The Flowery Wings Of Love

From Heaven
a child
waits to be born
watching angels
bring love
unto a couple.

When it blossoms
this infant
shall be their winged rose.

Puzzle Pieces

They hold the pieces in the hand,
keep them covered to hide their image,
still it makes you want to know
even more what they possess,
so they speak their words,
only you have no idea if it is accurate.

And some day, some where
that puzzle will be finished,
yet perhaps never for you to see,
or maybe eventually they will,
but long after they have forgotten
what they told you it really was.

Inside though there are the memories
of the times such puzzles held real answers,
makes it so hard to not look again
unto the same source for solutions.

If only you could be sure
these who possess those pieces
were willing to be honest,
yet it never happens.

All you get to do
is take their word and plan with fragile hope
that however the image is in reality
you plans around what you’re told
will be beneficial and not a joke.

A Tapestry Of Hope In the Soul’s Night

Poor wretched soul dipped in darkness
beguiled by the black lures of despair,
before lips of love erupt in the fireworks of hope
to ignite in that bleak night sky
the manifold explosions of encouragement,
flashes of care’s claret hues,
amber auras from compassion’s booms,
each emerald sudden surge in haloed hues
of the deep warmth from inspiration.

Sapphire blasts of love’s deep booming display
blend with the amethyst shade of devotion,
until a wounded heart can feel their precious tapestry
hung over the bleakest of inner midnights.

Oh blessed radiance of illumined fans in rainbow light
who take the suffering spirit
out of that abyss of sadness and sorrow
so the intense array in iridescent warm
heals that seeping gash of depression.

It is all the artistry of one life painting another
with the strokes that inflame a reason to never give up.

The Staircase

I have look upwards through the sky
to see the terraces of my dreams,
the places fill with my lives
that I thought I wanted to be,
a published writer, an executive,
marriage and family,
it all dwelled where I could claim
provided I just ascended
every step of effort needed.

But time tests and transforms
what is your visions
found a love of writing,
which is my passion
though lies outside the publisher’s walls,
become a supervisor instead of vice president,
yet discovered a joy at that level of work,
and accepted marriage with family
meant something totally different
than I first imagined.

Success and accomplishment for me
were an inward journey of learning,
to embrace with understanding a peace
where my feet had actually trod,
for I came to truly find happiness
when I looked for the gems
among the places I had come.

It was more reward to me
since I learned to see
all the blessings that had come
rather than what faded from my hopes.

Incense

Musky scents clinging to the nostrils,
inhaled in the cool and dark silence
when wandering that antique store’s special room
draped pulled shut to protect from sunlight,
blue tear drop shaped lamp with ivory shade
only source of illumination,
littered with so many collectibles
from old tin fire truck and brown wooden toy chest,
so like the ones you own decades ago,
the feel of those had crafted furnishings,
stirs the mind’s embers
remembering the past with warmth and intensity
because it inspires the joy that once dwelt
in the play land of the days
where happiness was innocence,
beds were oceans sailed in dreams,
dressers the vaults of fantasies
and desks enchanted castles.

Going home the simple caress
of that store’s many treasures,
it summoned the joy once so cherished,
a visit to a private Neverland existing in the head,
in the incense of memory,
infused with the bond to symbols,
from times when heaven
was a holiday in make believe escapes,
lingers a spell for aged thoughts
as the moments in the heart
you love to revisit,
conjured so naturally and magically
once entering the door to yesterday
found anywhere the aroma of recollection
exudes in flashbacks from the familiar.

The Snares Of Yesterday

Cardboard coffins that once held dreams
preserve the collectibles that now are trash,
what looked like treasure
when buying that souvenir on a trip
is now some mangled mess in a box,
another memory crushed and crumbled.

Ten years of that, "it looks so cool,
got to have it,"
then it ends up buried in the closet
had left us a litany of head scratching moments
spent trying to decide
if this thing we couldn’t even recognize
was now trash or jewel.

The rule being when in doubt
keep it in case of emergency
although having no idea
how a giant pink plastic fly swatter
as big as a frying pan
and bought from this Stuckey’s truck stop,
truly qualified as valuable.

