GEMS

Diamonds, sapphires and rubies adorned sublime,
crystal droplets inspiring sentient whims,
dazzle's opiate prancing through the mind
swimming fancy's river with throbbing fins
with facets' faces often seen as divine,
inhaled as beauty's brilliant flash of winds.
Proudly worn as jeweled garland's, glitzy array
mammon's opulence of affluence on display.

Life bespeaks a different precious stone
heart's gem cutter, a razor blade of fate's edge,
destined ticks carve the memory's pliable bone
left as omen rings on the mind's image ledge,
donned as pained impulse bracelets, with a groan,
one's spirit cracks, as if hammered by a wedge.
Fingers bearing their scars, one eye's alone can see,
lips deny how they burn internally.

What one wears to, of one being's, decorate,
isn't always the value we hold so dear,
for pride charms never will truly venerate
the image one decides, stands in a mirror,
no matter the tinsel used to negate
how one's face is truly perceived as clear.
Settings taming one's deepest, rocky flame
never glistens, by treasure's fleeting name.

Strides

Cities lies as visions in the head,
promised paradises where gold is found,
where every wish can be fulfilled.

It all happens in the mind,
as images of places never visited,
each detail created by fantasy or assumption,
never based on truth or reality.

Still it is enough to inspire a walk
along a road that leads to a goal
and it can’t be reach
without sure and steady strides.

But the body speaks
instead of the heart
when walking on that journey,
though desire is never enough
to stay on the trip to the end.

You can’t rely upon ambition alone for success,
have to accept the price of sacrifice
regardless of the place headed.

There no distance strolled
that you can take without
a demand upon your time and stamina
and hope isn’t enough
to prevent any hardships
from leaving their marks.

Yet, sometimes it is harder to not move
since the agony of guilt
over doing nothing
can be worse than any suffering
over the pace and trials faced.

Road Rage

Beneath the masks worn on life’s highway
the one’s others give you to wear
are the minds with their own uniqueness
whose worth isn’t always seen,
inside burns the desire
to let the true skull of self become visible.

And on that race towards each destination
every craved dream we think can be reached,
what we wear inside as truth
will eventually be visible
by what we say and do.

Being naked of what is hidden
shall always happen during any chase,
for those winds through which we pass
eventually strip away our disguises
until what is underneath,
be it gold or decay
is polluted by obsessions
or pure silver in quality
becomes the head exposed
so it remains noticed
no matter what we seek
in order to cover it up again.

Pebble Thoughts

Tossing small stones
into the quiet glassy surface
of the pond my breath has born,
each missile spent as a thought
from my inner quarry,
splashing its fleeting glory,
lasting as my memories.

Little waves rolled
through tangential flows,
seeing in the waters
how sorrow's rocks of my life
drop among
my reservoir desires
disrupting its calm.

Feeling immersed
beneath the surface
where I swim free
from grainy agitating moments
left on forgiveness's sand.

Washed in the silent resolve
not to let what ripples my essence
drown me from sailing
where pebbles become an altar
instead of a boulder in my heart.

The Hands Of Spring

Rustles in the leaves obey the strokes in vernal fingers
flowers silently to bend unto the gentle sway
from the hands of spring.

Inward the mystical caress arouses that renewal in essence
as eyes and soul succumb to the spell of awakening,
carefully watching the vitality flow over soil, seed and sky
slowly arising within as a blossom of airy sensations
while surrendering to each scenic dance
utterly embracing it as a lure in pure aliveness
and the wind calls your name
and the day burns its brilliance into your spirit.

Suddenly like a dawn all life assumes a magic glow
every detail of creation summons its own inspiration,
happily allowing that energy its conveys
bring such intensity unto the heart.

Until even the smallest creature waltzing through the blades
tugs at the insides with their own special melody.

REFUGES

Landscape's luscious lure of foilage bewitches,

life's aroma breathing into the lungs

as creation's many pulsing gifts tease

in stirrings of intoxicating appreciated bliss

over the pure majesty and mystery of a precious heart beat.

 

Lying on the grass

cares taken by the wind

clouds massage the soul

briefly heaven

dances in the veins.

Cataclysms

How many times leaders see

the wispy curtain of inclement inklings

spread as a sprawling leaden sheet over the sky,

but use a calculator in the head to digest

what the torrid canvas truly suggests to our mind.

