White Darkness

Thunderbolts and black seas, waves crashing against aged sand turned to rock.
A winter sky blanketed with stars, against a backdrop of spilled ink;
Summer’s darkest hours no match for the stubborn December dusk.

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Hands

The rain is all but drizzling through me

in the same way your thoughts course

from your lips to my palms

 

 

Soaked in Sorrow

Moments encroach upon us in which the peace slips away. Just as swiftly as the quiet engulfed the senses – like a rush of fresh, crisp air – it escapes our consciousness, leaving behind the stale shadows that follow us around so adamantly.

These bouts of lament are not welcome, yet are ever so comfortable to sit with – like a loyal old friend. As if this is the state in which we were born; aching to the core, soaked in sorrow, drifting in and out of contentment like a dream we are unsure we have woken from.

Moments pass, and we are again consumed by a sense of serenity as the calm returns and the sorrow sleeps for a spell. We can only hope the darkness will keep away for just one moment more than it chose to stay. Standing still, we watch as the moments swirl around us, the coming and going of shadows and peace – passing before our sleepy eyes.

Snowflakes

My intentions
land softly upon
the top of your head –
like freshly fallen
snow, on a dark
December night.

They are for you.
Reach out your
palm and
catch them
before they melt away

like snowflakes,
each with a
unique identity
melting on the tip
of your nose.

Can you hear what
the cold air is saying?
Whispers, sharing
secrets carried down
from clouds we cannot
see.

Listen.

Spoken Melody

I want to take your words
and spin them into
something sublime.
A kind of art that is
so breathtaking
the tourists who walk by
will have to look away.
Music more transcendent
than your favorite song
or mine.
Your words.
They sit on the edge
of my memory,
always so close to falling
away
from me.
If I don’t make them
into something I can hold,
I fear there will never
again be art or music
worth experiencing.
Oh –
those words of yours.
Even the words that don’t
belong to you
the words of others
whom you admire or despise,
coming from your mouth
they’re all exquisite to me.
To my ears as they fall
from your lips
to my eyes as your teeth
and tongue work together,
making everything else I
have ever thought beautiful
completely insignificant
in comparison.

Do Not

You do not create art
for others.
You do not not create art
because others do not reciprocate your feelings about your art.

My art is mine to hold.
The world is welcome to participate at any time,
to hold it as their own.

I do not love
for others.
I do not not love
because others do not reciprocate my feelings about my love.

You love because it holds you.
I am not welcome to love at any time,
I do love, even when you do not.

Pieces

We create our worlds using tools acquired from past and recurring experiences. If only we could clearly deconstruct them – lay out our actions, behaviors and beliefs as tangible objects on the floor – examine for flaws, cracks, wear and tear so that we might attempt to repair the damage. Which is a distraction from reality – the damage having already made a home for itself. The desire is not to fix the moments that lay in our wake but rather prevent new ones from formulating from the same faculties that have alluded us. It’s less about change, more about uncovering the mystery; what keeps us at arm’s length from full awareness, hazy and all too trusting of what is?