Naturally there were the additional items
you can’t do without when moving,
have to buy new dishes, pots and pans
linens, throw rugs, plus plants,
yet can’t get rid of the old ones
in the event some alien cooties attack
who totally devour the things purchased.

That was my son’s explanation
for needing to keep an old worn out baseball glove,
which doesn’t really fit,
but he got in a trade for marbles
his cousin had convinced him at one time
were really magic beans.

The Robe

She sits in the old leather chair of calling,
her naked flesh tingling less from the cold chamber's air
than the icicles of anticipation over what will happen
once she passes through the massive redwood doors
that speak with the chants of priests guardians
knowing inside her future waits with promises of pain and ecstasy.

For there the guild of time sorcerers prepares
to drape her in the shimmering emerald robe for her coronation
as Queen of her world,
being a princess transcending the quite serenity of a carefree life,
for the duties of a monarch.

But she knows from the secret council of light witches
how the moment she dons her garments
the weave will summon in her mind
all the memories of her people's past,
feeling their sufferings and joys,
so she will be able to rule with wisdom.

In her soul will burn the power of celestial incantations
shedding her innocence for the awakening
where her mind will drink from a chalice of starlight
stirring stunning images of ancient wisdom's spirits.

Yet she knows, this short trip to her destiny
will also bring its searing seconds of agony
a brief burden of screams to purge her life
from any lingering essence in selfishness.

Then the power of love will glow in perfect harmony,
allowing her to ascend the silver throne
that exists in the alabaster castle riding in the clouds
where the anointed king, her betrothed, seen only in her sleep
shall embrace her for the first time.

With her mind racing in a thousand unanswered questions
the next few minutes are walked on a tightrope of passions,
insides swimming tempest sea in thoughts,
half of her wishing for the past and fearing the future
while the other feels relief to at least have her dream finally become reality.

The Last Drop

where every person's car is a chariot of freedom
and individual pride flowed from the shear joy
of tooling down the road in glorious solitude
even if it was to the grocery store two blocks away.

But while donor a kidney
becomes the fear over today's gas prices,
in my sunny paradise there was time in the 70's
when we had to face gas rationing,
which meant you could only fill up on certain days,
this caused long lines at gas stations with tempers raging from the stress.

On more than one occasion did I have to get up at dawn
to drive over to the local station and sit in a line of fifty cars leading down the street,
hoping they didn't run out of gas before I got filled up.

Most of the time, we all bore it with coffee and donuts
a few forced smiles and doing our best not to scream from the insanity.

But instance stuck in my mind most of all,
one rare time of pure gas elation
because a moment of pure inspiration deserved applause.

It happened when we were in line and the man in front of me was next,
only some jerk zoomed in from the street
apparently on fumes since he ran out of gas and had to push his car
up to the vacated pump.

Well the man in front of me remained calm,
merely strolled up to the clown's car
suddenly removing a locked gas cap from his pocket.
slapping it on the offender's car
getting a standing ovation from all of us who got out and stood to celebrate
before he got back to his car and drove off.

Perhaps it wasn't the perfect solution,
yet at that moment it was pure poetry
of a way to turn the strain of petroleum crisis
into a second of pure, fumes in euphoria.

Terra

I am the ageless abode of eternal hope,
a bottomless well for love's purest nectar,
and the endless gale in creation's breath.

My vestments stretch in leagues of layers
that I take eons to change
with time and nature as my tailors.

Garlands of mountain ranges adorn my wardrobe,
massive mantles of valleys are a patchwork quilt
of the vest worn in constant vigil,
seas and streams,
the sustenance perspiration of my quintessence,
which flows from my watch care
over every heart that I have given life.

When my mood shifts with the sway from the sun,
they come in months of temperamental urges,
icy impulses spreading their wintry freeze over my garments,
subtle teases of happiness flower forth in spring expressions,
air electrified when joy's energy burns in summer's hues
before autumn's exhales its calming caress.

Pain from the shameless violations of my body
produce the deepest aches to my being,
besetting shockwave tremors that shudder my vast girth of flesh,
while the turmoil over churning currents in my airy shield
stirs with thunderous stormy tests.