 

Even when any calendar of the past

records the peril of such harm,

which is on time’s ledger for comparison,

inward is often the voice of lethargic reasoning

as an atrophy of acumen’s astute eyes,

who wil not discern the real potent demise

that lies outside the comfort zone

where they dwell in the illusion of true control,

still treating the will as crown over every climate,

then channel an impotence in reaction

through rationale’s corridor in justified inactivity.

 

But then when the camera of consequence

reveals the fodder in every creature

left as shrapnel of that cataclysm cannon,

it is dealt with by sermonized excuses

so impassioned in their feigned compassion.

 

What tragedy lingers in the truth

of how this is a circle too often in human behavior,

sadly one that history records

through the enduring nature of institutionalized rulership,

when facing the warning signs of imminent destruction.

 

 

 

Plumb Pudding

Small town labyrinths in metal musings

snarled in the Gordian knots of pipes,

sewers snaked through the underground

where a plumber’s acumen

for a leaded Rosetta Stone

can unplug the perils in toilet tenacity.

 

It all must be address with proper decorum,

the astute ascertained copper epiphanies,

spelled and sealed by a bill of Habeas elbow joints

where the overall clad crusader

safely secures a rooted form of serenity.

 

Course what lies in those waste laden tubes

remains a speculation to the john manipulators,

those who debate the endless question

of if the paper roll is meant to be left

either over or under.

 

Alas, only the wrench guru

has the power to perceive

all the truth held in those dispensers,

stir the irony as a profound pudding

to be served in simplistic harmony

from non backup drains.

 

Then there is the sublime CPV pipe epiphany

and the visions of Drano dispersed

in such plunger prophecies,

a vision of what was mean to be

where the bowels of society

secretly vent the discards of indulgence.

Remnants

The steeples of the spirit

stand in their shards of steadfast splendor,

they are the remnants of glory’s edifices

erected against the winds and whims,

which sweep over the communal face

of the heart in a civilization’s throb.

 

It is that pause between birth and death

for the very pulse in patriotic passions,

there is within it a foundation forged

to create an emblem in stone and mortar

that might preserve the portrait in social identity,

declare its essence before the many dawns,

say no matter what prevails,

regardless of the marauding mayhem that comes,

there was a moment, a precious precarious pause

when life of so many bonded minds

was given its icon in shape and form.

 

Even though the ravishes of events

erodes the vision and its pillars,

what remains is the remnant of a dream,

which lingers it in decayed vanity

as the testimony to the power in the will,

utterly endowed with the urge

unto claiming some an hour out of eons

with a desire to make it your own.

 

Among the residue of that inner fire

we walk through its many portals,

feel its ghost speak their loves

and remember how it is the gold

worth more than any treasure,

for it is wealth in mankind’s zeal

at building more than self

across the constant shifting sands in time.

 

Each Breath

Each breath

we take

can be a lifetime,

when we are loved

and remembered for our hugs.

 

Though the darkest shadows,

I raised this prayer of verse

for you time of struggle,

hoping it helps to encourage

with his promise of how his eyes always see,

never forget, nor abandon his angels.

 

May his mercy and healing

drape you in the serene, assuring weave

of his spirit's everlasting garment.

 

Lifting so tenderly

your life and need

towards heaven's merciful throne

where you are never without

God's hand holding on to yours,

comforting in his quiet caring caress

letting you feel by his presence

how you are not alone.

 

Knowing too that no single care

goes unfelt

by the heart of God.

 

Canned Heat

Sealed sunrises kept inside that container

an fiery balm to sooth such aching muscles,

it promised to revive, rejuvenated and restore

the death of taunt, lean tissues.

 

Wasn’t able to warm a heart

stabbed and sliced by life,

couldn’t prevent time from withering

throbs that turned to soft tremors

barely able to keep their beat.

 

There was the illusion,

that moment of pretense in the ointment

where for a few seconds

all the body’s sagging softness

didn’t feel like some prelude

of a cadaverous rehearsal.

 

Artificially inseminated immortality

made the cemetery seem so far away

and with the lid open

it was buried under the wintergreen aroma.

 

Worked wonders with inspiration

let the warmth induced lost horizons

until the cold faded the fabrication,

restored briefly with the help of pain killers

before sunset sucked away the fantasy.

 

Yearning

Caricature conformity masks

sculpted in reliance's deformed reality,

founts of control's indigo desires

seep and bubble through one's vision

pouring out restraint's chill

in hopes of cooling

craving's searing geyser

simmering in the soul

and waiting to erupt over the mind's eye

with fiery yellow selfishness streams

and crimson ire.

