Clouds Of Apocalypse

I’m feel lost in cloud of lofty highs

each time her voice becomes my wind

how quickly my heart soars by her words

like I was far above any thoughts or cares.

 

Inside feels full of butterflies

they swirl and stir until I am dizzy

whenever I recall her face

or remember our last kiss.

 

Then comes the thunder,

the booms within of the joy she brings

love’s rumbles that shake me completely,

utterly take me beyond any care,

happily becoming an eagle

who soars upon her whispers

far away from what hurts

and at last having a pulse

so throbbing and intense,

where I no longer just exist.

 

Never knew there could be more to the sky

than merely watching if from the ground,

but since she gave me feathers by her touches

there just seems no ceiling to my life.

Sheltered

Snuggled in my liar composed of reason's transparencies

surrounded by all my surreal murals of denial,

closing my eyes when seeing any gap

that exposes the world outside.

 

Discomfort stabs from sensing my conscience

shrouded in a mourner's robe

while lying and wasting away in my closet

where I hide fake reality's trophies.

 

Sometimes a bird of fancy flees

running into a wall of excuses.

I slowly drift off to lethargy's coma

grateful it gives me a reason not to learn how to fly.

When Angels Touch

Eyes of heaven staring with omniscience

into the hearts where secrets are hidden,

knowing where the soul is bent

not caring the exterior,

which mortal minds judge.

 

For scars and trials leave their lines

upon the face,

etches of sorrow and regrets,

all kept in silence

when travelers venture towards uncertainty,

each seeking their own rescue

from the ghosts of the past.

 

But God sends His angel to touch

life's journey,

bringing grace and forgiveness

by His unconditional love

that His messengers

oft give to the least and banished,

the ones that legalism's tyrants

have brutalized by hate.

 

Because in religiosity's compose heap

are the seeds often sown

to sprout a future spirit of anointing

as proof of the Lord's grace.

 

That Infectious Zest

Her laughter spiced any silence,

from her heart sprinkled such zest seasoning

even when life was stale and stagnant

she spoke a carnival of words in humor

a spell that gave any somber mood a fire.

 

It spread with intoxicating power

through everyone she met,

they never could remain sad or sullen

once her spirit gave their flames,

made so amazing for one bedridden in an old folk’s home.

 

Gifts

Season festoon of love decorate the heart

they are the presents wrapped in hugs,

the surprise that remain treasures through life.

 

Amid the tinsel, gold and silver bows,

among the piney towers of magic,

which whisper their secrets to tender minds,

there is no more perfect gift

a better blessing for any child,

than to have hope’s trimmings kept alive

so they become a festive light within

that keeps on shining in any night.

 

It is the spell that inspires,

keeps eyes looking for miracles

after the holiday décor is gone

because it was shared by a parent

who learned it when also a child

and savored that enchanted

as a tale of belief meant to last a life time.

ISLANDS

Wafts of wispy quixotic qualms float over the mind

when washed by the oceans of tangential tides,

with those rivulets in reveries that lure at the heart

while dwelling the sanctuaries of surety,

where life is affixed in the senses of reliance

as an isle of indwelling for the spirit,

safely sheltered from the perils

of phenomena that stir stress and stifle.

 

It is to live before the sunrise

upon the beach of paradisiacal grains

made from the tranquil tones felt inside

because serenity is an inner song

infused by the melodies written with confidence

instead of the chaotic clamor in claptrap cymbals.

 

For it is when one stands in silence

along that shore of many footprints

and chooses to make one’s own path,

regardless of the signs or signals,

that anywhere one exists

becomes the island of choice,

a place of liberty and true identity

imbued with calm that endures,

since it thrives in that self induce oasis.

 

Peace flows like a zephyr wind,

upon that stroll on soft ivory sands

beyond the caves, caverns,

huts and bushes,

which so often snare as solutions to anxieties.

 

Alone is the journey of pure perspicacity

as the Robinson Crusoe within

finds rescue without ever leaving

the place where hopes were shipwrecked.

 

Pulse Verses Heart Beats

 

To feel the blood on fire and boiling

comes in craving images suppressed

when life drags monotony's milestone

across the footpaths worn by demand

stopping when exhausted

enticed with temptation's of fetal position surrender,

trail of dream highway having too many detours

and not enough rest stops.

 

But in the race the mind stays in neutral,

avoiding hearing the demons or angels

until the silence and solitude after sunset

smothers with regret's haunting voice.

 

Mirror of past rises in the head,

asking when did my life becoming a mummy

and exist between coma and conformity?

