The playful tide

There is a wellness deep inside
like the swelling of an ocean wave
it curdles over in flowing foam
and crashes in devastating rage,
but countenance is non consoling
to such a tyrannical kind of play
it dismisses the song of dashing
in an effortless breath of disdain,
yet the waters don’t go so easily
they thrash upon the brow
pulling and tugging asunder
crushing deep as that of a plow,
but soon the shorelines fall silent
where the sea has come to reseed
and calmness now is all knowing
with gentle gestures of one to take heed.

Breaking in

Sometimes I hear beautiful things
and they layer over my soul
drifting past my memories
through the thick layers
of a fluid subconsciousness,
other times I see horrific images
and they blend with the shadows
melting into my imagination
over the depth of oceans,
there are places I have felt too
all around my fervent scope
exploring every facet
as a fish might swim through space
or a rabbit on the moon,
but I know what these are
they are figments of creation
a point in time where everything wishes to be
but tumbles back into the splitting seconds of the day,
where sometimes they don’t stop again…

March May June and I

Lost within the phantasmal mime
slowly turtle whittle rhyme
to make the Mary meet,
twas here she says the sands were time
but the shoes were nigh the fit,
and every crooked shell she finds
is buried deep the darkest minds
where rabbit suffers curdling whine
and forever somewhere is set divine
along the favored pith,
but June May follow along the weigh
on coming with every flora
dash the spring and terse the noose
that chides the way for summers plethora,
making gusts for turtles chimes
as he fiddles his home from out sublime
and dons his napping cat mistime
to wake forlorn for dinner.

In memory of

The drawn out strum of yesteryear
among the trickles of my mind
pervasive gentle wanderings
for the footing left to find,
a hand from each a palm
to feel the roughen strewn
reaching among the blurry words
of a bloody laden plume.

Little nudging verses
that flutter across the page
beautiful rhymes of stifling
or concise and widespread rage,
the breath is seldom known
from the anguish of this pen
each release a darkened womb
of the listless, whom they and them.

Crashing timber

12,000 memories ago
there was an infinite of a time
where leagues of thoughts all fluttered
and reason sang in chime,
but soon the flow would flounder
and logic was lost in waves
passions dried upon the shores
and love was driven away.

For a moment I felt the spark
of a million scathing breathes
they moved across a flame red sky
and laid me down to rest,
yet still my soul its reaching
hoping to find some way
across the myriad of rivers
where fingers break in pray.

Woe it is to break the day
when nothing here is left to say
a cripple through the sands of bay
under the dead lights of yesterday,
and yet my feet they move astray
seeking ever seeking
gentle flow of never mores
and sighs among the wreaking.

To every glow a stammer

I have an emotional need
some kind of lucid strain
a sin for every mouthful
choking up a lucky crane,
making for the hour glass
running faster to refrain.

A sigh that has no end
at every corner and every bend
another broken falling
another crying rend,
empty sounds of knowing matter
and nothing left to mend.
Its a high, a caressing smother
a height beyond what’s grave
reaching out to stir no other
and or no ground is here to pave.

A striking momentum

The moments crawl beneath the floors

where blood was spilled among the pours,

the flow would call in striking cries

at the blade that cuts the ties of stride.

 

Tails are sold for each gaze of eyes

one seldom to see the pouring

waters flowing from all directions

at the depth of a minds deep unknowing,

recollection is standing knee deep in the well

where the blinded are only lurking

gentle sounds of whispering trickles

madness within where sanity is working.

 

And it would seem again we are here to stay

where the music is loud as they stomp the parade

down the alley streets with the dogs at their bay

and the pipes on their puffing under the moons gentle sway,

‘why’ we ask over and over again fluid from day to day

washing up upon the shores with nowhere left,

and something to say.