The Breath Of Dreams

 

When Autumn lingers in the heart

of leaves taken by the wind

and the cold reaches to the soul

it stirs the embers of smoldering fires,

that you thought had died so long ago

 

But spring never truly flees the mind

the spirit doesn’t forget

a scent of delicate flowers,

which once they grew inside

where a garden arose.

 

Though it died and you never imagine

another would be planted in its place

by night we still feel

the breath of dreams,

to feel that peace and beauty

only known by a touch.

 

How it gives life a magic

a pure and exquisite essence,

nothing can replace.

 

Though years may pass

between two embraces

inside there is no time,

just the revival of that incredible bliss

unlike anything else we know.

 

May the wedding day come for you

in all the blessings

this union can have

be the reality you’ve always wanted

in the harmony of two hands being one.

Eternal Stones

Heaven stands on its divine foundation

never quaking from any tremors

and though times shake the spirit

among the pillars of life

by faith’s hand we always hold

onto those eternal stones.

 

They are etched with the word of God,

which never ceases or crumbles,

even when fissures rip across

this mortal landscape

so that night seems to reign

as a dark and polluting shroud

for the one with eyes of the soul,

there is only a gaze at His face.

 

To know there are many seasons

unto every generation,

but the Lord never changes

or forgets His promises.

 

When the day boils as crisis

though evil lurks in so many ways,

rest for the fears only comes

while remembering His sovereignty.

 

It is the candle one lifts

hope to keep the heart calm

because it is the light

ever shining from His grace.

 

With it we see both the valleys and mountains

can keep walking despite the gales,

just keeping the eyes focuses

upon the sunrise of His love,

which never stops warming

even when we only are looking at the world

in an expectation of cruel harsh winters.

 

Then by the power of His Spirit

perhaps we truly understand

how storms are the moments

intended to prove the witness

of what we truly believe.

Sages

Scribes who know the taste of the wind

spill the lips of its message

to ever bless with their transcendental bliss.

How they love to help and guide

even if they always fall down,

their noses pointing to the sky

who cares the bruises on their shins?

 

For wisdom is the issue that cries to be heard

not whether one ever applies it

unto that gulf in life

where the person falls into a pit

while constantly gazing at the clouds.

 

So spare me the jewels of a mind

that are mere shards of delusion

those fractures thoughts,

which only lead to bleeding.

 

I don’t want a cook book

written by a person

that only creates food poisoning

with the recipes,

nor do I crave

swimming lesson

from someone that has never

been in the water.

 

If only they had lips

able to silence their sermons

when having ears

so lacking in ability

to hear what is said.

The Nudges Of Flight

Winds of lips that help me fly,

awake the eagle in my heart

make me know the feathers

I thought had fallen away

are still apart of who I am.

 

To blow love’s breath

across my soul

with soft and tender breezes

like a mountain air

they lift and encourage

ever helping me to still believe

somewhere in the sky

there waist a place

to write my name.

 

Though at times

they truly have to lift me up

 when doubt makes me

feel so bottom heavy.

 

Rooted

Brittle hearts of brokenness

who hold onto one flowered thought,

a blossom of a dream,

turn the dry earth into clay

and make it artistry.

Exposed

long before I saw all the delicate layers

of your soul's secret lairs of treasure,

hidden beneath so many lurid suggestions

and thoughts utters in the most spine tingling, provocative ways.

 

Slowly, I became yours

both in body and spirit,

a willing slave to your every writhing tease of desire.

 

How could I know

when you took off you mask,

exposing all the incredibly ravenous nakedness

residing deep inside,

that I would find

a pair of fragile and gossamer wings

which you so oft shroud from life

as well as others.

 

But then in the moment of purest ecstasy

did I discover another truth,

for those were not wings of an angel,

rather those like an insect,

one who devours its lover!

 

Too late for me,

lunch was far more lethal

than my nightmares

could have ever imagined!

Clipped

I lost the dream

a lofty layer where gravity died,

it was vaporized by life

when somebody had a knife

and cut into my heart

until the blood was drained

from my eyes

so nothing seemed possible,

all I could do was breath

presumed there was no wind left

that I could ever rise

like a feather

on the way to kiss the sky.

 

Then I fell

into that deep pool of her eyes

swirled so entranced

by their spell,

which touched me with breath

and gave me a glide into the night,

upon a breeze of her love,

where I go far above

that place filled with tears.