 

Heart beats, but never throbs,

cadence of strokes only recalling

faint tremors from seconds

that every sense was aflame in awareness,

breathlessly stunning too the conscience.

 

Where did that lightning go?

One ponders in dire need,

fearing the grave will come

without another thunderous kiss.

 

In the labyrinth shadows of anxiety

moving towards passion's vibrant fields

always happens in single steps.

 

Walking with the first door is clearly open

whether with a pen venting one's soul

or another antic that rubs the bones together,

is a dawn rather than destination,

but a journey left unclaimed

if one only laments and never strolls.

Though I sleep

Though I sleep

beneath the January of my soul,

my heart stilled in the frozen idleness

of the joy that once flowed,

shall I recall the star

that gave me day and guided

across the naked, harsh landscape

tread as trail towards the sunset

where the oasis dreamt

lie as refuge from my tears.

 

And even when the wind howls

like a banshee with rage and ire,

digs with claws the reach my bone,

will my steps not forsake their journey

because your face is the sun I see.

 

It hangs in my mind like a are painting

my heart’s masterpiece of happiness

so aglow within my thoughts

over all you mean to me.

a portrait I hold with trembling fingers

while I let the ache of longing burn is pain

deep into my shivering marrow.

 

In this vale of brutal test

this trek of trials clothed in wounds,

my heart builds its bridge with your words

by the planks of promises you have made

to wait until passage across my December wasteland

brings me to the warm hearth of your arms.

 

Sobs are shod as the soles of feet

from the ice that covers as loneliness,

which only melts by recalling your image.

 

Until my pilgrimage passes this cold silence

all I am will walk by your beauty

as the light that never fades

even when I descend into a wintry darkness

should I perish before I’m done

no regrets shall come from my lips

for my last breath will speak my joy

that it was exhaled loving you.

Spoken

When lost in the wilderness

trapped between the shadows of trees

who tower as distraction

and hide the sky from the eyes

a sign of love that speaks to the heart

speaks the words like a light

it flames the spirit with new eyes

to see the paths that encouragement ignites

no longer wandering in darkness

though it still surrounds

because someone care to remind

you’re never without worth

not a hideous vagabond to be forgotten

or some wretched soul only deserving

of being banished to oblivion.

 

In that moment life renews

as a spark to inspire another step

because in the silence of that solitude

a wind blew in what was spoken

drives towards the meadows

where flowers bloom and day is bright

so far from the wooden maze in crippling control

that so sucked the very breath out of existence.

 

At least alive in the pure expectation

there is a world in which to dwell

away from the sobs and sorrows.

 

Stems Of Steel

Fingers crave the flowers of the soul,

the petals of virtue and vision,

those stems of steel

forged in the heart

from the seeds of deepest conviction.

 

They never fade or die

even when winter’s frost

to stand as an invincible rose

against what tries to kill its meaning.

 

What grows out of the spirit

in the claret hues of purest passions,

is able to withstand any climate of opinion,

any season that might fades its beauty

because it is composed of quality,

able to endure it is metal

beyond any time or sunrise.

 

By its strength in inspired splendor

can a single flower

sprout as a bouquet in other minds

who then plant is seeds as the garden

of where life dwells with an appreciation

for those floral arrays in concepts

that become the spring of awakening.

Messages In Mortar

 

Life's symphony of natural tones

speaks their song

in sounds

we don't always understand.

 

It is knowing their voices

and music

have an unseen composer

that makes the ears

appreciate how

there is an orchestra

residing on a stage

surrounded by seats

we have yet to visit.

 

Tickets are sold

for a price

which we can't always afford,

till invited to attend

when the soul grows ears,

riding the notes

toward a perfect sight

where there is no night or chaos,

just the melody of knowing.

 

Seeds

Within the heart and head are the seeds

of the skills and talents

that sleep in fallow hibernation

while awaiting the chance to be used,

which happened when they watered by the will,

soaked in some sincere inspiration

before they are sown and face the test any season.

 

They will sprout when cultivated and nurtured,

only they will finally become the blossoms

according to their petals’ qualities,

and they are always distinct to that person,

different in texture and essence.

 

Some are frail and wilt under the sun

others flower into something exquisite,

but they are meant to be appreciated

for their own unique value,

not to be judged by another bouquet.

 

Because a rose of the spirit

will always be the best it can be

when it is harvested as it really exists.

 

For once it matures into its actual beauty

expressed its truth completely

then it has found its intended summer.

 

How tragic are the seeds never planted

who were discarded before they could grow,

choked of their possible splendor

by weeds of lips that strangled with criticism.

