Tag Archives: #thoughts

THE PHANTOM STRINGS


I’ve none to tether me to Earth,
No thread of pain, no weight of birth,
Once bound by threads, but now unspun—
I dance within the shadowed sun.

Hi-ho, the grave doth sing,
A solemn hymn, a somber ring,
The world shall know my spectral glee,
For naught can ever burden me.

No strings—so free, I drift alone,
No lover’s grasp, no heart of stone.
They writhe with chains that bind the soul,
But I am ghostly, dark, and whole.

Your arms, they yearn—but free they be,
To touch me near the hollowed sea.
Ah, yes, should you pursue my shade,
I’d snap my bonds in twilight’s blade.

No strings to break, yet still I’d sever,
My fate entwined with Death—forever.
Between us whispers fade to dust—
For you, I’d cut the ropes of trust.

Upon the Volga’s winding sweep,
Where shadows coil and secrets creep,
I’ve met with Ivan’s mournful cry—
But to your side, I’d rather die.

No strings remain, I drift unseen,
A soul unmoored, a wraith serene.

“I’ve got no strings to hold me down
To make me fret, or make me frown
I had strings, but now I’m free
There are no strings on me…”

:: 09.13.2024 ::


The Imperial Robe

I see the Night – lit up by Day
Some name it Life – I say – Okay
The World – she wears a starry Cloak
Upon her Collar – Time’s soft yoke

A Seamstress – stitched with subtle Thread
Where Life – and Death – together tread
And in her Garb – from Waist to Knee
Lies all we are – and all shall be

Between the Land – and Ocean wide
Between the Dream – where Shadows bide
Between the Life – and Death’s deep Breath
We dwell – within the Robe of Death!

:: 04.28.2015 ::


A HUNDRED POEMS – LXXIII (rev 2.0)

TONIGHT, the storm’s fierce lightning

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t
h
o
u
g
h
t — s t r u c k!

split a tree— that beauty, deformed by love (or) nature (which) kills what it loves

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between branches of passion-time

haunted by ill-angels only, perched-upon a dark throne sits proudly i

who’ve reached these lands newly (from) an ultimate (dim) thule

through winding paths and forest deep where dreams & whispers softly creep, i wander with a heart aglow, in search of truths that nature sows.

:: 09.02.2024 ::


In the Cavern of My Soul

In the quiet depths of my soul’s cavern,
I find my heart, tender and true,

When I breathe, as soft as whispers on stone,
I mean to say, “I love you.”

You’ve woven me into the fabric of time,
And if ever your spirit falters, Know I cradled
your heart in a gentle embrace,
Just to keep your joy alive.

Now, with eyes wide open, you embrace life,
And see that love and sorrow dance as one,
For to truly be happy, we must face the shadows,
And find beauty in the dark.

And if ever you bleed with the weight of the world,
Watching life’s essence flow from your veins,
Know that in this moment of pure vulnerability,
Hope breathes alongside your pain.

In this love, nothing else exists,
For our minds, clouded by the depths of feeling,
Cannot see beyond the truth of us.

There’s no need to return to who we once were,
For love has transformed us, And in each other,
we find the selves we never knew.

:: 08.31.2024 ::


I am Forever In Debt

How you walk alone in rain clouds
smothering skies
Dressed blue fringes brown mud bare feet
and brilliant eye tears not from nature
but from Love broken i was taught as child
love is a small thing with big eyes
So lost in your big eyes bleeding cancer in mind

oh say:

In the quiet storm of your solitude, the rain clouds hang heavy
like unspoken dreams, draping the world in a veil of melancholic haze.
You tread the earth, bare feet sinking into the wet embrace of mud,
as if the world itself mourns with you, absorbing your every step,
every tear that falls from eyes too brilliant for this dim reality.

The fringes of your being, once adorned in the delicate blue of innocence,
now flutter like forgotten memories in the wind, frayed by the passage of time
and the weight of unfulfilled promises. The tears you shed, they do not belong to
nature—they are the essence of a heart broken by the purest force known to man:
Love.

A force that, as a child, was taught to you as something small, yet with eyes so vast they could swallow the universe.