How I keep the secrets of my children's labors,
their desire's for invention and conflagration buried in my pores,
until one generation joins another in forever's sleep,
sending the ghosts of their visionary vapors into the night
so they will touch minds of those still alive with inspiration's dreams.

But through it all,
what I cherish most of, all deep in the searing core of my marrow,
is the precious times of a soul's awakening
who listens to the words I send through a spiritual wind,
until their eyes can understand and embrace with faith
how my form and face bears the brand marks
of God's fingerprints.

http://allpoetry.com/contest/2409173

And I Saw

And I saw
heaven spread before my eyes
in the nakedness of my wounds
where faith lead to sacrifice.

Raise in the mind
as hill that must be ascend
for the soul can’t sleep
just in a meadow.

Yet, sunrise bursts by God’s hand,
there is such fire that comes
deep into the moment
far into the heart.

Then gazing through it all,
the pain, the choices and times of falling
with bruises ever in need of healing,
still there is peace
when watching that mound
reached by so many
during the trail of trust.

Climbing through the tears
isn’t a sorrow
because the Lord blows
His winds of grace
over those who make the journey.

Silent Rings Singing Strangeness

The wind whirls its wafting wand upon acres of wheat
whispering ways that guide to circles of oddity’s treat,
complex symbols crafted as an enigmatic images feat
whose artists are secretive and keep their origins discreet.

So speculation postulates the mysteries purposed as gain
from those sculpted shapes that everyone wants to explain,
appearing suddenly without reason in a field of grain
being a workmanship with clarity we’ve yet to obtain.

Are they the work of some angels just wanting to be merry
or the consequence of spells left by a bored tooth fairy?
Perhaps aliens made them being so mystical and contrary
unless some pranksters thought it was humor’s perfect cherry.

No single theory has ever managed to complete absolve
what made plain amber waves to by rings totally evolve,
ever finding a provable reason to make the question’s dissolve
leaving it one curiosity the crazy stories didn’t make resolve.

Somewhere there is a truth that remains to be told
hopefully it will get figured out before we grow too old,
just a dose of sanity, making it something logical to behold
and not another bizarre tale only a nut will treat as gold.

Personally I really hope it is some extraterrestrials having fun
that will eventually come around when their antics are done,
stopping by and solving the mess we’ve got under the sun
without deciding to wipe us out with some deadly laser gun.

Changing Lanes

Cruise control premeditations
plotted ambitions floored in accelerator lusts,
line of sight optimism envisions green light fantasies,
destination's map written with victory's compass quill
one way signs prophesized to limelight garage.

Fate's accidents bring bottleneck dismay,
directional lever philosophy induced to suppress panic
flashers broadcast wavering credibility,
brakes become therapy for crippling confidence,
regrettably changing avenues, dreading turn signal slavery.

Pieces

Love is the puzzle
you spend a lifetime
trying to put together,
but always know
when it fits perfectly.

Home

The place I live between dwell within my heart
where I dream and contemplate the world outside
among the tears and laughter I helped create
just decorating it with furnishings of my decisions
while spending the time either hating or loving their look.

Tunnel Vision

The long dark walk
through the tunnel
where life was detoured
where the sun died
and the heart was tortured
by snakes and spiders
is pushed into a corner of the brain,
while seeing the light at the end,
a final reprieve from the terror
as a smile replaces a cringe
with a hope there is better
beyond this crippling corridor.

Still looking back
because, no matter how horrible,
has its own strange addictive essence.

So a stare back into that journey’s marks
before finally walking into the light,
perhaps the claws of abuse,
which dwell on that black stroll
won’t reach into this day,
it’s worth the escape
if only to feel the reprieve
from the screams and shudders.

Tomorrow's Eyes

Her stare is silent and magically piercing,
a calm gaze of cherub innocent orbs
that veils her sight,
which is able to probe into any deepest thoughts.

Born on a fairy's wings,
daughter of a god and queen,
carried by stardust beams
and brought into loving couple's life
who couldn't have any children of their own.

Princess who caringly rules over hearts
with her special enchanting powers,
making a charmed castle
out of the humble house of her earthly parents,
filling their days with nothing, except smiles,
nights always serenaded
by spellbound visits from sprites and angels.

