How dare I write about love. Still new to this world in the eyes of knotted woods. “Every child begins the world again,” and there are tread paths to follow. My eyes have seen some sunlit canopies, and I have seen stars through the leaves, and they have lighted my way in many a dark, unexplored night. I’ve seen deep inky caves, and crisp mornings in corn stalk plots, but the eyes of sewing needles have seen what I have not. Sewing needles not complicated, not bogged down or spiral eyed, a simple needle that’s hard to find.
image: JonathanCohen, colon+right.bracket
–
Respectful sounds heard ringing aloud above the ground.
Skeleton Sam waited till the sun had set.
Pushing up the lid the thought struck sound.
Skeleton Sam, a respectable fellow couldn’t believe he was dead.
The moonlight beamed through willow trees and lofty lichen.
Walking down the hill the sound of windy teeth.
Skeleton Sam denied the turn the time had taken.
Instead of dining down in town he was s’posed to be buried beneath.
The more he thought the more the loss of life unfair.
Wheeling around and heading to town fast as he could.
Down the sloping trail anger replaced despair.
Skeleton Sam a respectable man, with intentions not so good.
He approached the town and the gate rose o’er the sky.
And the sight of Sam did make the town crier cry.
“The undead have come!” but Sam spoke “Listen here,
I’d like to speak with the man you call your leader.”
But the man just shrieked and he did not flee he flew.
And as he ran off he said with a cough “Our leader ain’t talkin’ to you!”
Our friend Sam ever did ram
the walls that stood round the city.
The guards came down because of the sound,
and opened the gates with a crash!
And Skeleton Sam’s bones they did beat,
and burned till they were nothing but ash.
Now Skeleton Sam lies in the ground.
Only a pile of dust (not a sound!)
His respectable ruins are carried by ants,
And he helps give birth to many respectable plants.
She always smiled at me
and I always wore my intentions on my sleeve.
Or so I believed.
But none of us are that complex,
we are all see though obvious.
Swirling mists
on a swirling sea.
Our sleeves are hard to see.
She always smiled at me,
and all I could ever see was green.
And so I believed.
You always smiled at me,
and somewhere hurricanes ripped up beachside trees.
A simple step a simple glance,
Falldown crash steady pace and snare angels dance round the sides of your head a scramble-brain and a soft voice to keep at ease record scratching voice like, like, like footsteps echo down the hall bring me back hard sole shoes bristle and cold, reflection of the sound in the shine tile a lie to the brain a trick of the shade a day’s a day no longer than any other silver night snow slept while I wept at my window the face in the tile wished me goodnight the drama the line skewed in the light of mind gimmick flash shine upon trash tricks here and gone drone of a lovers life where there’s no love at all and I stare outside and pretend I’m all alone the gone the hope.
–
When the sun sinks
sets down on the backs of the land
and black veins rise up
serene and still
then red haze
and my red veins dialate
and black rains fall
serene and still
Slung over a dune at the beach
after severing all ties, my eyes can reach
clouds pushing water down round the world.
Why are we here, is the question each
of us asks. When will the answer be unfurled
and presented to us, a pill bug uncurled.
I won’t hold my breath waiting for that peach.
The triangles on the skin of my hand
match the triangles I drew in the sand
they separate and recreate
and turn into all of the thoughts that I had.
My mind’s eye dilates and I evaluate
each image as it fluctuates, dissipates,
Makes me sad.
If the meaning of life were revealed,
I’d feel claustrophobic. It would yield
the possibility of perfection. I’d be ground
in ground, unable to move, knee deep in a field
of answers, giving the game away. Forever around
those who are golden gate bound.
I prefer the rules concealed.
The things we do will never last
an eternity. Think of all the things past
that are no more. Even if we try to scrawl
and scribe, our work will sink in oceans vast.
Books and books they line the wall,
thousands took to write them all.
The great sink last, with the mast.
On this beautiful golden beach I lay
beside the meaning I have today.
Granted it may change, but so will I.
Those still statues can wait and pray
for a sign, a message from on high.
My meaning is what I decide.
Seasinks
acraein 