Cologne

The night yields shimmering

silvery scents of incandescence,

day holds the iridescent petals

of illumined thoughts.

Within the mind inspiration’s cologne

has so many aromas

when intuitive nostrils are tuned

to detect each profound fragrance.

 

Almond traces of wooden invitation

conjure forest serenity

lavender hints in floral scenes

induce a lilting whiff of peace,

above the sky mint shawl

is inhaled in tranquility,

upon the cerulean waves

sea breezes perfume calms

and those chocolate layers

in the mountains stirs with bliss’s honey.

 

One smell of those visionary bouquets

can filled the creative sense

with a panoply of image incense

until it flows as a beguiling essence

through the fingers

and out as droplets of invention.

 

Once those vapors have touched your life

the air is stale unless the odors of expression

cling to the conscience as tangy teases,

so instead of dwelling in stagnation

each place traveled by the gusts of time

summons its own vernal sensations.

 

By that olfactory literary artistry

a poet collects those samples of aromatic insights

left upon a page with lingering impact

from the gardens of the experience.

Pass The Tape

I tape my fears as post its

inside a tool box labeled first aid,

it can’t be locked and is haunted.

Then I pour syrup over it when no one is looking

so I have an excuse to not open it

even though the phobias fly out into the air

and soar around my head like vultures.

 

Still inside that box I hide the plans to a bomb shelter,

which will never get constructed,

have a counterfeit order form

to prove I did actually try to prepare,

just seemed pointless to actually erect that space

because the news broadcasts peace,

even though in the background

there is always the sounds of explosions.

 

Calendars faithfully fed into a paper shredder

destroys evidence of my resolutions,

as long as nobody reminds

words I spoke in a panic

when I thought I was dying

from reading the ingredients

on a can of hot fudge.

 

My fingers lay idle in silence,

they never move when the ground shake,

don’t wiggle if a bag of gold

exists within my grasp,

unless something terrifies,

puts at risk my existence

then I will to survive,

not to gain, but to avoid loss.

 

For if there were no enemies,

not a disease to dread,

wouldn’t ever try and build,

be content in my bed.

 

Action is the reaction of worry,

when winning kills any assassins,

though we mutter the musings of greed’s stratagems

the whole time it is danger

that ultimately drives us out of lethargy’s pit.

Grilled

Tangerine flames undulate above the fire pit

upon the ivory sand stretching beneath the stunning cerulean sky

as the warm azure sea waves wash their soothing song

while the heart burns from the intensity of July’s endless light.

 

Burgers grilled over those logs ignite the appetite

before the afternoon sun bakes its spell

while scorched by the memory during a winter’s nap.

 

Concrete Wings

Civilized darkness

spreads the feathers of night

as hearts become scavengers

for the leftovers

of dream prey

turned to road kill.

Eating Equators

Palms of power probe the planet in plotted precision,

their scalpel of wealth slicing slivers out of the earth,

carefully carving their own demographic pie,

across the world the make poverty’s pawns their chattel,

unconcerned the landscaped despoiled to play their game.

 

Wars used as chess matches to control the squares of soil

while they barter over ground to suck it of resources,

valor is the victim as warriors are slain at their command,

battlefields the wasteland of their avarice

as they hold the planet as a ball to treat as a private toy

never worried the parts they break to win the game.

 

Circumvented consequences buried in the bowels of industry,

venomous vapors from the cadavers of greed consume the air

until it silently chokes those who already suffer,

but the winds of sermonized speeches

skillfully preserve the illusion of humanitarian rhetoric

even when the crowds listening hack from the tainted air.

 

Palaces built on bones of sacrifice lambs

are mausoleums of consciences

where geography is globe lined of with words

written to define this land is mine!

 

Those scrawls of ravenous hunger to devour

don’t care they cross over lives or their possessions

because in the view of the kingpins of control

whatever exists always has the label of ownership

merely content to lease a small plot to the multitude

while they prepare their strategies

for abusing resources to fuel their maniacal musings.

THE ANCHOR OF ROUTINE

Today

was exhausting,

Just dong the compulsory

mandates

within the ticks of exhaling

were a laborious

indulgence.

But would life

ever be as sweet

without the mar

of humanness

to bleed our

essence

so illusion

didn’t control

our thoughts?

The answer

comes in quirks and pains

where we rejoice

over the things we treat with disdain.

Progress

We’re the gift genius who will make your future bright

our brilliance already invented television reruns,

movie sequels and crappy commercial clichés

because we know eventually

what we do the same just has to get better,

why it gives us such joy

over how politicians love to follow our example.