 

Suppressing aura of inner clarity,

pretending to shoot the beast

clawing at insides,

face contorts sincerity

using tales that dance with tongue excuses,

praying the slight of lips magic

will work a miracle

to fill the bottomless pit

where dreams are sucked and never lived.

 

Raising the mask

covered in sweat of longing

while waving white lie banner of truce

hoping the enemy will surrender

even though

they have one's own face.

 

THE SHADES OF DILIGENCE

A clock’s tick echoes

those reminders of spirit’s emptiness.

How doe one measure

the work of one’s hands

without a single

affirmation

to fuel the heart?

When only the wind

is witness

unto my finger’s joys

any flame of inspiration

so often cools.

That is when

one must put on

the shades of diligence

that will keep

a person’s vision from blurring in despair

through those long

dark eves

of obscurity.

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.

 

Tickles

In the stark, silence of pure vulnerability

alone and exposed to the secrets

suppressed in the lairs within dreams.

They are subtle plains of fantasia kissed,

where inhibition’s plumes blossom in their tickle

as they tease with the mental mirages

of love and longing that linger in their ache

while waiting for that sunrise

over the castle the heart

wishes it could to dwell.

 

But the voices from the past

blow their winds over that reverie boa

with its pink tender glow

utterly able to make the heart throb

until it combs the skin with its power,

so burning the urge for the fairy tale from youth

to be the morning of tomorrows.

 

Only it remains a vapor,

a cerebral wisp in wonder’s spell,

ever struggling to control the shudders

from the feel of that cherry hue feathery magic

that reminds how there is more to life

than the sorrowful soliloquies of solitude.

 

Willingly clinging

unto that airy feel of a delicate mental quill

used to write the vows for change

because it holds a seductive sway in its charms,

which keeps hope fanning in the quiet

about how the future

can be more than story just written in the head.

Because He Lives

When I wander the dark corridors

of night’s desolate wasteland

the Lord is there

though I have fallen and full of sin,

and even those times I have drifted

far from the vision of His face

He still sees me with His eyes

constantly  full of forgiveness, grace and love.

 

Eternally is the hope that arose

with Him from the grave

as His word so declares, “Jesus Christ is the same

yesterday, today and forever.”

 

For in my wayward paths

or the devoted stalwart steps of faith

can I still cry out unto Him

with praise of knowing I am heard

because He lives!

 

It is the everlasting victory,

timeless and truth for all generations

that can heal wounds by promise

through His sacrifice,

plus remove all stains of our wrongs.

 

What is our immortal inheritance to cherish

is the source of constant joy,

the pure balm of salvation’s soothing incense,

which never ceases in its fragrance.

 

Through all travail of tribulations

those endless steps in struggles and pain

there remains the light of our Savior

to give us a candle in our soul,

ageless, ever iridescent in its power,

so we can remain full of its illumination

utterly radiant in the rays of His spirit’s peace,

until we stand before His immortal throne of grace.

The Cry Of One

Eyes languishing in life’s alleys

never seek the aid from angels or knights

in far off clouds and castles

as the immediate cure to the pain of hunger.

They look at the ones who stand before them

with their silent, passive glances

and let their need speak its suffering,

for that is the visible face who has hands

able to end the malaise in misery,

take that wounded soul

out of the shadows where the heart

wears the thorny raiment of despair.

 

It isn’t in lofty ideals about love or charity

that true help will ever express its deeds,

instead it is in the hand seen,

the one who appears where the tragedy travails,

which becomes either the living extension of the Lord

or another spirit of indifference

who fades into the darkness

never hearing the cry of one.

 

When impoverish spirits lie naked of hope

upon that cold and bitter cruel concrete,

there is no need for strangers amid their plight,

but a neighbor who truly sees in that agony

an image of self in another winter

then bends down in compassion

while doing what one can

to help bind the wounds.

Beyond The Eagle’s Shadow

The world dwells upon a panoply in pillars,

billions of lives precariously balanced

upon the foundations of power

who hold their dominion over every inch of soil.

 

And should the American Eagle have never flown,

if its wings had not spread to cover so much of the earth

then would come the vultures to take a spoil

for there is no limit to greed and lust

among the hearts who reside on each continent.

 

So would mankind be served better

should it have been under the clutches

of some talons in tyranny

that didn’t have a single inkling towards charity?

 

Democracy is an umbrella that never perfectly covers

every shower that touches the ground and people,

no single hand nor government

can extend liberty’s parasol by pristine purposes.

