Tag Archives: #prose

Begging You to Forget Me

FALLING i hold onto you
came toward you
you catch me (again)__
i kiss your eyes
you kiss my lips
whispering, ‘Crash.”

How tall your aura
how small your ego
how you forgive me
forgetting my haste
in forgetting
feelings | how we wear
twisted things to be
like each other’s fears |
fascination ~ crash into me
/into me & i remember you
remember you from untold years
ago when the sun was young and
within the night’s sky yet a moon.

:: 11.13.2022 ::

Love Is a Blooming Flower

I am (my love is) love as if you were
the free rising winds
of life or arrow
of roses and thorns that disperse despair!

I love you as towering buildings
stand tall and thunderheads speak
with lighting;

my nature is natural to love you as the
plant that blooms and carries beauty
hidden within itself until the light of sun
brings forth those flowers as my heart
blooms for you when the world sleeps.

I am there I love you as mystery breaths
the interest of wondering minds and the
dense fog of some- time life is difficult
but mostly I am deeply
appreciative that there is no I or you,
only our hands entwined by faith, love,
devotion and time.
I love you.

:: 11132015 ::

By Love or by Might

        if by love or by might

             my love i'd fight     

               having you for 
                   life i would

if by might
giving within by
my love i’d fight

          if by love or by might

:: 10.11.2022 ::

Deepest Fall

Gone away like a moonbeam that has only passed over me

Why did I not know that she had left me for good?

The night is shattered and she is not with me.

The wind is silent tonight. The stars shiver in the sky.

My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture

What does it matter that my love could not keep her?

The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all.

Deepest Fall.

:: 120.07.2022 ::

I’m Sorry I Made You Cry

The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree are of equal duration. A people without history is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern of timeless moments.

Even the memory of love lasts only so long, and has to fade, as if from cold, like breath of the night. How strange it is that two more towering trees, hardy and sharp as they are, should meet and then fall in perfect balance like an old door, but still there is in the background a suggestion of sunshine and a bird sings a song of song to the rustle of the leaves, when the roses are bright and the yews still leafless and brown.

A bird sang with such intense meaning, which it had only heard once, when it had lived in harmony with its creator. But now it feels as though it had lived in the song, and its existence is as brief as that of its ancestors, which did not die because they had forgotten their time, or because they had no time, and their love did not last as long as that of those roses, whose scent was theirs alone to enjoy.

The tree, of perfect beauty, is dead now, and has lost the story of its life. Farewell my lovers, dear sons. Your life ended when their time expired. The yew-tree lived on for another fifteen years before finally dying, like the son who lived on in the song. And so it was that as their love slept, the men of the land knew the memory of the child and the song of the bird, their love, and when the bird died and the rain fell

And the leaves and the bark and the roots no longer remembered the true name which was long forgotten, a mountain fell into the stream, and the water rose into the centre of the land, and changed it and the waterfall ceased to be a waterfall and became the Sea. How might we remember the dead, if we could bring with us the world, without sadness and anger, without jealousy and envy, without all the trammels of time? The memory of the children, and the bird, and the tree is as old as the trees themselves and as it becomes old and dead, it is absorbed into the living trees and all the stories are forgotten. But the poor roses die still, the one, and the many, they cannot remember the other, but die in the arms of the men who thought they knew them. What does the world mourn for?

The dead have no such love.
They simply know the terrible darkness of grief without end.
They know no great beauty.
Their skins are no richer than those of the living.
Only the people who live, who suffer, who weep, and perhaps remember, could say that they lived once. so the song, the memory, was sung for what it was worth and the memory of love was stillborn.

But the leaves had started to fall again, and the wind blew from the sea, where the dead rose from the bottom of the water. It was the tears of the people that awoke the dying trees

So that they may grow, as in time they will die and so us all.

:: 10.04.2022 ::

My Song of Love

This, my song of love, is my song of hate for the silent clock.

Are you wasting your time? Are you taking advantage of those around you?
Are you missing out?

Every moment is significant, every act a choice. Every instant infinitesimally different from every other moment. Every moment, one year, three decades, a lifetime, is a lifetime, where past and future coexist equally — irreconcilable as the present and the past.

You may not be able to change anything or anyone. However, with powerful and frightening power of your own self-awareness, you can change your attitude to life and make positive, productive changes to your life. The choice is yours to make.

They were dreaming of a blue sky, they were dreaming of a blue sky.

The air where I stood Is Harsh. It is nothing. The past that was in the air, the dead flowers, the bird’s innocent mind, the strange insects, has nothing to do with Me, I am not the soul in the air, I am something else, something else.

The swallow does not see me, I am simply a phenomenon.

Nothing. Brown skin, empty, cracked.

Love is the tragedy of this world, it is a curiouser power, a certain power, and from it comes, quite rare in the world. Though we have seen it enough to know, it comes as a seed of great suffering, it comes, sometimes, as a pheromone, an Eros, as an alchemy, a beautiful fragrance, as a Scarlet streak of the mind, from it comes, when I gaze at the leaves, seeds of despair and ecstasy.