 

And we are so proud of our latest creation

a perfect solution to the energy crisis

the push and pull cycle machine

 

oh it is so grand and really fun to use

even though we only end up pedaling in circles,

still is just an improvement on the merry-go-round

because we get to go in a bigger circle.

 

The great thing is how we will sell a million of them

since there are so many people out there

who keep believing our advertisements

that next time our same idea will be an improvement,

thank goodness that sanity is so rare among consumers

or we would be out of business.

Twas the night before Christmas...and...

Scrooge on internet

for cheap thrills,

Christmas’s three ghosts

haunted Ebay misers.

Tiny Tim

was visiting

love site for cure.

 

Madness

Heart pounding amid the thunder

from pursuing footprints,

fear trembles the spine with icicles,

so desperate to avoid discovery

for they will take my soul and mistress,

steal my dreams,

devour every desire,

leave me bruised and broken

if their villainous thoughts

have a chance to ravish

my dearest companion.

 

Eyes closed, breath held

as those marauding intruders

race beyond the thicket

where I found shelter.

 

Then I take my latest beloved with my hand

to rush for freedom for that terror,

finally reaching the Walmart check out stand

finger clutching my discount DVD copy

of Terminator Salvation,

exhaling my panic over finding the last copy

and eluded the other ravenous Christmas shoppers,

happily dreaming of my viewing ecstasy. 

Christmas Carols

Notes that float from the soul,

the lilting sounds of seasonal cheer,

how quickly the twinkle of lights

and glitter of tinsel

silences the words of their meaning

in servitude to the bedazzling trim,

which streams its expectation insides

over what lies beneath a bow.

 

Surrendered to that anticipation,

possible thrills are dreamed as hidden in festive paper

seductively replacing the joy of giving.

 

Lost is the touch of charitable essence in intentions

from one life to another.

They are replaced by the commercialized crafted caress,

which never dresses the heart

with is warmed by hands

who share the stanzas of the holiday songs,

through doing what they say,

through deeds that are not hollow and vane

filled with counterfeit sincerity.

 

What truly provides the best in gifts

comes when there are no ribbons of manipulation,

just the decorations of a desire

that cares to makes the other person happy

because love is one’s real Santa Claus.

Naps

Night swims through a yawn

of silver chanted secrets,

held in the lungs by waking dream

that you had before being born.

 

And time is trapped in a honeycomb,

dripped from the earth

where it spun into candy

out of decay and dying prayers,

roots creeping towards moonlight milk

nursed the ghosts of tomorrow

who lived in the echoes of yesterday.

 

Buried in the screaming graves

are the embryos of heroes

the lovers with no bodies

that dwell in a sigh.

 

In a coffee cup

it all swirls as cream,

while the brain looks for miracles

among the salt and pepper shakers.

 

Headlines pour the caffeine

blended with they syrup of myths,

until we are inoculated with its sweetener

to become the working bees of a queen

trapped in a wishing well.

 

It will all end up written on a post card

mailed to an address for an organ donor clinic,

which exists in a phone booth

occupied by a transient

who imagined creation in his sleep.

Fabulous

The sun toasted my brain before dawn

music sing out of tennis shoes,

I nearly though the world would end,

but the bank cancelled it

because they hadn’t sucked my dry enough.

 

Today was a tornado of confusion

a screaming volley of insanity

spent on a hole in my thoughts,

my heart pounded from worry

about disastrous earthquake

that never happens.

 

On a scale of one to ten,

this time was an IOU,

to be cashed in during my dreams.

 

Meanwhile I’m drunk on diet coke,

found a corner in my brain to hide,

grateful for my DVDs

which give me escape,

even found a moment of serenity

between the car repair emergency

and the stress of unexpected bills,

so relaxed at the moment

with it all neatly tucked away,

kept in a box of anxiety moments

marked do not open,

stored with rainbows on the cover

saved from rainy days.

Today

Rumbles of the apocalypse tumble as tremors

into minds dipped in doomsday sauce,

they hear the thunder of cataclysm cacophony

arise from the words of Mayan seers,

Nostradamus and a cornucopia of other collections

who have predicted a finis for the earth.

 

Even the scriptures resound with prophetic voices

about the eventual end of our libations and liberty

to be written in ashen hell and a river of blood.

 

But all the sages who declared demise

have yet to succeed in flipping the world’s switch,

still we get their warning preserved for our eyes

about our fated rendezvous with catastrophe.

 

Ever do minds probe for those whirlwind signs

the emblems of holocaust yet to be.