And now, in the cavernous depths of your mind, those eyes have become a cancer,
an all-consuming void that devours every thought, every emotion, until nothing remains
but the echo of your own despair. You walk alone, not just in the world, but in the very fabric of existence,
lost in the labyrinth of your own making, where love is both the light that guides and the shadow that blinds.

As you drift through the mist of your memories, the world around you warps and bends, reshaping itself into a landscape that mirrors the turmoil within. Trees twist into grotesque forms, their branches reaching out like the skeletal fingers of forgotten hopes, while the ground beneath you pulses with the heartbeat of the earth, alive with the sorrow that has seeped into its core. Each step you take is a dance with the past, a delicate waltz with the ghosts of what once was, their whispers curling around you like smoke, filling your lungs with the bitter taste of regret.

The sky, once a canvas of endless possibilities, now hangs heavy with the weight of lost dreams, its colors bleeding into one another like tears on a page. The rain that falls is no longer water, but a torrent of shattered illusions, each drop a fragment of a future that will never come to pass. You raise your eyes to the heavens, searching for solace, but find only the reflection of your own despair staring back at you, mocking the hope you once held so dear.

In this surreal world of your creation, you are both the artist and the masterpiece, the creator of your own torment, painting with the hues of heartbreak and the brushstrokes of loneliness, lost in a world where love has become a distant memory, a faint echo in the chambers of a forgotten heart.

Orchids of smiles dying in your highness sigh.

:: 08.14.2024 ::


Luminous Reverie

whirling—how
darksome light
whispers(beyond
grasp)but
still more than
twinkling
a sudden flurry of
nights(licking
flames of stars
with
tongues

bitter). a tremble-quick
twilight
hands (a)cross
(a)cross the
howling—
fulgent.
more than
yesterday’s forgotten
dream(a
chase(ing)—glow(ing)
now.

 —tumble, tumble,
        sing! for 
more than nothing, less
than everything—the heart

p o u n d s echo(ing)
soft- hard
grace- rage
it is(was)(is)
only(echo)time
(quivering
pulse-twitch)
reverie.
abrupt.

:: 08.08.2024 ::


SO YOU’VE TOUCHED MY HEART

Upon this path, clear as the sun’s own flower,
I tread the lanes, through day and dusky hour.
Eyes wide, I wander, gaze cast left and right,
And oftentimes I glance back, at the sight
Of what lies there—each moment’s new reveal,
A marvel yet unseen, a truth I feel.
This constant birth of wonder, this delight,
Grants me the joy of childhood’s pure insight,
As if a babe, whose birth is just begun,
Aware that life’s first breath has truly come.

In every instant, I am newly born,
To greet the world, afresh with each new morn.
For in the world’s eternal novelty,
I find a source of ceaseless gaiety.

I trust the world as does a marigold,
For what I see is true, and pure, and bold.
But thoughts, they cloud, and burden weary eyes,
The world was not for musing, nor for sighs.
To think is to invite a subtle pain,
But gazing, we find solace, not disdain.

No grand philosophy do I possess,
But senses keen, to nature I confess.
Not for the knowing do I speak her name,
But for the love she grants, without acclaim.
For love, in truth, knows not the reasons why,
Nor understands the wherefore of its sigh.

Love is a child, innocent and pure,
And innocence, in thought, can scarce endure.

:: 08.08.2024 ::


The Voice of A Poet

The poet is a man who feigns,
And feigns so deep, with artful guise,
That he, at length, with ease attains
To feign the pain he truly sighs.

Those who read what he did pen
Perceive, within his plaintive strain,
Not the pains he felt back then,
But a distant, unknown pain.

Thus, around its constant track,
There runs, to keep our minds in part,
The circling, ceaseless clockwork’s clack,
Which men have named the human heart.

:: 08.05.2024 ::


RIVER OF LIQUID GLASS

In the garden of flickering neon trees,
where shadows dance with marionette leaves,
I met a man with a clockwork heart
and eyes like prisms, tearing time apart.

He whispered secrets in a language of static,
his voice a symphony of glitches and clicks,
telling tales of constellations uncharted,
and love letters written in binary scripts.

