Poetry

Self-Proclaimed "Maxims":

Everything that exists is the substance of the never-ending dream of sleeping nothingness.

we do not disappear, we are not replaced.
we impact, and so do those that we impact
so that our impact is never lost

Hope is not empty but is the focus on the vast good possibilities over the vast bad. It does not wallow in pain, but, acknowledging it, learning from it, not desperately avoiding it, resorts not to self-pity, but lives for the good in the now and the certain good that the future will bring as well as the greater certain good that it may bring.

history's supposed lessons
are really the ever-popularizing opinions of an ever-growing majority unquestioned,
history as a static answer instead of a multitude of elapsed nows

Imaginative Poems:

Land for Sale

What if they made glass tanks in the shape of each continent and placed the tanks over each one?
And what if the tanks were tapered to the landscape and were high enough for all the water in the oceans to be held, distributed between each tank?
What if they took huge pipes to drain the ocean into these tanks so as to invert the oceans onto land so we could live in the pits where the oceans used to be?
Hopefully all the sea creatures would fit through the tubes.

cathedral of the woods

entwined with curling twigs
come creeping pipes spewing sound
from beneath a chasm's bottommost crystal
where alone sings a lost and frail maid

Comforting Words from a Tree-Dweller

you have come to the place far up
(safe from the buffalo)
nested by the feathery jades
(apart from the broken paths that trip and trick)
basked by the silver disk
(high above the mourning deer)
where you can trace the paths of fiery worlds
and be sung to sweetly upon the morn'

I am the alien creature,
queen of glass,
all my kingdom existing in bubbles within bubbles in these surrounding high trees.
Tubes of plastic and bridges of log and twine connect the glass bubbles within bubbles.
I've designed this place, a dreamer's dream,
pipes and fiddles all made from the sap and needles and leaves and sticks.
There is food from nuts and water catched in the hollows of the dead but sturdy trees
as well as in the leaves.

Sirisilla

What do I call the place I go
when time is lost and recall fails
and all around is reddish glow
and the ground is softer, plusher, lighter,

where stars shine fast even on the grass
and wooden people crouch behind boulders,
where water falls down from floating trees,
and through some drops stuck in the air,

I see underground tunnels dug by babies and peahens,
apples crawling upon the walls,
and crumpled paper growing on the ceiling of these dens?

Where is this place that it seems
I am felt strayed, and yet, at once, found?

My Friend

It's only ever night when I see him,
through the clothes in my closet.
I see that he has no eyes,
bones protrude through his grey papery skin,
and a dark liquid emits from his mouth
as he whispers truths to me that I do not want to ever face.

This Is the End

Where have the gallows been for they have returned and suddenly,
fire and storm interplay as we retreat into the forest now burning,
filth rises from the ground and engulfs my life,
gurgling replaces whimpering.

Parade of Chariots

Falling not,
but disorganized,
they took to their boots instead
and stood in line.
They marched to hell and back,
and in fury,
gained discipline,
and became the devils,
only to fall.

Dream of Beauty

I have traveled days and come only here,
to this cave filled with ice.
Yet at least it overlooks some grassy field
where some berries may grow.
But it is far
and I am weary.
So as I leave the cave
and approach a hill of snow,
I let myself sink,
and as I suffocate,
I dream of beauty.

An Imagined Little Boy Trapped in the Hardened Sediments

Extracted from the earth's depths,
only minerals in patterns.
Yet I am still witnessing the evidence of past life,
staring into the remains of their souls.

The oceans have been replaced with blood and crops have turned into rusted metal.
Doors are only locked and guns only open them.
Where cars once occupied, mice and flies create skeletons from carcasses once girls and boys.
Fewer and fewer screeches are heard through the red smog.

I fear I am the last one left,
but as the moon falls further away from orbit and the sun further dwindles out,
this thick scarlet fluid seeps through all crevices and drowns my lungs.

The signs have come and, instead of the possible retreat to Mars, we have learned to extinguish ourselves.

Hate Crime (Gay-Bashing)

Flesh was marred,
an insult to the body used to physically connect with others
in hopes of connecting with them more deeply,
to ever-approach intertwinement of their two conscious experiences
made possible through communicating messages of both primal and complex natures,
communicated in necessarily both primal and complex ways,
aiming to transcend the physical nature of all communication

Sleep Now

Sleep now, child, for day is waking
and all that was is not forsaken.
That thou hast lost in battle strong
is but a weary eye in evening song.
A morning star will rise again:

You will sleep
but soon will wake
for you some unseen form will take.

(All this, you know, is ill-lived brattle,
silent thoughts, once spoke, unravel.
Just imagine as you die
that something’s worth it,
something lasts.)

now and the end

tragedy, displeasure, distant feelings, happiness, all combined, rotating, layered, morphing, hovering;
threat, despair, meaninglessness, color, swirling, each to be heard and webbed,
or else swallowing and consumption in fear, falling, emptiness, or blindness
instead of preparedness, appreciation, rest, and depth.

to disappear, to become lost, to be nothing, to go on,
each considered in balance creates overall good for us now.

a conversation

despite a connection
where two sides saw each and proportionately doubted and believed as were not wont to,
a warm linking of the eyes,
the two part and continue in stride for the sake of sanity,
as if they did not exchange souls for a time

Let's look to the crowd and focus on the little things of life in order to blend in,
ceremonies, style, formalities, social status, appearances,
and forget our place in the universe as fragile and finite,
needing to allow ourselves to take advantage of the magnificent expanse of possibilities that exist within the limited framework of one life,
possibilities made even greater by recognizing the finitude of life.

The Lesser Tortoise

for ages long he sat
on a shifting shore

and sang to suns
of obscured curled skies.

he spoke with ancient birds
and stones and dust

from realms and spaces
barely dreamable.

he sat and was fulfilled
in knowledge and in calm

all the while
needing nothing but sustenance.

Semi-Nonsense Poems:

hey,
what's the name of that story
where the hen bakes the bread?

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