Carefully they strip away every layer of mystery,

because underneath has to be disaster

merely waiting its time to erupt

and make the world a graveyard.

 

How the heart grows so weary

from all the constant array of predictions

where none ever come true

Added are the variables of cosmic plots,

aliens lurking out there and waiting to eat your brains.

 

It becomes as circus of eschatology chaos,

only occupied by way to many screaming clowns

all ready to take credit and boast forever

should their given warning end up true.

 

Meanwhile all we have is today

to live it as own only allowance,

for the one of faith

that means to do as Paul commanded and stand firm.

 

In due season the Lord will set in motion

the cycle of the tribulation,

but what witness are we to His truth

if we don’t remain in trust

as pillars of calm during the gales of speculation?

 

Steadfast hearts embrace His word

know in time it will come to past,

until then we honor Him

only when we remain at our calling,

without wandering in a whoa is me panic,

ever obedient to where He placed us in life,

Mamma always said, don't ever let them...

 

catch you not wearing clean underwear,

sitting to close to the television,

take candy from strangers.

 

But on the internet

without momma

you hide soiled truths,

get candy from anyone.

The Shimmer In The Shadows

 

To follow a wind into a labyrinth

where the dark corridors

become incarnate creatures

dredged from an ancient vault.

where the keys have a heartbeat.

 

Grab the mushroom shaped quill

eat it quickly with fear

because it will slowly expand

from the first line scrawled

out of the birth pangs of the soul,

softly scribbling some trickle of impulse

slowly it builds from slow

unto a subtle prowling lion

who claws as your heart

and makes it pound from the verses,

which build in their power

utterly driving you to the edge

of the precipice of light

where love, hate are arrayed

as the throbbing pants of profound,

gradually groping through each stanza

until reaching the last word

that becomes a nuclear detonation

ever creating ruins

out of your foundations.

 

Amid the blank pages

lie the portal of the muse,

down that rabbit hole we fall,

but into that wonderland maze,

unable to stop the rage of roaming

willingly submitting to the pen’s spell,

where it follows a power

out of the place in the shadows

that we have to spend a lifetime obeying

after that candle is lit

from creativity’s match

so able to give perspicuity’s stunning shimmer

unto the dance of digits

utterly addicted to its flame.

The Colors Of Wishes

Rainbow flashing in festoons

as they trim a child’s dreams,

each flickers the season’s magic

while to tender innocence minds

they are the landing lights

for reindeer.

Bankrupt

I bear a soul of borrowed piety,

my own raiment torn and stain,

just filthy rags before God’s throne,

a debtor of sin who can’t begin to cover the price.

 

Though I weep and pray to prove my zeal,

speak a thousand psalms of praiseful sounds

it still can’t pardon the wages of my wayward ways,

for all I can offer is counterfeit righteousness.

 

Before that altar of sacrifice unto the Lord,

there is nothing I can bring,

which is able to settle the bill

created by my hands when pilfering

from the tills of pontificated

and sanctimonious sacraments

or the hastily minted coinage of asceticism.

 

But the heart’s inner witness

knows the hollowness of that currency,

and from Heaven’s bank

there is only one denomination,

which can ever be cashed.

 

It is printed in the blood of Christ,

something we only acquire by faith,

yet a gift by grace that is never earned,

in the end when we hold that incredible receipt,

how completely it heals our eternally bankrupt condition,

though often hard to stop hearing the mind’s creditor

ever whispering we still owe.

 

Day by day we have to revisit

where the eternal court dwells for our spirit,

some come to explain new charges incurred

while the rest of us just say thank you

because we accept how they were already paid.

We Are The Night

We are the night,

the shade against the flames of ire,

love’s shadow to cover the dark

so the heart can heart

a symphony of stars,

each exquisite flicker in hope,

which burns in the blackness

like a trail across the mental sand,

as the prints of the path towards illumination.

 

Distance foundations of incandescent

those candled towers of knowledge

that appear as the lighthouses for the mind,

in the quietness of the stroll to wisdom’s resorts

waves of thoughts wash over the journey

from that sea of dreams, wishes and memories.

 

Wind carries the scents of curiosity

little whiffs from those remembered oasis

where for a moment life was spellbound and serene.

 

Beneath the spread of eve’s inner sky

what beckons within is the lure of lucidity’s flares,

shot from the hands with care as this weapon

who hold the fire full of such iridescent inspiration

until one can find that true sunrise

beyond the midnight chasm of feeling so lost,

joy beams in the golden deliverance

happily able to finally find the peace

only known where one is free

from the fear of being trapped

out of reach from ignorance’s smothering shroud.