This is not to say that a pock-marked and crater-faced old man controls all the cheese in the sky.
Or that an overzealous cow rues the day.
Or that malign forces summoned and empowered by the tainted pallor of lunar instruments rule the demesne of the night.
No.
The night court has always belonged to the fey.
Creatures of reckless whimsy and ardent fervor, carousing blithely neath eave and bough.
The dawn will find them, mellow dancers. Draped together in causerie, enfeebled by their waning sign, weary of the jubilee.
Nostalgic invasion of personal space.
The worry of years have wrinkled wood-grain.
I will embrace entropy as time.
You with bowed head; your brow touching mine.
she had a secret
the sky was a rummage bin
all full of pies
to put their fingers in
he told his teachers
he was an epileptic
she read him all wrong
he called her dyslexic
and they drew pictograms
halfway between parades
to compliment each other
when they're not talking praise
he steals another kiss
she thinks crime pays
they favor hop scotch
when playin drinking games
she explored his space
and his conic sections
and when they got lost
in their affections
they grew a compass rose
it bloomed in all directions
then drew a map of dots
and traveled to connect them
he wrote her love letters
full of ink blots
she wore her heart all over
like a leop
at night the muted colors and fermented silence seep from orion's belt worn around my waste, all in good taste, space looming closer, not looking for some closure where endless questions aren't broken things to mend and all life's certainty depends but it doesn't matter, rather, scattered thoughts repair to me like a collection of lights in a cosmic sea, galaxy, facing skyward I turn in, deeply rooted and plant-ed, where I am gazing, lunar grazing, silver sliver fading, crescent waning. endless shrouding words confounding before I spiral back down into zen centered grounding.
Your mind's a tumultuous vortex of thoughts,
Tumble towards twilight, vernal equinox.
Northern Sweden in the winter,
The spark is growing dimmer.
But the contrast fascinates,
Even the smallest glimmer, scintillates,
and winks with a shimmer, so distinct.
Lights on the skyline always seem to blink.
Encompassing view, aesthetic senses are replete.
The horizon is clear, snow cold and timeless.
Where we sit, with nothing but forest behind us,
When mutual desire finally crystallizes.
like a flake, unique to this moment.
It's a shame, emotions weren't meant to be frozen
a second later and it's all back in motion,
awkward pause not
Behold the interstitial feeling
where my reach exceeds your grasp.
Another touch to send you reeling,
when motivation's past.
I connect the dots to form a line,
but a wall is as real as you decide.
With infinite points to span the divide,
there are infinite places your thoughts can hide.
You're present in the future-tense,
uneasy absence I can sense.
So let's go ahead and we'll pretend,
Regret's enough to make amends.
How do you heal the broken? by BenPollack, literature
Literature
How do you heal the broken?
How do you heal the broken?
With thought and gesture, intimating words unspoken.
Though you'd better hurry, as the moment is still frozen.
Whilst feeling much obliged, to this emotion you're beholden.
Take care it isn't paltry, that the price is more than token.
To consecrate this rite, their mind must be awoken.
Journeys end is a fork in the road.
And when you cant decide
Which branch to take,
Just put the fork in your mouth.
Chew thoughtfully,
Then spit the leaves out!
And reconsider mixing metaphors next time.
:P
This is not to say that a pock-marked and crater-faced old man controls all the cheese in the sky.
Or that an overzealous cow rues the day.
Or that malign forces summoned and empowered by the tainted pallor of lunar instruments rule the demesne of the night.
No.
The night court has always belonged to the fey.
Creatures of reckless whimsy and ardent fervor, carousing blithely neath eave and bough.
The dawn will find them, mellow dancers. Draped together in causerie, enfeebled by their waning sign, weary of the jubilee.
Nostalgic invasion of personal space.
The worry of years have wrinkled wood-grain.
I will embrace entropy as time.
