the smooth
solid
rock
physical form of
the law
the people of the rock
worship
perfection
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the universe was willed into existence
the universe was willed into existence
from the nothing
the black
emerged a breath
a sigh
a flash of light
a terrible crash
like the earth being torn in two
the lotus on the
still black water
Many Worlds
born of the mountain
brought to the river
swallowed by nothing
eyes peer out
over a starless sky
Colorblind
hidden behind the mists of time
yellow hats on satin pillows
dole out a peculiar form of justice
more concerned with balance
than what is right
and what is wrong
Origin
salt stained bones of pilgrims
who thought the end was the beginning
oh holy mountain
oh sacred river
oh primal cave
Ashen Ruin
The old man weeps
but even his tears
wont restore
what the flames destroyed
waning and waxing loyalties to humanity
I wonder if that is the point—get used to a lack of privacy get used to living in public
get used to living on a razor’s edge get used to extra shades of paranoia get used
bruised buried skeletons demand warm sunlight—stage to dance on audience to yawn
through their tears
blind demand sight two working eyes not content with sleight of hand tricks
been through this before—seen how the magicians unmasked visage rises in
pitch timbre quavering shake off
the fever get used to mantra—out of sight
of mind silent spring with no birdsong privilege takes center stage as fever rages
subsides as morning peeks through the shade and I roll over on my side with dollar signs
that wear my eyes
on cottage industries within cottage industries
Some art is so dense as to be unintelligible and I wonder
if that’s the point of the poisoned pen to speak in crude juxtapositions
That bring the dead to life and make them stand at attention
Hating the Reader Less
I want my poetry in a white hot room
singing myself, although
when the lights are turned off no self exists.
Capturing a fleeting moment,
praising space in between spaces,
feeding on the breath, turning invisible
as hulking ships caught between time.
We are shadow raising shadow,
on the chord of life that we
see when we leave our bodies,
up or down the stairs
what is unlocked
is eternal
Nightmare (Hittin’ the Keys)
i am a collection of wires a dissolved identity unit, eye
connected to smart grid, lungs sharp—bony
rib cage—heaving inhalations of noxious black thrice
great given by Man in antiquity (a combined)
beauty connecting as above so below birthing
starchildrenwho beckon the dawn in binary
eye am the end—the beginning was a bubble bursting, climbing
up the mountain where salt stained pilgrims lost their way falling
into chasms of teeth and bells ringing they call
us to wake to come together on bruised heel
Over the Rhine (Revised) (Tanka #1)
Finishing up my junior year as a Creative Writing / English Literature major and my posts have been very infrequent. This is a poem that began life very differently, but now is in revision. I like the sonic qualities at the end of the lines okay. Esteemed members of the word press community, please drop me a line or a comment and let me know how you think the poem is working. Have a great day!
Over the Rhine
In this place, rent control to bull-
dozers displaced mouths in
cracks between
buildings urban Gray pallets
incubate painted bulbs
An Hour Alone in Nature
I heard the creaking of tree branches, (really one tree branch in particular, ) the buzz of flies, the rustle of leaves and the traffic below me, the cars one after the other. I also heard distinct bird calls, one high pitched, delivered in staccato, another fast and a loud woodpecker, drilling for bugs. I havent’t thought too much about the fact that all birds have their own unique call, but being in nature made me much more cognizant of this fact. Finally, when I was really quiet, and the wind wasn’t too fast, I could hear the click of ants on a log. I noticed that the wind has its own sound depending on how fast it’s going. I could see tree trunks of all different sizes, dead tree branches and stumps that made me consider the various ways in which nature has a cycle. Nothing is wasted, a log that has fallen. was now the home to ants and millipedes, and fungi. Looking at the tall trunks and the tiny thin stalks with shoots of a half a dozen leaves, I was reminded how the root systems are in the earth connected.
