Glass poetry

Autumn harsh an omen carried
Lively growth claws out through green grass
earth grows armour we have buried
for winter's screech and snowy brass

There above you see the meaning
and feel the vacancy of freeze
words suggest but go careening
What better use have we for these?

The higher truths the artists seek
are bound in metaphors' dark sheet
for reasons known when poets speak
the rift of mind to hand to beat

With all the meaning sensory
Mere words become illusory

Ron

Thoughts.
Infinite whispers, in the timelessness
The soul stilled in the silence
The sands pour no more.
Past and future have faded,
Only the serenity of The Void.

...

My heart pounds, undulating the dark
The firmament stills,
for a moment.

Breath held for an eternity
breaks the slumber
The Earth shivering at the ancient expiration
Wraiths wail at the swelling tempest
Whispers of the awakening thunder the air

I stare into the rays,
A face.
No more than a rumor in the mind
A face that peeks through the sun,
as it's strewn across the leaves
Long since it was forgotten.
Now a ghost, in a mind that is lost.

I can only reminisce
at having had the memory
My mind grasps at the whispered thought,
mere apparitions in my hand.
Where are they?
Where are they?!
Lost.

The song still plays...

Memories not preserved
Skeletons without tendons.

And when time is reversed.
From the beginning,
We can tell the ending.

For there's nothing
To look forward to
In the future
Of a past that was never there.

Memories not preserved
Bones without flesh.

Memories not formed.
Can never be rehearsed.
It is never old,it is never fresh.

For it was never made
It never met time.

So we stare at nothing
Looking past forgotten oblivions
Looking right
Into empty frames.

Whenever l am quiet
l gain ways to comprehend,
l listen more intently
and hear the message others send.

Mental clutter seems to dissipate
my very instincts are more clear.
l understand my friends, and family
so my heart holds them more dear.

l focus so much better
when distractions fade away,
my expectations follow suit
so emotions can't betray.

At my best l am a listener
an observer l become,
providing me keen insights
that alludes not all, but some.

Unimaginable suffering
Felt by the crew and passengers
Of Boeing 777....

So much trauma, tragedy
Planes falling from the sky
Bombs bursting everywhere ....

Tears on faces
Blushing tracks still mourning
Fatality of loved ones ....

Terrorism, tragic events,
Natural disasters
Takes a toll on individuals ..,.

Living in these last days
Critical, hard to deal with
2 Timothy 3:1-4 ....

The Valley of the Kings; sleeps
Below the moons blind eye
Within its mask of stars

Stone steps decend
Beneath the sandstorm
Amist the tide of centuries

Temple carvings beckon the night
And dance between
Twilights grasp

Swirling ocean of sand
Unfurls its innumeral golden veil

Sheathing and unsheathing
The Valley of the Kings

I dreamt such a dream, just last night;
that I woke the whole house, past eleven;

seems, whom we're toasting to, had a bad "crash"
with me driving, so we landed in heaven.

St. Peter welcomed me, up, at the "gates"
in the crash, I had first, "bought my farm";

he said, "For all your sins, you'll walk eternity
with an ugly woman, always on your arm!"

These gals were quite "homely", I was taken....a back!
Plus, the one on my right had no "sense";

On the broken street,
where even passing cars cannot
erase the growing weeds
slowly widening asphalt cracks
before the gap-toothed leer
of empty storefronts
everything is grey,
thick dust of old abandonment
hanging acrid in the air,
rusted sewer drains
choked with hardened mud
split like gaping idiot grins

At the rusted gates standing, alone and naked
-
jeered at by the guard who thinks I won't make it
-
what they don't know is assassin's blood
-
that flows through me in tornadic flood
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The fantasies and stories and campfire tales
-
are my history, mystery, science, and sails
-
I fight dragons with penstroke, and ogres with keys
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their legends my life, their tall-tales my breeze
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