 

Does that say that the Star Spangled Banner

waves against all evil winds

without getting tattered at times?

 

Or does it suggest there are no frays or mars,

which cause scars where the shadow

spreads over other lands?

 

In the legacy of the quest for independence

there is always a price,

and what sacrifices have been made

to spare the world for the plagues of maniacal dictators

who would wantonly devour anything,

is one that can’t be ignored.

Thus for me I don’t think

a world without the red, white and blue banner

would have found mercy or peace

in the arms of the ravenous lords

that would have otherwise

had no restraint to their feasting.

Hanging

 

Fingers clutching that rope

while dangling above a canyon

below are a mass of cactus and broken glass,

surely death will come

if I actually let go

even though am too exhausted to continue

any farther along the cord

that stretches between two cliffs.

 

It all seemed so possible

just using hands to move

from one end to other,

never imagined I would have to stop

then be left stuck in the middle

and forced to see the fate

so convinced would never be a risk.

 

Inside, pride drilled its power,

can’t surrender to this failure

have to find the energy to keep moving,

but at last gravity wins,

at last falling so fast towards that supposed doom,

then pulled the rip cord on the parachute

tried to pretend would never need.

 

Eventually to land safely upon the ground

only to discover those threats

weren’t as terrible as imagined,

Quickly to have learned how walking along the ground

actually let me finish my journey

to the place I wouldn’t have otherwise reached.

Between the horizons

Our heart rises and sinks

upon the tides of faith's illumination

when that life giving orb of ancient brilliance

awakes us each morn in hope

then slips again below the lines of the horizon.

 

Gently we are nudged as it sails the skies

by the fiery inner hands that stroke our senses,

to cling to angels and feel the looming psalms

which make our days like treasures.

 

Even in the midst of madness gremlins,

where stress's spiders cringes every vein,

our souls still sip the shining quintessence

feeling so comforted and alive by its presence.

 

Tomorrow is the promise whispered by lips at night

riding the crest of the sun's special incandescent waves,

taking us to places warm and soothing

even when eve curls its tentacles of worry around us.

 

Inspiration

 

The blooms of insight,

which grow upon life’s many stems

flower in the mind

as the intuitive buds

that sprout as a creative spring

within the fingers.

 

They write the vernal awakenings

from within the heart

by a season in renewal

where beauty is expressed

in the burgeoning awareness

and you share the harvest

of their power and meaning

through the memorable

and passionate petals in words.

Spellbound

The night’s sky swirls in serenity’s cerulean and charcoal charms,

earth’s essence bewitches the heart in a soft, silent enchanted caress.

Streams of scenic magic arise from the lake with tranquility’s arms,

soothingly swaying the mind with a sense of peace that drapes like a dress.

Years spent fretted over the visits of those things that summon harms

suddenly wash away amid the mystical touch that vaporizes any stress.

 

Youthful memories dip into the watery wonder to inspire new dreams,

life stirs through the gaze as a cooling, rebirth by a mild zephyr breeze.

Easily the spirit becomes clothed in the allure of that moment’s seams,

yearning to swim that splendor’s bliss so captivating in calming degrees.

gently succumbing to the pure, inebriating spell of fantasia’s flowing beams,

yielding within unto an euphoric kiss, which dances inside like a circle of fairies.

 

 

Piercing

 

Amid the dark veil of ignorance

when doubt shrouds with its stormy, suffocating mantel

over the sky in the mind and night for the soul,

only God’s spirit can pierce that deep blackness by His love.

 

Eyes that look every upward for deliverance

though the tears fall like a cloudburst

let their sobs turn to faith’s psalms,

which opens the heart unto the Lord’s touch of salvation's light.

 

How His spirit can ignite any shadows

and bring His power in such inner electrifying ways,

until rebirth comes to the wayward life

and you glow by the flame of His glory.

Where

Where is my seat among the stars,

the address my heart’s residence

among the sparkle and shimmer?

 

I dip my mind deep in the dark morass

of time’s silent spread in night,

to gaze inward at the space within

and find my point of illumination,

amid the silvery glows in ageless rhyme.

 

For I embrace the moon’s symbolism,

its icon of hope for endless voyages.

A sphere that lights without allowing

any blackness to slay its flare,

which gives me strength to keep searching,

reach so beyond my own barriers,

outward every upward in revelation

upon this journey through my head.