Looking at the sloping of the earth, I was amazed how roots would sit precariously close, and hang off the cliff. I saw one tree that looked like a tuning fork, it must have been an old tree because it was very tall. Seeing the small trees with leaves that reach out to the sun, I was reminded about various survival mechanisms that are abundant in the natural world. I saw swaying tree tops, branches that looked like they would fall at any minute and tiny green sprouts that poke out from under the brown and tan leaves, the remnants of a fire, black wood which made me consider chemical change, splintered branches, fat black ants, with visible mandibles, small round red bugs, small ants with white markings on their abdomens, flies that are almost the size of a dime, the yellow and white butterflies. A reminder that humans are just one species on this planet of millions of them.
As I was leaving the woods, I became angry at the fact that people had placed trash everywhere and had not chosen to keep that spot beautiful. I saw in the bottles and the blunt wrappers a parallel with the fact that humans have a deleterious effect on nature. Those ants, those trees, have existed for many more years than us, the birds have evolved just like humans have, and yet in the pursuit of progress we bulldoze the habitats of so many creatures without even thinking about the organisms that may call those areas home. After my experience, I felt close to nature and felt connected to the dry earth, the rustling wind, the green leaves and I noticed on my walk to class later that day, I was very careful not to step on any ants, if I could avoid it.
Apiary Maintenance
I haven’t posted here in awhile because I am busy getting my bachelors degree in English Lit / Creative Writing, but here is a rough version of an essay that began as a short story. Let me know what you think WP!
Apiary Maintenance
It was a Saturday and I had been looking for books about beekeeping. I went into the library in a different town. I do this from time to time. I like to go to different libraries. They all have their own smell: The perfume counter at Macy’s, the city bus, must and fresh cut grass. After digging through the science section for a while, I found the perfect book. It looked about fifty years old, with yellow pages. It looked out of place. The cover was faded green with a broken golden hive: Apiary Maintenance. “Perfect”, I thought. I leafed through the book: The importance of proper coverage, of the queen to the apiary’s functioning and the difference between drones and queens.
In J.E. Cirlot’s A Dictionary of Symbols, it states that “In Greece it (the bee) was emblematic of work and obedeience” (Cirlot). Sidenote: Obedience.
I remember an article that I had read that was about perfect societies resembling a hive. Each individual part working for the betterment of the whole. I thought about how different that method was from how modern society is organized, at least in the land of rugged individualism, where settlement occurred because of torn roots. The land of competition.
Cirlot again: “In Orphic teaching, souls were symbolized by bees, because they migrate from the hive in swarms, since it was held that souls ‘swarm’ from the divine unity in a similar manner. Side Note: I have no idea what the ‘divine unity’ is, but I like that idea quite a bit, it reminds me of the interconnectedness of the species, from the tiniest bacteria to the fungi underneath the ground that spans continents.
I remember reading a Sylvia Plath poem and she talked about how her father was a beekeeper for a time. She remembered his white outfit, the cover that protected his face from stings. I have no idea why that image sticks out to me from that poem. Beekeeping seems to be about the control of nature, it’s been said that bee’s wont attack a person unless they feel threatened or if the hive has been compromised.
I remember getting stung by a bee in the first grade. I remember the sting being red, painful, the smell of tooth paste. I felt thankful that I wasn’t allergic and that the pain quickly subsided. I remember being very young and hearing a story about how my uncle Mike, my Dad’s older brother had been drinking a soda outside and as he was taking a big drink a bee was in the can and Mike was stung in the throat. Mike was allergic and that bee sting could have killed him, but it didn’t.
I have read of gardens in urban areas that double as apiaries and I believe that to be a practical way to incorporate the natural world with the stone landscapes that one might find in the city.
A symbol, an important part of planet earth, their industriousness, for their mystery, bees are enigmatic.
One day, when I am not busy, I think that I might take up beekeeping as a hobby. Alone in the apiary, my thoughts echoing off an incessant buzz, my covered hands searching in the dark for the sweet mana in the hive.
