There is a unique experience in this interplay between you and I.
As clay is molded, stone chiseled, paste applied and acrylics spread on your canvas thick, redolent of colors unhinging your focus, elsewhere, we breathe in the essence of each others role:
You, my beloved, insightful, brilliant…
Bled Out Of Moon, a spoken word poem by chriswwriter.
Opulence indulges from convergent sunsets
Saying goodnight to us by way of a single
Red Kiss. She reaches down from heavens,
We. Spiraling down our rivulet souls, imposing a cast of golden platelets, from Spring nuances we can only weep cerulean. There, and there, she loves our timid shadows with a hazy paint of evenings made for swing sets and marmalade kittens. The green smells of cherry blossom and hyacinth bring out the crisp bite of spearmint in our rockeries, succulents resplendent in Pacific fog.
Inwardly the change paces me, alone and not. I hate letting go of her icy blue winter, for she cooled my hearts skin in degrees beneath freezing. Yes, I hurt, but I warm now towards….. new. I walk with my hand warm and wiser, lines deeper and more careworn, and alone I shan’t pass untowards my last goodnight. For the fullness of red lips of multifaceted sunsets have bled out of moon onto my glowing embers, and she is the only one I would have kiss my neck, on this slightly lonely, slightly hopeful, and genuine for its intent, spring evening.
In my soul burning loss, I still love deeply.
And that will be my only gift, again, ever.
So many paths lead in one direction
that which is final, that which begins
and I sit wondering
if your hand fits mine,
going that way.
I breathe easy, no express rush
just simple alignment
so maybe I can see
a little bit further.
Today’s trail has comforts and coffee
and sins to explore, and that’s fine
I never get bored, just…
wondering if your hand
Somewhen, between cloud and sky is a line seen and invisible, that place where as children and artists, we draw a line that divides and disappears when life blends in its color and reality.
That is what really matters.
Yes, the beauty of skies that lend dreams a place to soar, counts timeless and without quantifying needs. And yes, that moisture, that science of atmosphere and pressures, the stuff of storms and sunshine, poetry unto its own bleeding necessity, and ours, we need.
But that thin veil betwixt…
It is what counts the most.
What blends our tangents and spaces, what gives form to open ended dreams, and forges to our fires, wherein lays peace, and intention meets action, and pen meets paper, there is a reality that is reality whole, the glue, the binding, magick at work and rest in everything and everyone, the place I want to meet you the most and that when which can only be now. Where I let go and trust in what may be…
What I find is important, that hope.
That place where our skies and
That anger that warms me on a brisk evening, that drives my legs and pumps my sore, groaning knees, my jarred hips.
That ball of heated fear turned secondary and unmedicated like Hemingway and Kerouac didn’t even dream possible…
I’m turning it into something else.
That protracted set of dreams of living like a minimalist with a point, and proving to you petty, over educated gossiping hens, that a piece of paper will make me just like you, and joining the crowd at the expense of my own fucking soul, so I can be cool like you with another tattoo and a herringbone Smith Corona and a bottle of idiocy?
Yeah, that petty, useless jealousy…
I’m turning it into something else.
That trust I never should have gave her, or her, or her…or her. That willowy good nature that got trampled to shit, my entire keyboard and hard drive filled with not good enough and should have known better, that walking over boundaries to justify others burning mine down with a wood match, that hope to die self deifying as if God could care less shit…
I already turned it into something else.
In the space of a few stanzas, a few decent metaphors, and the effort only to be something as good as I already am…
I turned into something else.
Entranced from dream states apart, of and from
night glows notwithstanding, I’m shining from in here,
beacon on your coast.
Could we talk for awhile?
Morning grey cools my coffee, The Fly’s in my headset
tell me how to be about things. Star alignments
mean so little in the facement of choice.
But, “what’s your sign, I’m dying here…”
I understand me, how I walk, what I say
how my couch embraces my warmth as
a lover reaches into me. But, could you
explain this feeling of wanting
to run to the airport, intimately?
The soft rain here makes for soft landings,
and weary heads like soft pillows for
soft dreamscapes, and I think, maybe
I can fall softly to rest with you.
As opposed to landing hard
face up on a tarmac, catching rivulets to quench.
The old church, lifeless and without light nor the dancing necromancy of television reflection, did, indeed, have something to say. In the colicky scream of a babies strained voice.
The only other sound I would endure were my wet footfalls as I ambled away,
|—||pt. 2 of a walk to library in Spring. (via whiteysplace)|
I wonder what it may whisper to me as I walk by….
|—||a walk to the library in Spring. (via whiteysplace)|
When, a place as well as a timestamp, you
Leave your imprint on my work, my page
Leaves an ink trail.
My days revolve around needs, same
As anyone, and you.
I say ‘and you’, because I don’t think, nor
Want to, that you are ‘anyone’.
Expectations are useless here, because flights need to be caught, food needs to be cooked
And bills paid.
But certain flowers need watering,
And crocuses thrive in wet.
I like that.
Did I mention I like your stamp on my letters?
Do you think of them at night only,
In device glow?
Or, as you look out a moving window,
Because isn’t that what life is,
Words to a song
Rolling by with the scenery?
My plans adjust daily, and you evoke..
Wonder in my directions.
I like that, too.
It’s two in the afternoon, here.
And I’m dying to see what
I might stain on your page,
She walked slow, barefoot with painted toes and anklets with pewter bells and moons and
Frogs and stars, jingling softly. She of the long, black skirt, hiding long, black secrets.
Timid they eschewed in their small minds, this red dyed, naked armed witch with a Leather
Bound Tome. They did not see the eyes peering out at them myopically. They dared
Not the understanding in her wizened brows.
They had not a clue of her circumambulation
Around the roomful of poetry now turned book of spells. Her weave was drawing them
In, as a web may ensnare, with a quietly hummed series of chants. Her scent was of
Myrr, holly and apple, and when her voice reached their straining ears, twas the whisper
Of dreams. She fed them metaphors from her hands, contained in each stars and moons,
And her breath was mint in a spring breeze, exotic in the sense only a witch possess.
She sent quiet spells of nature and manna down their ear canals, and they drank Magick,
Down to their hearts, dampening their hunger with inclined beliefs of children’s trust. She
Bowed her head in service of them all, and bespoke thanks in the buzz voice of bees
And hummingbirds. As she closed her spell circle, the blessing complete, she smiled
From eyes afire, as she mounted her royal purple dragon fly, and bade them fortune.
Her spell proved potent, for they all captured the tears of poets in little glass jars.
And they sent them all to her, unburdened.