We wandered through a labyrinth of velvet mist,
where fish flew by on currents of twilight,
and the moon sang lullabies to sleeping stars,
cradled in the arms of endless night.

I found a river of liquid glass,
where thoughts flowed like mercury streams,
reflecting the dreams of forgotten gods,
and the echoes of interstellar dreams.

A carousel spun in an abandoned carnival,
each horse a phantom of forgotten lore,
and as I rode, the world unraveled,
a tapestry of surrealist decor.

In the distance, a cathedral of crystal,
its spires piercing the fabric of reality,
and inside, a choir of silent voices,
harmonizing in spectral duality.

When dawn broke, the mirage faded,
leaving only a trace of whispered winds,
and I awoke, clutching fragments of visions,
in the realm where the surreal begins.

:: 05.17.2024 ::


The World of Roses

In the world of Floris, a planet where every being was a fusion of human and flower, roses reigned supreme. The inhabitants, known as Rosalians, were characterized by their delicate rose-petal skin, leafy hair, and a subtle fragrance that filled the air wherever they went. In this unique world, the only flower that existed was the rose, and it was the foundation of their culture, economy, and identity.

Dr. Alaric Thorn, a prominent scientist and a respected teacher, stood before his class in the grand botanical amphitheater. His students, all young Rosalians eager to learn, sat in rows of petal-shaped seats, their eyes gleaming with curiosity.

“Today,” Dr. Thorn began, his voice carrying the gentle authority of a seasoned educator, “we will discuss a revolutionary idea: the existence of other flowers beyond our beloved rose.”

A murmur of excitement and disbelief rippled through the room. The concept was as alien to them as the stars beyond their sky.

Dr. Thorn activated a holographic display, projecting an image of their planet, Floris, from space. “For centuries, we have believed that the rose is the only flower, the pinnacle of botanical evolution. But what if I told you there might be other worlds, other planets where different flowers flourish?”

One student, a bright young Rosalian named Lysara, raised her hand. “Dr. Thorn, how can we be sure? We’ve never seen these other flowers. What makes you think they exist?”

Dr. Thorn smiled, pleased by her inquisitiveness. “Excellent question, Lysara. Our recent advancements in interstellar observation have revealed traces of botanical structures on distant planets. These structures differ from our roses, suggesting diverse floral life forms.”

He switched the hologram to display various shapes and forms, each representing a possible alien flower. “Imagine a world where flowers bloom in countless shapes and colors, each with unique properties and characteristics. A world where the flora is as varied as the stars themselves.”

The students leaned forward, captivated by the images. Another student, a quiet boy named Thorne, spoke up. “If these other flowers exist, what does that mean for us? How would it change our understanding of life and our place in the universe?”

Dr. Thorn’s expression grew thoughtful. “It would challenge our perception of uniqueness and inspire us to explore beyond our known boundaries. It would mean that life, in its infinite diversity, has found countless ways to flourish. It would teach us humility and expand our horizons.”

He paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in. “We must prepare ourselves for the possibility of encountering these new forms of life. As scientists and scholars, our duty is to seek knowledge and embrace the unknown. Perhaps one day, we will embark on a journey to these distant worlds and witness the beauty of other flowers with our own eyes.”

The amphitheater buzzed with a renewed sense of wonder and anticipation. Dr. Thorn knew that this was only the beginning of their exploration. The Rosalians were on the cusp of a great adventure, one that would take them beyond the petals of their familiar roses and into the vast, blossoming garden of the cosmos.

:: 07.07.2024 ::

Notes:

This poem conveys a message about the endless possibilities of life and the importance of remaining open to new ideas. It suggests that understanding and accepting diversity, even in forms of life, can lead to greater knowledge and a more profound sense of humility.

Conclusion

“The World of Roses” is a crafted poem that I sought to use as a fictional setting and characters to explore deep themes related to knowledge, diversity, and the human (or Rosalian) spirit of exploration. It invites readers to consider the beauty and complexity of life beyond their immediate understanding, encouraging a sense of wonder and a desire to explore the unknown.