 

It all is like a vision

only one that never ends

while I happily swim

the waters of her heart.

 

Journeys Of Light And Ambrosia

Tinsel in the shadows slipped between the heart’s cracks,

death anoints it darkness upon a tomb of thoughts,

the soul migrates before the sun’s altar

with eyes that look for gold or night

and breathe in a gasp of cloudy paths

or let the pollutants sting the soul,

then either slip into the cocoon of ashen elations

a shrouded, suffocating chamber in the mind

unless the heart decides warmth is the vision

full of power and vitality

ready to rise instead of suffer the slumber

as a rehearsal for the grave.

 

It is the appetite within the spirit

where tastes are culled from whirlwinds

blown before the mind

off fields sown as wastelands or fertile fruit.

 

What remains the irony of cerebral diets

is how the stale and putrid refuse

from the decaying compost

always rotting in the darkness

becomes an ambrosia of embalmed passions

so addictive in its power to drain any essence

of what energizes to cherish life.

 

Each day we stroll upon that path

some seek nibbles of the dessert that cripples,

others search the fire to fill the insides,

but the hour passes anyway

just depends on if we elect

to enjoy the steps or the risk of blisters.

Lessen Lessons

Less is more the memo implies

by the sagacious bean counter scribes

who take our shrinking client base,

which they claim is declining

even though our volume of work

mysterious keeps going up,

but we have to reduced the excess cost

in order to offset decreased profit

even though the executives

keep adding to their perks.

 

It is all lesson is lessens,

where the only thing

that really gets cut back

until it barely functions

is our energy from being overworked

as our benefits go on a diet.

 

Perhaps I’ll eventually be grateful

for the times of corporate justified downsizing

when the only thing really constrained

comes as our shriveled spirit of morale.

 

Will I Remember?

Will I remember the beauty that died

after the waters have covered

all the lives and lands I tried to love?

 

Can I hold onto their memory

when I at last open the door to the ark

and look upon the ravished earth

prepared to seed it soil

as the Most High would bid?

 

How my heart must keep is strength

as I look into eyes of my family

who grow wearing as we drift

among these constant waves

while they look at me with questions

each holding back their own pain of loss.

 

The hours move without any sense of time

since there is no day or night,

inside our wooden hull

we cling to our faith in His provision

even when the water

makes our vessel constantly rock.

 

My wife tries to help preserve our peace

with her soft hugs and words of assurance,

Shem, Japheth and Ham

tend to our chores and keep their vigil

in al the ways Gods spirit leads.

 

How I miss the scent of life that are gone

that joy of being I the open air,

never in all the days of preaching

or building this vessel

did I truly realize

what weeks inside would do to my mood

sometimes barely able to function,

but relying in trust upon the Lord

who always manages to revive me

when the burden gets to much.

 

Though I can’t free myself for dreams,

still I hold onto that vision

of a chance to this time

truly honor heaven and Him

by our devotion and worship

not letting it fall from the soul

who become our descendants.

Upon The Winds

Upon the winds I sent my tears,

the showers from my heart,

to rain love upon the one’s I longed to hold

and given them life in their desert

where I knew they might forever

kept from my arms,

beyond the place where we might meet again.

 

But the only joy I could bear

was knowing they would thrive

for inside I cherished that image,

it gave me such incredible happiness

from sensing those I held so dear

were free from fate and risk.

 

All my strength and spirit

went into releasing my essence of wishes

that it would rise upon airy wings

then spread that shear lace of hope over their darkness.

 

Then I lied down exhausted,

yet no sadness for my sacrifice,

as the world faded to my own night,

there was only peace,

though I knew this eve

might end any chance of a reunion.

 

In the morning the sunlight didn’t hit my face

because the shadows

from the absent pieces of my soul

were covering me,

their smiles were my reward

though I now would see them everyday.

Just Renting

No vacancy signs

prohibited living

except in a certain plot,

only meant for farmers

even though I had never plowed or sown

a single furrow of any soil.

 

So I work the earth as I was told,

though didn’t enjoy the labor,

knew my lease would expire

like everyone else,

yet new knew exactly when.

 

Oh we all sweated and toiled

grew what someone else

gave us for seeds,

to busy working

that we never enjoy the beauty.

 

Somewhere during the harvest

the taste of fruit

finally reached the heart,

then learned to savor

whatever come from the ground,

just before winter came

and my rental agreement ended.

