“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label sponge. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sponge. Show all posts
Thursday, September 28, 2017
Danger zone
I got to thinking-
maybe we were doing it wrong-
facing fears-meaning
why not let the demons in-
hell, welcome them hordes and all,
feed them well, find out what they want
from us,
so when they leave
it is-
for good.
What if what soaks in our pourous mem-
brains, is what we ooze out-
that is All,
like Nothing is ours,
or New,
we just reiterate or refute,
repeat or recreate, take credit
and run with it like a baton-
on fire,
And the longer I live,
the more I've seen,
heard, worn, thought, been there before-
it seems All
stolen-
moments-that is.
Furthermore,
does one dare to consider entering
such dangerous zones as the solid realms
of love or death, one and the same,
before one has tasted
it on their own lips?
No. Not in poetry. It would be tasteless.
Alas,
beautiful things
are most draining.
Photo credit By:Henry Peach Robinson [CC0], c. 1860 via Wikimedia Commons.
Saturday, January 9, 2016
Sponge Rob and Kitty Pants
From the East, golden light pours out over the
sleepy soppy treetops.
The raw fence slats all smoke in the sultry sun
after a rough night of being naked and exposed,
unstained as of Yet.
Loitering lumberly after the storm,
the weathering of wrinkled wood
lining up swollen.
like this warm milk from my fingertip.
He has been hurt again,
he is healing in the soft morning sun,
and smiles like Buddha or Krishna,
with milk on his chin.
and polished, it holds no dark veins today.
Offering up another chance
to dry out and soak it all in a day.
Porous (Poor us), all stormy moods have been washed
away, now suede-ing softly
in the strong dawn honeyed sun.
Image By Photos Public Domain [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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