The bones of the world are as the bones of Madonna. A nun is taller than a zebra. On a parochial level, we see, for a moment, the bones of the woman ~ our housekeeper who died of an illness. A wise mother sees the woman to whom her daughter speaks in sleep.

The answer is God and the monster who is and who has been but never will be is the master of our Soul.

A key within the locked palace of our Souls.

:: 09.29.2022 ::


See the world in your own blood, O Lamb of God, and tell what it is to be Christian!

He muttered something and lit a match, took it out and turned the bowl on its side with
the flame he blew on his fingers and began to scrub the side of his neck.

The heat of the sun threw up the dust of a landscape spread out below him, the sunlight
dappling all the long lines of the ramparts, the clustered cottages and the dying orchards.
The rich gold of the mountains and rivers changed the morning into a golden sunset,
the muddy fields turned deep red and purple and the village put a million shafts of yellow
and pink and purple and rose into the space of the brook beneath.

In that space, bidden by the holy spirit, he saw four figures draw up in a little boat.
The loch was deep and dark as pitch, there was nothing but a long narrow clear channel
and the dark outline of the bank. The edges of the boat gleamed darkly against the blackness.
One by one the figures rose out of the boat and set foot on the water. They stood upright now,
the outline of their bodies lifting and falling as they stepped out. In the sunlight they stood
almost as if they were made of gold. They turned round towards him.

—We are the brethren of Christ!

They spoke together, in counterpoint, in beautiful voices. They had broad shoulders and long legs
like Roman centurions and soft arms and breasts. Each of them was golden-haired, the long wings
of their breasts almost showing between the golden folds of their veils. They wore jewels of gold,
and heavy gold chains hung down around their necks. The shadow of their figures moved gently in
the sunlight, and the river spread out before them, full of light.

—Beautiful! cried the Shard of Light.

It looked away down the slope, at the village, where the only white faces were the white toes of
the youngest children.

—My dear sir, said a voice from the boat.

-What is was always.

:: 03.05.2022 ::


THE WORLD was meant devouring mouths
dead burnt fields of March
Or if it were, as bearing beauty’s name;
now awaken is leviathan of deep ocean
many dead sailor’s hearts torn wide open
Being born in His Image we are WAR
and frightful power/Jesus was an only
Son with a distant Mother: her eyes
as jewels from some rat in a cage
and her Husband not of Earth
: beauty lacking a tower
Oh Son full of desire to understand
even those tears fall burning dirt
Each yearning suited for slandering
creation with a false esteem
so the world forgot.

:: 02.20.2022 ::

The WAR Machine

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That is what i feel when i am
half empty.

That is what i feel when i am
half full.

that is what i feel
when i am
more than what is around me.

And when i die

it will all fade away

and as it fades away

i will feel again.

~ // // // // //

That is what i feel when i am
half full.

That is what i feel when i am
half empty.

That is what i feel when i am
more than what is around me.

And when i die
it will all fade away.

And as it fades away

i will feel again.





Picking myself upward once again; this time within smaller pieces, feelings are dying within
the madness of what rules the air AND BELOW dwell sparks of lit Souls unaware whilst the hoard
approaches and feeds upon their dreams but never their Souls.
free of lust and love which at times will collide, your hearts won’t be blessed by action or by words
where happiness and wisdom reign the round of the table, around the loft, under the wine,
twixt the body and the mind, of me.
As the grey crust begins to show the deep brown of fresh clay. Every spoken word will bring down the mood
so I’ll focus on the one thing to keep my focus, I am alone.

Yet, by virtue of my physicality one hopes for a kind word. So, I’ll keep moving slowly, glancing back
to see if anyone has called my name or if a lonely soul who has wandered in from the road, after a long
bitter winter and often for centuries like day or night until I am emptied of the boredom into which
I’ve fallen finding no clue, in fact the world has grown even more bleak and seems to exist merely
for the sake of entropy and/or people who remain blind to their own shadow: I am yet a wonder.

Yet, there’s still something to be said of the smile of a baby whose touch wakes love in my heart.
A story to be told as a longing sigh even as it reminds me of another long ago as a grandchild can.
I am yet a wonder.

I’ve seen them come and go. I stand here in the darkness each time seeing one that knows I know,
he knows I know, he knows I know he knows, he knows I know, he knows and no one comes.

No one comes.

I have seen them quietly move in and out while other’s slept: I have seen the lights dim
and give up all light like a little league game where the score is tied — no one wants to win,
no one wants to lose, we all just want to play.

“Give me your hand and I’ll tell you something” I said. “I’ll tell you something. You’ll find out
where you’re going to be. You’ll know what this one is, and you’ll never forget, this was a friend of mine,
and you’ll never see him again. no matter what I promise. you’ll be in good hands.”

hold on.
hold on.
hold on.
no matter what, no matter what.
I promise.
I promise.