Blessed with eyes
able to see other's tomorrow,
which she touches in hope,
knowing in the fate of faces she encounters
for what their future promises.

Living as an ordinary girl
to those she meets,
but always smiling
for the happy endings she secretly creates.

Patiently spreading joy throughout each day
while waiting for that time
when the love of her life,
an offspring of a goddess and king,
will come unto her arms,
so they can create a perfect world
where there are more smiles than tears.

Heaven

Sanctuary mirages possessing assuring lips
clothed in choir eloquence
candle shining deliverance's beacon
into the eye's crevices.

Never noticing the horns and daggers
possessing the cherub glint
of the self imposed sacred minion
holding the invitation with your name.

Guided down a path so mellow
until the stones turn deceptive and inferno.
Abyss trap down opens
as one slides down a burning pole of excuses.

Snakes of regret slither over one's body
pit has stench from vomited seduction,
purgatory's welcome sign tattoo on one's chest
with pontification's branding iron
by a supposed sage.

Whisper how making love is a test of faith
before restraining with phylactery bonds
then defiling one's soul in hideous terror.

Aftermath leaves broken spirit
shaking from the sensory carnage,
still clinging to pole as an automaton repose,

Willingly taking out wallet
when PA speaker blares it is offering time,
because they say
you can't enjoy heaven
without a taste of hell.

Where Is Heaven?

I never found it in the pews
or the faces of those
who spoke of faith
and God’s love on Sunday,
but forgot it all on Monday morning.

It wasn’t real in the words
heard from the thundering pulpits,
nor did prayers that only seemed
to hang on the wind
without a recognizable reply
make me persuaded
something divine truly dwelled
beyond the world where I had survive.

In the shallows and counterfeit spirituality
my spirit slowly decayed,
inside I grew so cold
unable imagine the Lord was real
when all I found was pain.

All the lectures about scriptures
from broken and bruised hearts
who could hide their misery
behind quoted verses
never inspired or helped me in anyway.

But when I gave up
on all thou shall and shall not,
stopped trying to find heaven
among that whitewashed pillars,
there came a moment of silence
an incense so sweet and serene,
couldn’t explained it,
yet I knew it was the breath of God’s spirit,
and then I learned
once I ceased looking for my idea of the Lord,
He came in my willingness to finally listen
where once I only tried to question.

Tell All Dinner

Coming out of the closet
during dinner
isn’t good timing
when dad is trying
to hug my bible thumping boss.

The Snares Of Yesterday

Cardboard coffins that once held dreams
preserve the collectibles that now are trash,
what looked like treasure
when buying that souvenir on a trip
is now some mangled mess in a box,
another memory crushed and crumbled.

Ten years of that, "it looks so cool,
got to have it,"
then it ends up buried in the closet
had left us a litany of head scratching moments
spent trying to decide
if this thing we couldn’t even recognize
was now trash or jewel.

The rule being when in doubt
keep it in case of emergency
although having no idea
how a giant pink plastic fly swatter
as big as a frying pan
and bought from this Stuckey’s truck stop,
truly qualified as valuable.

Naturally there were the additional items
you can’t do without when moving,
have to buy new dishes, pots and pans
linens, throw rugs, plus plants,
yet can’t get rid of the old ones
in the event some alien cooties attack
who totally devour the things purchased.

That was my son’s explanation
for needing to keep an old worn out baseball glove,
which doesn’t really fit,
but he got in a trade for marbles
his cousin had convinced him at one time
were really magic beans.

Frozen

Icicles cling the mind
of wintry lips that blew their blizzard,
which froze the sky and dreams
until all that was left
is a barren wasteland to wander,
a place in the head you are so frigid,
so trapped in a hibernation cave,
doesn’t matter what the sun brings
because the chill breathed over life
by some stingy icy words
leaves the frostbite marks on the skin,
until it becomes hideous
totally mutated from any idea of beauty.

Age can’t heal the ugliness imagined,
inside it just grows and spreads in the power
over what the eyes can see.

When those abominable creatures appeared
who stalked where we hide
they violate what shred of sanity lives,
mangle the very core of what you are
and leave a wounded heart
to bleed to death in their absence.

