viernes, diciembre 22, 2017

Cosmic Tantrum

Utter quiet.
Not the animals of the night, falling asleep
not the animals of the morning, still stretching
not the gales of autumn
not the rains of spring.

It is, perhaps, a signal.

--

   in the midst of quiet

a pungent feeling of sadness broke the last piece
the last pillar
the last binding

an ancient five-year-old's face scrunches
mouth contorted into an awful grimace
fists close
air rushes into the lungs

and the fit starts

--

The animals of the night,
the animals of the day,
all takes flight.
The very trees are shook, their bark torn apart in an effort to escape.

The gales blow in, then out
rain falls, then turns to mist
    a crack opens in the floor, and hell abdicates
  ghosts, ghouls, devils- all beings crumble in horror.

--

   in the midst of chaos

reality melts into order
pieces shift into new places
    the universe
        has bent.

the face relaxes
the fists open
the grimace fades
breathing slows

and then life starts.

sábado, diciembre 16, 2017

Untitled (gone)

Fellow's really weird, see
he swam offshore --
no one has to choose an option
we all have to make a choice

He chose to swim away
(swim, how fitting)
swim away into the night
to an island close by
He could've burnt the world
he could've had his way
fellow's really, really weird, see:
he swam offshore instead

He packed his looking glass
and a packful of lenses
and some hollow sticks -- bamboo
built this silly, clumsy thing
to see all that he'd just left

Offshore onto an island
where he sits and just looks back
burns his dreams in wide, green leafs
gives his words unto the sea

Gazing through his looking-stick
blurry past and future lives
islands all that can be gone to
others never to be had

In a way it's all in plan
in a way it's all awry
mist is now his sole companion
on the cloudy, too-cool nights

And he always truly wonders:
what of life would it become
if he only swam a little
if again he went offshore
fellow's really weird, see:
'cause he knows he could've known

On the morning the smoke signals
on the afternoon the bottles
on the night the signal fire
looking always for an answer
from his self-imposed exile