Among The Avenue Of Faces

The sting of stares stabs my soul,

eyes that cast their secrets and stories

wound and set ablaze my heart,

that tearful look on my grandson’s face

when his small world is shattered

and he looks to me for its healing.

 

It is that rage that boils like pot

at times the boss gains ogre eyes,

becomes an insane beast

only able to devour

with some mindless savagery.

 

There are the portraits

of those who I see

with anxious expressions

so ready to explode

over some injustice,

as they radiant their subtle hate,

which ripples in the inside in fear.

 

Then I confront the aged images

who convey that sorrow

over their lost choices and dream

while they walk in somber silence

sometimes giving you a that glance

to remind how someday

I shall follow their same footprints.

 

But finally I am greeted

by the one who I love,

her beauty bathes me in her warmth

until joy outshines the passage

among the avenue of faces,

happily savoring

an embrace that inspires

only the glow of smiles.

The Pain Of Panes

Two hearts hopelessly separated by an invisible barrier

that cruel pane of time and fate, which allow a gaze, but prevents the touch,

tears pour from the wound within so gushing from longing,

agonized as if constantly stabbed to hold and love one so far away.

Voice loses its calm in the tones from suppressing the sobs,

each conversation on the phone inflames the uncontrollable craving.

 

In the silence comes the flush of honeymoon dreams

her face the only world you want and could truly live,

not a second comes without her being in your head,

days move as a sloth trapped in blizzard

because they mean nothing without her next to your side,

just clinging to the existence laid before you,

sanity surviving only when you can hear her speak again.

Echoes From The Soul

Within the whirlwinds

that stir inside the heart

are the echoes from the soul,

the sounds of our deepest longings

every wisp that blows

from those caverns in our mind.

 

They carry the essence of our secrets

all the breaths from whom truly dwells

beneath the face we show to others.

 

And from the lips

comes those exhales of the energy

both of light and dark,

which can heal, love and praise

or slay, steal and lie.

 

For with heaven’s ears

are heard the sounds we say,

which by faith can bless or curse,

bind or help in Jesus’ name.

 

Words become a power

when they speak from our spirits,

can wound or inspire,

be the vortex from indwelling

that will flow over other lives.

 

Listened to by our Heavenly Father,

who can give those phrases

a chance to truly have life

beyond what we can sometimes imagine.

 

For they can become a joy 

when expressed with positive, uplifting tones

or something that if filled with darkness

only spreading a smothering negative shroud.

 

But they never are left

only floating in the air,

in many way we inhale them

to infuse our own lives with their affects

until we experience that scriptural truth

of reaping what we sow.

 

And they also drift into eternity

like particles of dust

where they cling to us

from the glitter of our thoughts,

only washed away

by the blood of the Lamb,

though the ones that were

radiant from being uttered

as wishes of peace and encouragement

continue to shimmer like gold.

Waiting

How can this face

find a door through the silver image

to shatter the profile crafted by time,

the memories from mistakes,

undo the broke hearts

left on the trail for a queen’s crown.

 

Love left unrequited

for suitors who were cast aside

so their gifts could be cherished

because inside the emptiness

just had to be filled.

 

Now in this luxury

the image my only companion

as I hear the laughter of children

that I’ll never have.

 

One in the limelight feels so warm,

but it is cold and numb

when at night it shines alone.

 

Can I undo this portrait

and reclaim the happiness

sacrificed for a prize,

if only those I and rejected

would now return my calls

so I could recover the person

who hides behind that mirror.

Vistas

Upon the trail of life we walk

there are moments

we reach a vantage point

in quiet reverence for our journey

caressed by whispered winds in serenity.

 

Is a sanctuary communion

to pause and gaze in deep contemplation

upon that horizon where we conquered

what prevailed in the absurdity of inequality.

 

It is when the sounds of the heartbeats

are listened to more intently,

with such new appreciation for the strength,

which was awaken in the clarity

after some experience that challenged the spirit

when traversing a land of trial and test.

 

Stripped away are the vestments

of pride and arrogance

as the one’s reality feels a tilt

away from self

unto something more profound

and majestic in awareness,

at last seeing inside and out

by eyes that know more truth

than fantasy

that one happily calls home.

 

Before My Soul

Before my soul the darkness stained its hue,

no day came to end the night,

trapped in chasm without reprieve

an empty shell of life,

smothered by sorrow’s suffocating shroud.