Yet, you don’t die in the process,
instead you cope like surviving a storm,
still it doesn’t undo the carnage experienced
or the times spend indulging
where life turns selfish and brutal.

Even though they are memories
driven by the holes in needs,
the sense of guilt molests the calm
ever left to only see something hateful
in the layers of your flesh.

The Voice Within

I am a heartbeat
that has a sound often lost
amid the shouts and screams,
which ring out from so many sources
come with their pains into my head.

Yet the echoes of my throbbing
still linger and refuse to be silence
as I remain that voice within
every searching for my place
among all the masks that exists.

And even when the roar
rises from so many mouths,
even when machines and other sources
smother the world for attention
for me I continue to ring my inner chime
because it is part of who I really am,
so share it to be sure
that I don’t get lost while treading water
in that sea called humanity.

It’s enough at times to know
how what lies in my essence
is what I try to express,
sometimes with embellishments,
which convey some diversity of me,
but always so what is seen
really will end up being what I am.

The Point Of Being

Days spent listening to the song of need,
a grandson whose young mind wants to know,
my son with his frustrations in need of an ear,
spouse who vents words by stress,
they are all the songs of life I feel and accept
on my what to rise each morning
as the walk through the hours
means dwelling with hands
that must help and healing,
guide, love and support.

Moving from that precipice of stress
unto the lair of labor
spent full time on my weekends,
to cope with every client need,
to help built their service dreams
while coping with all the things that never work.

It is all the memories and the sounds
that sit in my head when I rise each morning,
the countless realities that I wear as life,
yet they are the motivations an passions,
which move through my heart,
reach inside and shake off any lethargy
as I feel each flicker of their calls
each demand and duty that lingers
in their point of being on my heart.

This is the pulse that moves and inflames,
gives me the desire to rise and live
where sunset comes with joy
while the Lord holds my hope as more
when I can reflect on the hours of light,
truly feeling I did what was right
in all the paths I had to follow.

The Meaning Of Life

Why is the world full of teachers
that want you to learn lessons they never learned,
offer experience and insight,
which is based on best guess
and call wisdom the same as dumb luck?

It is like life is really a maze of doors,
all requiring the need of keys,
but the only ones you can find
always fit the locks you can’t find.

So some sit and spew their philosophies
others suppressed the frustration
with their own version of hope.

When they are done it becomes
their abiding, supposedly all knowing synopsis
about what is the meaning of life
as if somewhere they had a master key
and actually took a peek in every room.

So goes the circle walked,
the labor that always ends where it began
left with nobody as the real winner in the game
where the best fun is debating the rules.

Now let’s flip a coin to make all decisions,
figure out great excuses for everything we do wrong,
then spin around until we get dizzy,
by then we can let all we do make sense,
give us point and purpose
even though tomorrow it just won’t matter
because so new whim will be our god.

Always Eyes

It’s the blurs seen in the corner of eye
that leaves the cringing feeling someone was there
only long enough to spy out your privacy,
then comes stabbing sense they are still looking,
carefully keeping tract of every flaw,
which they report to others in distorted facts.

At night it only gets more intense
for the darkness can hide so much
as the mind wanders to that fun house of screams
because only evil lurks with such gazes,
never does goodness to offer help.
Something incredibly wicked is observing
will they carry their plots to a murderous end,
but do it in a butcher’s pride of slaughter
to make a nightmare of the terror they cause?

The head spins from the anxiety and fears
for you can’t hold onto a single fact
so personal and intimate,
which won’t be discovered by their prowess,
slowly eroding away any confidence
you can preserve any part of life
without someone knowing its details.

What digs at the guts is the silence,
those unspoken words trapped behind a stare,
inside you just know
they are hiding what was told to them
by the one’s who have been watching.

How long before this feeling
of living in a fish bowl
bleeds away any remaining sanity?
When it happens will they stop prying,
stop raping my life of what is confidential?
Or will it be another case
where to maintain harmony
my fate will be as a missing person?

Living with that tension
always causes such stress
for you can’t fight what is invisible
merely find a way to get rid of those
you suspect of being their minions.

