~~FlowingOm~~

The plan
Or lack there of
Is like the forgotten
Potted plant on the step
Brown and wilting
a reminder noticed daily
put off until the next moment

Not as strong as the streaming sunlight

And spontaneity
Is often confused
With the tangential nature
Of a mind
That cannot focus
For long
On one thing

As the next shooting star
The endless loop
Of ever changing
Synaptic waterfalls

Nonetheless
Lists of plans
bloom from my fingertips
A plethora of planned buds
Winged and winded

This, this, and this
A breeze catching
Surprised awareness
So busy
forgetting
no thing is arrant

The past
Once flaming, searing,
so heavy handed
Now sanguine, fleeting,
a feathery touch
What shaped me
slips quiescently
into my depths
The space created
for now
Frees me
Seeing clearly
just how good things are
And I understand
The need
for a different muse
A changed one
The present

some written words
leave me deaf
hold me mute
so that I can inhale
worlds
through the pores
of me eyes

some written words
make the worlds
fall away
so that I may travel
beyond my own story

Life waits inside us
On the precipice of a metaphor
We are everything
We are nothing

Life dances around us
We are infinite blooms of perception
(These blooms await our trampling)
Porous and fecund
Hopelessly nearsighted
yet seeing far

Life lives in volition
our action
our stillness
our quiet
our song

blood and dreaming
orchid eyes of night
fire coral caress
burning burning bright

blood and fire
adrift upon the memory
all we will be
burning burning bright

dark shadow surrender
red tears and falling
calling what has lost us
burning burning bright

blood and spire
crumbling ghosts
misbegotten scenes
burning burning bright
amputated dreams

they never told me; that the
early morning birdsong
would leave me
falling across the skin
of the mountain; dreaming
the Sun’s first breath

I discovered early
I was allergic to clowns; as they were
larger than the TV images
of childhood;
on the back of a horse
amazing feats of freedom
salve of my childhood;
I discovered too late -
after I had traded
the race through the trees
to the serene fields
of apples and books
for the phosphorescent
rebirths in back seats
of cars; the torn dress
never quite
the woundless drumfire
of blatting winged hooves
on soil
oblique disciple of steeds
I discovered too late
I was allergic to clowns



photo credit: www.tomchambersphoto.com

isotropic nematic

echoing
from the center
liquid
crystal spheres
span distance
equilateral concentric
into space
substrata platitudes
spiraling
within nebulous matter
layers
inverse ambigrams
echoing

disconnected I flee
mundane torpedoes of sound
piercing fragility’s snake
winding itself through and through
my breath
trapped I am
this illusory throat

disconnected I am
this cacophony
of daily mechanisms
of barking dogs
screaming thoughts
at small innocents

disconnected I confess
mercurial seasons
a knot in the circadian rhythm
a small death with
disintegrating auditors
clamorously self indulgent

and this
now that the sounds have passed
means little
in the dance of wassailing silence

one last blackout for the day...


fecundity

life
composed

from dreams
unconscious

connections

woven
as they are

we see
a world
we make

life
expands

each friend
a possibility

throw dreams
into space

bring back
a new life
to love

everything
born
is planted in her