This is beauty
A warm southerly
Like the breath of a lover
Leading me gently
To where I will go
Sweet air
Aniseed spiced
Fennel and chervil
Dandelion clocks
Shine between buttercups
Golden glowing
All along my going
Up to where skylarks
Whisper their prayers
In the cloisters of heaven
Echoing so clearly
in the so gentle quiet
Of a soft summer morning. #poetry
To every person who has shown me kindness
To every person who has injured me
I will cherish and nurture the memory of you until the flame of my life is snuffed out of existence: Equally
For you have made me, and I can only hope for better or worse I enriched the making of you as well
hand-me-down threadbare heirlooms
of common sense and stock phrases
well intentioned tools to short-circuit
critical thoughts
as if we're afraid to be asked or ask
questions we have to think about
too scared to admit we don't know
and that not knowing is default human
but even more afraid to say the clean thing -
not having time to try to find out
is what left us for dead
before we rose, zombie
The mind's a needle that draws a thread:<br></br>the body, knotted in the head,<br></br>secured by axons to its guide.<br></br>They dart through fibers woven tight<br></br>and restless seek the other side<br></br>of veils they've fashioned on their travels.<br></br><br></br>As they cross paths, they bind and tangle,<br></br>and jockey for the perfect angle<br></br>to sew a stitch of their design<br></br>on a sheet of endless space and time;<br></br>but when the thread cuts free at last, <br></br>the needlepoint’s all that remains:<br></br>the fabric of the veil unravels.<br></br>
The death toll in Kharkiv has risen to 7, and the number of injured to 23. The enemy had previously struck with S-300 and S-400 missiles. Russians hit #Kharkiv and Lyubotyn with 15 missiles at once
your eyes and the pour of time
through my breached defences
i am uncertain of my edges now
aware of the mixing swirl
of a cosmos in which we are the dance
of endless restless smallness
we are the coalescence of waveforms
mingling in a glance
itself embroiled in the everything
a sharing of the tales light tells
a charge, a spark in the shadows
when the wind sings
and the trapped sails drift
then turn
wheat ears between the stones
serving the gritty rumble
and nearby in the sun
we are testing the dirt
for the survival hope of small insects
and whether we will dash them
or offer mercy
the blade isn't an answer today
wasn't an answer then, for me
heated to sterile because the drama of fire
licking the steel was cinematic
though predictably gauche
and i choked
lacking blood enough
to restore the scorched sands to life
lacking the conviction
i could ever be clean enough
to not infect the knife
this is the prize game
played for art as embodied
in the warpaint built from joy
and raw practiced skill
surgery of light and shade
colour as scalpel and graft
The best of life is left unlived:<br></br>the mass of moments absent mind,<br></br>explosions over in an instant<br></br>that leave a trace of warmth behind.<br></br>An afterimage of<em> la petite mort</em>,<br></br>the comfort of oblivious sleep;<br></br>the edges of experience blur<br></br>and hint at blisses we can’t keep.<br></br><br></br>The best parts lie just out of grasp,<br></br>we tell ourselves; we keep content<br></br>to live beyond the reach of joy<br></br>until our lives are fully spent.<br></br><br></br>These fleeting things that sight can’t bear,<br></br>these haunting ghosts of ecstasy,<br></br>leave deep lacunas lingering<br></br>in yet-unwritten history.<br></br>They leave the dreams of coming days<br></br>dyed in inverted afterglows:<br></br>the ache for something yet to be,<br></br>a secret glee that no-one knows.<br></br><br></br>So this, it seems, is pleasure’s form: <br></br>a blip upon the radar screen.<br></br>Chased with dauntless vigor, <br></br>but hardly ever seen.<br></br>