Tuesday, May 18, 2010

The Sea is Calling the New Day!!

The morning wakes me from painful visions,
Of a time, and a way that still haunts my mind,
when my dreams relax and let the things in the corners crawl out.

He was like a spider, and still the web pulls on me every now and again.

But on my horizon is a different ship,
Zen lightness meets intricate curiosity,
and I tell the script writer to send me something epic this time

Someone who melts the sunlight in his hand and offers a diamond,
Who plays with rainbows just to see what they are made of...
Who cuts you off at the pass to share a great story and sweet wine

Someone who seizes time, by will of mind, shares the dance and dances the sea,
and swiftly sails away with me...

and laughs all the while I set myself free!!!

Monday, May 3, 2010

The Muse's Passing

The muse,
runs and stumbles,
as I overtake her,
I find that she has sunken into the ground,
death has stolen her light,
and empty fallen eye sockets
stare back.

I remember how she danced in me;
carrying my feet,
the full spirited thrusts of passionate movement,
all living within,
a fire burned.
daring the world to think that it could steal that light away...
daring everything with the vibrancy of soul shining...

and now I sigh,
and check my pocketbook,
wondering if today has been a good day.

so she lies there, a limp, dead, rag-doll,
resting on cold, dry ground.
waiting for me to exhale my passion,
into her dry-ing and broken shell
but, I have nothing.
I lack even the desire to be carried by such waves
moved to such heights,
and plunged to such deep, cold valleys.

I have been exhausted.
I have been exploited.
I have been embraced, carried so high
and dropped so swiftly
that I became that empty rag-doll-of-death-eye-sockets-staring.

tired, letting the earth carry me,
eat me, I do not care;
for the spirit has gone out of me for so long...

that the only art
that comes to me
speaks of the muse's passing.

of her absence

of the resounding emptiness left after she held residence here for so damn long.

the silence echoes off of the inside of my head,
a spider web,
that every thought presses against in the dark,
like a thread in the night on a naked leg, I cringe
remembering what this mind used to be like,
when passion was a warm cushion for each inspired thought,
that bounced around,
and leaped into flight,
soft young wings meeting the cool blue night.

now it is just broken cobwebs and silence.