 

When the words dripped in tear soaked tones,

where I abandoned any prayer for hope

the sky within my bleak and barren blackness

was set ablaze by heaven’s torch of grace

as a flame of divine love brought its light.

 

Then its aura bursts the seams of my abyss’s canopy

to illumined the passage for escape

and then I came unto the arms of an angel

who brought a missing sunrise to my heart,

while her touch spread a wildfire through my life.

 

Now her face, the one sent by God,

is the sun that warms my thoughts at dawn

that shimmering spell from starry reveries,

which gives my eve the stunning artistry

from the exquisite visions painted on rapture’s canvas.

 

For a fire so burns an inferno inside of me,

how it ignites what was cold and lifeless,

still walking with those twitches of disbelief

over the miracle that I have known

in the arms of this one I so adore.

 

Each day is a celebration with firework embraces,

every hour past sunset is a visit to that sanctuary of oneness,

provided by the Lord’s everlasting mercy,

just savoring the salvation by sighs and spiritual psalms

while cherishing the golden glow of our entwined treasures.

What Does God Look Like?

Do we look for God

in tabernacles and temples,

try to see His hand

upon the stones and sea,

but get so busy in our minds

so ready to give Him

just one image

that if He is present

as a child

would we really know

how that cherub face

was also part of His appearance?

 

By the splendor in scenic song

have we often define the divine,

though perhaps He comes

with small hands and many needs.

 

For in that voice to tender and young

has Heaven sometimes spoke,

hopefully we aren’t too busy

to notice that frail form before us

who has the Lord holding her

where we can’t see.

Thunder

To hear the rumbles in a day,

each storm vest that shreds the soul,

then spreads the wings

from the visions of peace

where the dove within flutters

and longs to soar

through the thundering tinctures

of azure and claret stress soaked billows,

which stretch across one’s mental sky.

 

Though the world becomes

a windswept majesty of tempest twisters,

even when the body bristles

with the refrain of anxiety’s cymbals,

in the heart can rise the hope

for a glide beyond the ravages

from each squall that tests the spirit.

 

It is the echoes in the memory

who chant that eagle’s cry

that gives plumes in the darkness,

ever reaching past the fears.

 

And in the midst of each new challenge

there remains the confidence and serenity,

over the times one touched that airy loft

where tranquility stilled what shuddered

with such dread and tears.

 

A Dream Come True

Paradise lips promising passion possibilities

puckered piercing phrases perfectly presented,

slowly slithering their salacious seductions

across the extremely sensitive layers of the mind,

soon the shield of guarded doubts

is stripped away by the lurid image

of a goddess and siren

who speaks with such sweet sentences,

softly suggesting the syrupy zest in solutions

as the heart surrenders to the bewitching voice’s song.

 

Eagerly does the listener drool for the taste

of that honey flavored fix,

happily parting with a credit card number

unto that phone vixen

in return for those sultry sounds

that can writhe the body with assurance’s ecstasy.

 

Then the moment of truth comes,

order arrives that she promised

was a miracle to make dreams come true,

sadly discovering she didn’t speak

with a tone of purest veracity,

not being a saint or angel,

but a demon in disguise

that sold a faulty invented happiness,

which was really made in hell.

 

Subtleties

hands give kisses

by a touch’s wisp,

 

softly expressing

in simplicity

 

a mountain of love

Reverie’s Dews

Though winter breed its ice over the heart

even if blizzards blast their fury upon the soul

when eyes can dream the star

amid the flurries that try the mind

then summer will ever burn within the spirit.

 

Among the drifts that spread their chill

that hope would hibernated in frozen thoughts,

reverie’s dew beads upon the gaze

images from fancy’s flame

thaw the flakes of crystallized memories.

 

Within the light burns to warm

a sullen mood from time’s December’s scarf

that covers with frigidity,

slowly the snowman of despair thaws

thaws as one reclaims that fire

first felt during long nights

when passion’s furnace wasn’t lit.

 

Match taken from the recollection’s closet

ignites the fireplace of the will

as the fear of frostbitten reaches melts away.

 

The Rarest Eyes

 

The rarest eyes have sight to look beyond the seen,

who took the Sunday School Teacher’s lessons on angel as true,

while others only see a shadow then fuss over flowers and dreams,

she saw the presence of wings and the loving face of heaven’s watcher.