 

Then I stretch my mental arms

that they might touch the sky,

all my essence seeks discover the eon's secrets,

each cloud song and lofty sight,

because I am more than just mortal,

my life has meaing

other than the simple sounds

from any heartbeat’s strum.

 

Now I wrap myself in the expanse

through the cosmic clarity,

feel its warmth call me by its iridescence

so I can hold that twinkle’s tranquility

while I ride the universe in contemplation

as prelude to when I sojourn

on that flight beyond these earthen chains.

There Is Only Silence

There is shear silence

within the soul

whose scales of thoughts

are measured strictly by the five senses.

 

Those who only know providence

by the feel in the pocket,

the simpler presence of practical provision

depended upon as augments for life through logical means.

 

Heaven maybe the perfect bliss

of visionaries and prophets,

but it doesn’t feed today’s hunger

or end the scourge of villainous terrors.

 

Can’t deny the fickle essence

found in nature’s array of volatile vicissitudes,

it is proven rationale of what prevails in probabilities.

 

Inside there is the suppressed repository in ethereal murmurs,

though we can deny their notes

see only the ravages of evil’s talons

amid the layers and lattices in life.

But if the spirit has ears in all that chaos,

what comes when we stop our chants of complaint

long enough to discover the still small voice,

like a wind in its subtle sway,

is something so serene and comforting.

 

Will it irradiate the tyranny

of Satan’s thumbprint from the earth

then bring an end to all inequity?

History’s scribe has never recorded a period

for the story of that dominion.

 

Yet, despite the perils, pains, tears and struggle,

peace has only been the mantle of my sorrow

when I let it be from the Lord’s raiment,

embraced by a trust that has accepted

though it might not be seen by others,

all I have encountered

affirms for me in many ways that can’t be explained,

which covers me and grants me sight

through something beyond myself

truly eternal and alive no matter what others say.

A MOMENT OF FLARE

Morning

summoned a smile

as a dream

became

one grateful textured entity.

I was consumed

having my heart

glow

in the aftermath.

These are the rarest

of memory’s diamonds

and I wish

they could be

turned

into a necklace.

Perhaps

instead

at Heaven’s gate

it will become

a crown, which fits.

 

Ribbons of Love

Black her mind had once so felt,

when a mother's worst fear came into her life.

It is a reminder of her first child's grave

where so long she wept and grieved.

 

Husband's love, soothed and endured sadness,

only wearing black now for special occasions, but without the tears.

Still a ribbon is added to her white hat,

silent hugs for the precious heart lost,

that she'll never stop loving.

 

Must Be The Wind

I caught a whiff of perfume once

it summoned a tapestry in my head,

stirred a seething pot in visions,

as I knew the woman who has that scent

somehow would be a rose,

a perfect fragrance from some garden

where I could thrive

be so very alive

take this insanity

and wipe it away like a chalkboard,

build anew some house

filled with all the things

that I had never owned.

 

Then I chased that aroma

across a field and through the night

left sweaty and exhausted,

my eyes stinging and heart pounding,

but without a kiss or touch

to take me where I craved

beyond this litter laden life.

 

Still held onto that idea

somewhere that origin of sweet odors

had a face and place I could dwell,

only it just remained a vapor

another smell without a promise

must be the wind

was my quivering complaint

like the clouds I dreamt as pillows

who never could be reached.

 

 

Laughter

It echoes in our hearts and always stays alive

from the days where the world is fill with light,

those are the treasures, which make us rich,

give us smiles and we hold as a warmth so cherished.

 

What beauty there is on the joy that comes

while we remember the gold in another’s life

that shines constantly inside to bring happiness in any quiet.

 

 

-the bitter, the killer, the sinner the poet

Another injustice

rips over the throat

like a razor’s edge,

inside it adds to the pot of resentments

one more reason to see the world

as a cruel and harsh climate

without any chance for hope or change.

 

The thoughts boil in the heart

they simmer as a scalding stew

slowly burning within

so only rage flows in the veins

then visions dance through the mind

of murderous solutions to the pain,

countless enemies butchered so graphically

before exhaling the hate like  an aftertaste

for some disgusting bad meal.

 

Suddenly feeling so filthy

utterly stained by the numerous emotions,

which conjure only evil without any redemption.

 

A pause in the quivering madness

before picking up a pen,

and spill that vile phlegm choking life

onto a page of dark passages.

 

It’s not enough to silence the feelings,

but in verse there is solace

for it at least makes artistry

out of times in life

that might otherwise

end with blood stains and seething seconds.