You with bowed head; your brow touching mine.
she had a secret
the sky was a rummage bin
all full of pies
to put their fingers in
he told his teachers
he was an epileptic
she read him all wrong
he called her dyslexic
and they drew pictograms
halfway between parades
to compliment each other
when they're not talking praise
he steals another kiss
she thinks crime pays
they favor hop scotch
when playin drinking games
she explored his space
and his conic sections
and when they got lost
in their affections
they grew a compass rose
it bloomed in all directions
then drew a map of dots
and traveled to connect them
he wrote her love letters
full of ink blots
she wore her heart all over
like a leop
at night the muted colors and fermented silence seep from orion's belt worn around my waste, all in good taste, space looming closer, not looking for some closure where endless questions aren't broken things to mend and all life's certainty depends but it doesn't matter, rather, scattered thoughts repair to me like a collection of lights in a cosmic sea, galaxy, facing skyward I turn in, deeply rooted and plant-ed, where I am gazing, lunar grazing, silver sliver fading, crescent waning. endless shrouding words confounding before I spiral back down into zen centered grounding.
Your mind's a tumultuous vortex of thoughts,
Tumble towards twilight, vernal equinox.
Northern Sweden in the winter,
The spark is growing dimmer.
But the contrast fascinates,
Even the smallest glimmer, scintillates,
and winks with a shimmer, so distinct.
Lights on the skyline always seem to blink.
Encompassing view, aesthetic senses are replete.
The horizon is clear, snow cold and timeless.
Where we sit, with nothing but forest behind us,
When mutual desire finally crystallizes.
like a flake, unique to this moment.
It's a shame, emotions weren't meant to be frozen
a second later and it's all back in motion,
awkward pause not
Behold the interstitial feeling
where my reach exceeds your grasp.
Another touch to send you reeling,
when motivation's past.
I connect the dots to form a line,
but a wall is as real as you decide.
With infinite points to span the divide,
there are infinite places your thoughts can hide.
You're present in the future-tense,
uneasy absence I can sense.
So let's go ahead and we'll pretend,
Regret's enough to make amends.
How do you heal the broken? by BenPollack, literature
Literature
How do you heal the broken?
How do you heal the broken?
With thought and gesture, intimating words unspoken.
Though you'd better hurry, as the moment is still frozen.
Whilst feeling much obliged, to this emotion you're beholden.
Take care it isn't paltry, that the price is more than token.
To consecrate this rite, their mind must be awoken.
In the summer, a buzzing laughter fills the air
Echoed in dusks failing light.
As we cup fireflies in our hands, close to our chests
Little glowing secrets, waiting to be told.
When we finally set them free,
the world will know our triumph.
Exclaiming Look. That ones mine!.
____________________________________________________
In the winter, we start by pretending.
Puffing excited breaths between two fingers,
Our smoke rings never did come out right.
Tongues extended, necks craned,
Twirling for each new flake.
As they alight on our taste buds,
We'll shiver with pleasure.
The stymied writer,
is not tragically flawed.
He is merely one of a thousand clichés.
Where flocks of birds,
bridges, tunnels, and forks in the road
are all visual metaphors.
Segues from
Overcoming life's obstacles.
[What the stars tossed, salt-casual, onto the not-black of the not-night suggest could be love, but I can't read them.]
This is not a love poem,
not-love, a not-love poem.
Falling waist deep into February
stomping the signatures of lost years
in footprints on the pristine present-
this, not-night has become electric
with memories smashing through
the thin ice of teenage alchemy,
charged, with the possibility of
heartache,
frostbite,
or even
Come What May, June, July.... by RockerByBaby, literature
Literature
Come What May, June, July....
The hanging wheel of future,
spinning endless.
His hands approach the hour,
thrusts against us.
Counter-clockwise faultlessness
arrives on time,
fools all of us
into late blooming.
The face on the clock
overlooks fixed rhythm
as he writes Come what may
on random squares of calendars.