The Meaning Of Life

Why is the world full of teachers
that want you to learn lessons they never learned,
offer experience and insight,
which is based on best guess
and call wisdom the same as dumb luck?

It is like life is really a maze of doors,
all requiring the need of keys,
but the only ones you can find
always fit the locks you can’t find.

So some sit and spew their philosophies
others suppressed the frustration
with their own version of hope.

When they are done it becomes
their abiding, supposedly all knowing synopsis
about what is the meaning of life
as if somewhere they had a master key
and actually took a peek in every room.

So goes the circle walked,
the labor that always ends where it began
left with nobody as the real winner in the game
where the best fun is debating the rules.

Now let’s flip a coin to make all decisions,
figure out great excuses for everything we do wrong,
then spin around until we get dizzy,
by then we can let all we do make sense,
give us point and purpose
even though tomorrow it just won’t matter
because so new whim will be our god.

Schisms

And the sky screamed
a rip in the seam of my head,
out of the tree
that grew in my heart.
I plucked a cherry of withering
to cover the crack
growing in my calm
because sunset couldn’t be killed.

But light dies regardless of its heat,
wind ceases no matter its fierceness,
truth felt in fertility
won’t keep it from being barren
even when I dream
the magic of chains

for irony is cancer
having no cure

wishes forged in staples
never is a miracle

it just a season
held as an illusion
during a migration of awakening.

Truths

In the bushes where the mind wanders
as grassy blades of thoughts
that hide their meaning,
one afternoon of quiet,
a simple stare into the ordinary
and suddenly the world changes
all you know vanishes
from what you expect to be tomorrow.

When it is comes
like some discovery,
sharp as a knife stuck in the chest,
the piercing pain of truth,
it slicing away at your reality.

When the view
finds the one you presume
was the love of your life,
who is kissing somebody else,
hands must decide
if you slip away and pretend it never happen
or face that fact
with knowing what you cherish most
will die in the confrontation.

My Box Of Droplet Diversions

I have my leaded sky treasure trove
of ways to cope with those downpours in droplets,
first is my collection of DVD’s,
only the ones I can get for five dollars each
so filled with the lamest and silliest movies there are,
just helps to turn my mind to mush on stormy days.

Then I have my assortments
in those old magazines and National Inquirers
where I can look up those annual psychic predictions
about the future fate of the world,
so far it is it is psychics zero in terms of accuracy,
but it sure is fun to read again
about the aliens who were supposed to come,
the utopia that they claimed was going to happen
even the cure for every disease,
which makes for a fun laugh to read again.

Oh I also have my list of special phone numbers to call
like the customer service people at the cable company
love to dial them up and ask something absurd
such as if they have the life after death channel yet?

Just no end to the distractions a creative mind can imagine,
pity some have no appreciate for that inspiration,
doesn’t seem like those people at the pizza take out place
have much of a sense of humor
when I call and ask if pizza sauce really causes warts
or if they give discounts for road kill toppings?

Alas it is hard to be a poet on some showering times
because not all appreciate my efforts
at a different kind of expression.

Oh Elysium

Oh Elysium of my Lord’s palm
where His fingers reach to grace the dawn,
our souls cleave there in golden recline,
awakened and filled with Your plumes divine,
the habitats of light, pure and sublime.

This is the ascendancy of grace,
an eternal balm of true awakening,
forever blessed in the boundless bounty
of the kindred forever kiss from His will,
found and embraced always
through the loving spread of His empowerment.

And we’ll dream the food of angels,
and we’ll sing the immortal clarity
finally out of our mortal cocoon,
always the cherub at last let to fly
unto the manifold chambers of anointing
that we are called in His predestined will.

Alas in serenity we are dipped
among the legions redeemed
nestled into that nurturing dawn of becoming,
one perfect habitat of sublime perfection.

Through the eons we reside
within the abode of our predestined essence,
by His word thus sealed
into that residence of fulfilling,
a mansion in this world’s mortal frame of reference,
a dwelling place where we at least
cease sleeping in our understanding
finally the butterfly is released,
our spirits achieve the harmony in purpose
that was written in the Book of Life.

Sacred

It is the place
you leave your fingerprints
when nobody is watching.