Ashen Psalms

Chimney’s spew their smoke and stench of burning flesh,

air thick in their haze behind the barbed wire fences,

machine gun towers at corners of concentration camp

though the boney ashen prisoners are too weak to escape,

another line of suffering souls is marched to gas chamber

their hallow eyes sensing those masked showers will mean death this time,

Nazi commander watches from office, holding a bible and praying for victory.

One

We ponder

the myriads of mental musings

and abound in solution’s sagacity,

yet so often in the deserts

where need is the question

echoed from mankind’s shadows,

one is the accountable answer

for how many it takes

to truly make a difference.

My Check Out Oz

Kansas blew before my mind

in vivid windswept images,

Oz sprawled in yellow brick roads

across whatever landscape

happen to appear in a day.

 

It was all the wizardry of childhood

when I would find those fantasies

at the local library.

I could be the scarecrow,

tin man, lion and whatever else

my creativity could conjure

while reading the pages of a book.

 

Only thing that deny my ecstasy

was that woman behind the counter,

she was old and grumpy

scared every kid to death,

we all imagined she had a broom in back,

plus some pot to boil children.

 

Any time we dared to check out a book

oh the terror she would inspire,

whoa to the one who returned it late,

surely they would end up dinner!

 

Never found any ruby shoes for protection,

only had a stuff dog for a pet,

took it with me once

didn’t help at all,

still had that evil eye

when I borrowed The Wizard of Oz again.

 

Eventually she retired

kept looking around for the house

that must have fell on her,

all of us figuring

some munchkins hide it somewhere.

The Timbers Of My Heart

What builds the steeple of my soul

as the timbers of my heart

I would gladly take apart,

remove each piece that gave me life

if any single part

could ever being one moment of peace

unto the one I love.

 

For I could I ever feel content

while my darling stood in a storm?

Would I truly breathe and thrive

when I heard her sob from the showers?

 

All I have and will ever be

is but ruins if I see her tears,

nothing could rise inside my spirit

that I wouldn’t gladly use as planks

so her feet my find a path

away from the threat of sorrows.

 

Because I can only truly

find my own happiness

after watching her walk in safety

beyond the risk of floods.

 

If a lost should come unto my essence

and it be ravished by fate,

happily I would endure that tragedy

with all its consequence

even to the steps of a grave

should it grant my love

a precious pardon from any calamity or curse,

which the winds of time

might blow across her sweet, angelic face.

 

Restitution

Acquiesced affections

dangled as bait,

hooks from lips

troll with their license

ever catching the heart

by those seductive lures

fed to entice with rainbow illusions

so in the end

the one who thought was a shark

is left gutted and a prize.

 

Within My Walls

Within my walls the world crumbles

in caving cavities of collapsing clarity,

claustrophobia closes around my mood

trapped in this cage of cerebral bars,

they close in tighter during the light

when I can see the cracks I can’t hide.

 

Outside is the refuge I write

of eagle plume glides across the sky

and ascending ladders to terraces

tiled in the ceramics of celestial carvings,

thoss euphoric emblems from dream artistry.

 

But then I see the shuffling souls

who wander aimlessly the concrete

with death in their eyes,

prisoners of incarcerated desires,

freedom’s façade worn over the face,

just thinking outside is liberty

from the caverns in their heart.

 

I search the throng for signs of knights,

warriors who haven’t been martyrs,

crusaders that didn’t rent their conscience

unto a flag of gold.

 

Somewhere I pray to see

a peddler of forgiveness

that doesn’t ask a price

in order to end my misery.

 

The last one was swallowed by a fog

where life sleeps in calm comatose fantasies.

Pearls On The Wind

Of truth and logic the mind often claims

from gazes and sensations in thought,

as foundation for what life has as aims

gleamed in moments light was sought.

 

So great minds often conjure those gems

found as illumined pearls on the wind,

sometimes just from observing a rose’s stems

because their brains call insight their friend.

 

But do we really want to based our whole life

on some ancient dude who spent each day,

merely dissecting the world with mental knife

while wearing some bed sheet as his idea of play?

 

Perhaps instead what we want as really profound

ought to come from the guy that has to actually work,

doesn’t just scratch himself and just walk around

while claiming wisdom is revealed in every quirk.

 

Just tell me something simple and so very plain

where it can be applied so it really ends troubles,

maybe even help end what makes me complain

so the annoying crap just burst like some bubbles.

 

Yep, I want theories of living that help pay my bills

not some airy words that don’t give me a single break,

don’t need any erudite sayings for cheap cerebral thrills

because so far those haven’t help me avoid any stupid mistake.