bear the daylight spill
Where succulents hang with free will
Where laughter’s never faint.
In the house I keep each lock will turn
With open ended thoughts to churn
Where no one line deserves to burn
Where honesty is quaint.
But when fear knocks in the house I keep
There will be no reason for which to weep
My hands dipped well within relief
Each wall we’ll finger paint.
In the house I keep my only wish
To deserve and serve this simple dish
Where forks and knives grow strong and rich
Where no wall goes untouched.
Calm is the passing storm
from shelter’s mouth I view
Winds that whip the wrestling sea
from shelter’s mouth anew
Are waves which roar like lion’s breath
from shelter’s mouth I coo
How calm it seems the passing storm
from shelter’s mouth I view—a dinghy
in the water struggling, it’s a sailor
so uncouth—a sailor I once knew.
I fill my lungs
with the air of my ancestors
knowing my purpose
is their peace.
Words Of An Average White Male 