poetry blog

This is not an experiment.

postmodern_poem_about_mortality

This is not an experiment.

This is an animal
slowly dressing itself
with a garment of stone.
This is a shadow
shedding its bone
in a camouflage of change.
This is a sister
opening a drawer
to hide a wonderful thing.
This is antiquity
growing thick with mighty
buttresses of steel.
This is a mouth
inhaling sweet
movements of moonlight.
This is a perception
flapping in the silence
of the air.
This is a drunk
stealing a plume
from the waitress’ perfume.

But above all,
this is another hand
clinging to the edge
before the fall.

 

Contemporary Poetry

the end

this_is_the_end

Sorry,
I can’t tell you here
what value, how important,
where everlasting.
Haven’t found it, every bit
is rising like a moon
no matter if it’s a thing
or a thought it disappears
somewhere.
I feel human, literally
a heart pumping veins
in rings of muscle. And
also empty space between
all of you and this isolation of brain,
language, dark brown eyes,
I let you walk pass me
passersby. If I touch
you by chance by accident by love by desire
by dinnertime by church by antiquity by destiny
by skin by Friday by crying by leaving
it will be my memory moaning for
togetherness again with the ebb and flow
of zeroes echoing in the silence.
I do not claim
my isolation is unique,
my brain bottled in language
looking out into the world
through dark brown eyes.
But I cannot touch you
when you are a tricklebird
dripping from the skyline.
Sorry,
our days are numbered and
we must face the tough blue earth
as if it were the end–

 

Contemporary Poetry

mortal questions

mortal_questions

Who chases the myth
while drenched
in the blood
of the primordial hunt?

Who has placed a hyphen
between Sky and I
to sense the aura
of a blue atmosphere
as a newer skin?

Who will concentrate
all language
into one singular word
that falls heavy
             as a meteorite
into the sands
of nocturnal desert?

Who will endlessly
double the depth
of one earth suspended
in the night?

Who will reduce
consciousness
to a milligram
of image?

Who has made
a door from odor
through which memory
walks out
into open land?

Who will unearth
mankind and root
childhood back
in the curl
    of a cloud?

Who will find
this poem hidden
from the glare of knowledge
waiting in the shadows
of their touch?

Contemporary Poetry

on the origin of things

origin_of_reality

There were no instructions
and everything had a gleam
with no in between.

Even for the mind
there was no concept
nothing to break off
from the rhythm
of nature’s
self-portrait.

There was no suffering
of a thousand of years
and the mountains
were idiots with hands
in the sky.

There were no rules
of proportion and
we were born
in the middle
of gray.

In the midst of howls,
the happy blood-stained
gesture, but there was no
relationship with being
and non-being.

We killed until
ethics was an abstract
form of tool. And language
built a house for
loneliness.

This was long ago.
When something came
to dance and we were its
feathers.

Contemporary Poetry

in a distance

phenomena

I’ve wondered
to know nothing.

Seeing
my sea
of conscious,
weave wasted waves
of experience
into hairdos of light.

I’ve wondered
of returning
to enormous view
and an amorous
climax of confusion.

I’ve wondered to drink
night from water,
in unabridged absence
of divisions,
without order ,
with rain ribboning
the eclipse of impulse.

I’ve wondered
to forget
the sounds and the signs,
to find a strange design.

I’ve wondered
to know again.

Spying new round volume,
phenomena impenetrable else
glitters like a city;

in a distance sleepless to remember.

 

Contemporary Poetry

no memory of shine

touching_light

I must convince
you of the truth
that I often
see soften
the beam of light
that unites the things
of thought.

I must have
you agree with reality
which evaporates
desire on skin’s petal.

I ask you to slough
opinion – nakedness in
the water and nebulae,
all after these
layers of years and
emptiness then.

All is firm glimmer
in loud ambiguity
this instant is cold
shredding the world
in absence
to the strangeness of the gods.

All is there to see,
I’ve added nothing new to this
box of history and often speak
as a flattened mirror
carving the light in no memory of shine.

I must convince you
of boundless disappearance
and this awakening toward
death has the taste of liquor
in the mouth of a man
that knows he’s
alone.

 

Contemporary Poetry

An enormous bridge to illumination

fragments_of_Reality

One day you will be in bed, tangled in images, withdrawn from the magic and measurement of the senses. Open hands to drop dewdrops like specks of speculation, falling to fade as fumes beyond fugacious annual fall. All will be idea, analysis of life, as light entering ice. Hours’ vessel without oars, after certain centuries: fire made voice vaulted as fern clung like veins in all directions of silence. What knowledge smelting edges and walls wide as eyes. An act without flesh, only theory inventing thirst for pure blue breath, beauty bordering fragment and firmament broadening blood. Raise fogs with pulleys and lower dawn from a chain. The fabric of façades is yours. Abandon the boundaries of body and dip densely into the center depth. Everything waits for your there.

Contemporary Poetry

fields of visions

fields_of_wheat

Long breadth
an afternoon
in the ebb to unknown
was braver ago
than this flow of impetus.

The endlessly ontological
thrust of here. In accordance to
some laws rooted in seed and smoke,
a dab of cosmos along the tracks
early in the familiar day.

Awake, awake and a consequence.
For here is the strength to lift
the poison of life and its powerless
perfume.

This body still nested
as soft dull, still, born, erosion.

Then, at that point,
I perceived that all around
me were fields, fields
of wheat and leaves.

I perceive the sun
as particle in
the lazy pulse
of the sea.

Then deep smaller
motion creating
the assemblage of hours.

To them as tight
as horizon, in the
feminine shadow of
sorrow.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

you.

truth

You.
And the world
is your shadow.
You pale like
the archeology
of a voice,
of a concept.
You.
Sleeping like
a classical representation
of philosophy.
You.
And the measurement
of the universe.
You
like a visible
collection of
fictions.
You, metaphysically
and verbally a
sign.
You the threads
of an octopus.
You.
My fundamental
posited
truth.

Contemporary Poetry

this alone is clear

pond_of_universe

enswathe me
with the leaf
of another name

if a violet flower
quivers like ornament

on the ephemeral rawness
of this earth
so a tiny poet

cleaves like thistledown
to the thin vastness

of the word

if it was genuine
my standing by the pond
weighing the quantity of universe

in these thoughts

if it was certitude
that clung as cascade
to the branches

of renewing blood

upon exiting the flesh
I thought unto death
to look back toward

this pallid clarity of ash

this has been important to me
to fling final words as anchor
in the hidden plethoric ;

time as billowing toward
some lambent exit

without us,
this alone is clear
all these residual things

will remain
spilled in darkness.

 

Contemporary Poetry