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I come here when there is no place left. When rooms become filled with the letters of conversants; when buildings are filled with walls seeing everything that passes as mere functionaries to an insistence on being sturdy but blank. I come here when the streets are filled with airs of the mounting disasters that are funneled down each one and every sidewalk has become a construction zone of improbabilities, all possibilities thrown onto the piles of diggings. I come here most of all, to be alone.
I see the possibilities for myths waiting in places we never think about: an alley's end, beneath stairs, in the tracks of birds in snow, balanced in dew on a blade of grass. When stories ceased being told, legends' heros became aged. The words grew dry, blown away on winds no longer the breath of gods they served. To find them means new words for new stories. To be found for them would be to become, the soft light of resonance that marks a shafdow's cadence. Proof to us the earth still spins.
So few are left that remember how permanent the hours were made to be, the minutes elongated to leaden the thirst by terror aroused. So they kept the seconds to themselves, like names. The precious, dire seconds to live in, hid them behind sunken eyes that stopped seeing because there was too much to see. The cautious seconds that fed a belief that the world had not gone insane. That somewhere their names were still spoken aloud. Even as the snow of ashes, fell delicately to the ground.
The rain that had been falling Was made of dark blue-gray light As if the sky was weeping A hurt it did not understand. Somewhere in the woodland Within a fold of earth Pairs of eyes kept watch As Nature was laid to rest. There were no special words No prayers were said or thought. The sun stayed away. No shadows Were ever seen again. The only sound, A Mockingbird singing in place Of everyone, a song that remained Above the canopy of trees, A memory that never leaves.
A Word (after Wallace Stevens--Anecdote on a Jar) | I buried a word in Tennessee, Its likeness had not been heard In a fallow field left untouched And in mute listening around it. A tree grew and wild it was. It made look the lay of land No longer simply flat with Grasses, or without sound. It became of all the air, Siren called to that place. Its flowerings bore tender flesh And tasted of all I knew From everywhere.
As softly as I can I yell for you to dance the dance you once danced before I knew you. I want to watch the way your body moves like water falling from a great height. I want to listen to the sounds of your breathing as your body twists and pulls the night from the sky. I want there to be that time before I knew you so I may meet you once again and the world I knew was about to change forever.
Should I protect her shadows Or, does she need the light to hold onto That ennui only saints possess? She has her irises. Is it their beauty she desires, Or, a lust in their dying? Does she a know difference? The sin of pride About her beauty we both carry. What will she do When fear begins to mark The corners of her eyes?What will happen if she finds The world an ugly alley It so easily becomes, And Is no longer dream, But nightmare loose. By the vapidness in the ennui, Only saints possess?
Greece- Once heroes in the minds of living thoughts lived lives alive as any cloud, passed by mortals who inscribed their names in the statuary stories of reverance and memory. The strict reality of stone columns held up temples for the sake of an immortality of answers to a sense of awe about the world both seen and imagined. What glory there was has long gone past and tourists pass cranning necks to see what some one says was once important.>KB
The thing you’ve seen never seemed real enough To mark the kind of light was in a day, gleaned Moments hid away as keepsakes of survival Wrapped in muslin cloths, buried between two trees Marking the boundary between What you were willing to believe and what You were willing to disbelieve and then forget about. So much has happened in front of you, just once I would wish to see through those eyes how life Looks back at you and not think twice about the truth. >KB Russell Mills
The large clock in the lobby, time gone and time to go. Each one waits in his or her own way for the train to come. These are the moments of respite when we are simply passing through A world that does not wait for us but takes it with us to go around The orbit of its nature spinning as it goes despite what our senses tell Us of the more important traveling we do we never have to wait for. >KB J.B.Parker
Waves in seas lift their heads, speak Of their beginnings as though you were A familiar to them and their words as natural To you as gossip among neighbors gardening. You will find it in the corner of your eye Gone when you turn to look for it knowing It would not be there no matter how fast You tried to catch it in its nature >KB Source: robertkingston)
Your molten voice a murmmation of secret birds turning The sky dark for a day and filling night with their cries Of a loneliness so profound it splits statues into pieces Out of the compassion only stone can feel in empathy For the orphaned emotions of the lost and sick of heart. >KB
Do not demean yourselves because you live above The humbled mass of dreams that walk the earth, Stumble through their lies of lives bound by lesser worth. The ground holds nothing for you, not needs or wants, Your desire is one day to leave your branches and fly, Though for now you do not yet have your wings You have faith enough to know to ask the question why.>KB
1. Llight, the simple shape of colors sleek with white, Its body of whispers feathers back the night. 2. Reflection water bright That moves separate from its form. Glides to catch itself up to be whole 3.Fidelity to its mate for life As if it took two to make it one.4.Flight in the way its wings Lift its massive form off the ground To become the essential reason for the sky. 5.Memory to not forget that in their clans is the lineage of mythologies That has its claim to all our lives. >KB
A photo of Picasso One foot planted on the floor The leg bearing all his weight. One hand on his hip the other lifting the material of his shorts Tto allow his free leg to bend, about to kick off into a step no one has ever seen.Not because no one had ever danced it before him, Someone, somewhere, sometime, Had danced a likeness of a likeness, But he made the old step new Because he forgot himself let his soul go free with every step he took Flight was simply not thinking He couldn’t fly. >KB
"All Fiction" by Lori Glavin The trees were blue with red leaves The air calm after storm, cloud Remnants diffused the light. Her skin was soft as a rainbow In my hands, her voice small With gentled laughter. Swallows swept here and there Cutting at the sky with ease. The rest of that day lasted forever. Even now. >KB
Anita Mertzlin--Our lives live a balance, every second tilting this way and that in our fear of falling from the delicate perch we've found of saftey to alight on ike a bird balanced on the thin rim of a china tea cup. We watch the world go by in a wonder of yearning not realizing if we reach out and lose our hold we only need to spread our wings and fly.>KB