acraein

Jon Sheffield – Dear Yma

This, the morning of shipwreck,
cut out of trees smeared with wet glue
folded above drifts of orange cream globes,
lighthouse lights and megaphones.
Maple leaf veins take the task of lighting the path
in the absence of the sun.
Below we move,
quiet minds in a quiet mist.
Buildings loom like masts and bully the meek.
They are men telling ghost stories.
They aim to scare, they aim to scare.

Let them be washed away
their crooked eyes and angry bricks.
Be washed away in this shipwreck morning.

image: kayschwag

Tags: Poems, Poetry

Colleen – I’ll Read You A Story

(The video is also incredible)
A silver strand
A single truth
Sharp as glass
Hard as tooth.                             yellow
                                       the        sun
               Yet here it is        in           flowing
                             dancing                 in
                                                   the
                                                summer
                                              air
                                           pecking
                                          grassy
                                           hair
                                            of
                                            trampled
                                                glades.

Setting fire
            to a bear
Sending all of life
                   to Hades
Reckless                    
        Warpath          
                          smoke and
                      the        dark         alone.
                    in           a           stand
          Yet ebbing         glint          to
                              of           meant
                           some          never
                           thing        whole
                              sharp    of
                                   a piece

I stay sitting because I remember who we used to be.
I don't stand up because I know who you are now.
But if you keep pushing I will slowly
                                      tip

                                        off
.
.
                                          the
.
.
.
.
                                          edge.
 image: netzanette

Tags: Poems, Poetry

Rogue Wave – Postage Stamp World

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,

getting killed by avalanche.

Tags: Poems, Poetry

Sounds of Faces – It was just a theory

The world is what you make of it.
It mirrors who you are.
Arming you against yourself.
Selflessness your war.

Reach down to those below
low, low on the threshold
hold fast and true to
two different kinds of soul

one above and one beneath
neither one is grey
raise away
forever more.

image: _Jer_

Tags: Poems, Poetry

Boards of Canada – the devil is in the details

Not what others have done.

–
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

image Jérôme de Lisle

Tags: Poems, Poetry

Burial/Four Tet – Moth

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.

Come and swim with me, my girl of May.

image:Eltjo Poort

Tags: Poems, Poetry

Bombay Bicycle Club – Leaving Blues

”I’ll prove how much I love you with this handstand.”
-Spencer Krug

A place at night to consider things I can’t have.
Gone from our time, the past, she of kings, I can’t have.

Beach boulder perched under ripe light of moonstruck night,
But in mind, she and I, by suns springs I can’t have.

This moon is no sun, this ocean is no fresh stream.
Trashpools round my castle brings birds wings I can’t have.

“T’was my parade of knowing small things of the world
that caught her eye.” Self deceit shows, rings. I can’t have.

My minds filter lets less light in than do my eyes.
And you hold only long straws and strings I cant have.

“It is night but it is light Connor, don’t wallow.”
Did I just hear songs that water sings? I cant have.

image-{Lina}

Tags: Poems, Poetry

Califone – Fruitstand Floor

At all times She commanded the bold sun. Except
when young dusk grew, and His skilled hands washed it in thick ink
I used to pen the stringed dreams I had when I slept.

Her arms spread across the dim expanse and the sun swept
from horizon to sky, but He aimed for it to sink
at all times. She commanded the bold sun except

when the breath of night pushed through the blinds; it’s kept
at bay by halogen orange spun shadows from chain link
I used to pen. The stringed dreams I had when I slept

showed the battle of light They fought. Each one adept
at manipulating the others false move or blink
at all times. She commanded the bold sun. Accept

that Her light of daybreak through the glass so pink, crept.
Her stretching fingers, waking me up from Your dark drink.
I used to pen the stringed dreams. I had when I slept,

learned to shroud myself in my deep thoughts, the light inept
at stepping through; the light that wouldn’t let me think
at all. Times, she commanded the bold sun. Except
when I used to pen the stringed dreams I had when I slept.

image:hbp_pix

Tags: Poems, Poetry