The stream (all workshops)
Laying soundly down to rest
Drowning from my wishes
I reach over to turn out the light
And rest my wearied mind
My mind begins to flicker out
And welcome me to slumber
My heavy eyelids giving out
And falling from my dreams
I dream of flying with the owls
Against the starlit sky
And swimming with the dolphin
In the shadow of a sea
Flying and swimming to and fro
Searching it almost seems
For the other side of me
Because my souls undone
A breast, the breast, two breasts abreast
what galleons, figure heads, project their bloom,
their blown out pomp, balloon,
swollen slowly through the child its birth,
suckled, swallowing the milk of mother's holy rooms,
their own develop,
laced with fantasies not yet understood
but if they could, what then.
While I slip here between dimensions
you hold my hand, confusions reign
As one world, then another hastens
you keep me 'safe', on firm terrain
I see the dead walk with the living
while I slip here between dimensions
A frightening thing this part of aging
where crimson reason softens, weakens
and intuition deepens, sharpens
brightening knowledge long forgot
While I slip here between dimensions
just who are you to say I'm not?
1.
Yes, on this site
I'm little known,
but not unknown
but where the two sites I wrote
there I now don’t go,
still believe you me,
three hundred read me daily…
Being known or unknown
is simply a matter of perception,
I detest ways of deception
When I was a kid,
I took a job
working the iron ore mines
in far north west Australia
only criminals
or men on the run for other reasons
worked there then
and me
a bourgeois kid
18
my first night in town
I was rescued from serial rapists
the welcoming committee
Dave Mason,
who rescued me
I saw beaten to a bloody pulp
my last night in town
while I was held by the throat
above the ground
to witness
But
ink forming into words
in
the back of my head.
raging
and scratcing behind my teeth
tempting
to spill through my lips.
swelling.
threatening to overflow.
our
ideas explode on a blank page. a
pen
fused to our viens. our ink
forms
a lucid spill over a white canvas.
thoughts
scream out loud caressing our minds. wrap
around
the soul. for we are all
poets.
ballad empty
crawled through
fingers of day
the blue hue
and wet wave
coarse rest
sitting on the
bench with
steaming coffee
while slabs of
office walls
threw the sharp
light and tanned
our disinterest
Lost bliss
in the hot tonic
and that wind
from the cold lake
beyond the
wheat towers
settled our
restless
hearts
and the steady
thrum of the cities
heartbeat
rose up beneath
us
His days may come regret of heart
The gifts made through the years apart
His kin within his heart now found
the place his spirit dwells,
a word, a joke, a gesture made,
take back their childhood years charade,
when light adorned the mantle bright
giving truth to mortal life,
now aged of years gods peace may come,
while dreams sequent life's river runs,
within his nights such scenes parade,
Illusions trapped from life's charade .
Swan Lake Gardens Paradise
Swan Lake Gardens is like paradise amid the oak thistles. Trees stand tall in the middle of the lake. Black swans, white, grey, brown, multicolored wade in the water, pick their feathers clean with their beaks, and skying across the water like a ship on the seven seas. A photographer takes pictures standing on the lake shore.
I'm bored down here with this bit role; I can't take life to heart.
Next time you're casting I'll audition for a more appealing part.
Perhaps I could portray the villain, play the evil shark -
like maybe the French Emperor, Bad Nap Bonaparte,
or have a wonderful adventure planned out from the start
and fly around the world, can I understudy Earhart?
Pages
(c) Neopoet.com. No copyright is claimed by Neopoet to original member content.