these granules of everything
shifting, then falling and sitting
beneath the holes in my theories.
My heart – sumo lifting,
too unsure to be weary,
simply committed to the tasks.
Here comes the ask,
“How vast can the plays run
with no end game?”
Breath-to-breath, a middle name,
claiming its position at the
center of no gain – the forerunner
of this insane relay.
I keep running to lose.
as fuses choose to flare up and
melt closed my vents, circumventing
the logistics carefully structured
for defense and escape.
Each moment only gets one take.
Yet, déjà vu holds a permanent stake
in all my planes of existence… a
non-discriminate pretense catching
all the stuff that should just keep moving.
rearranges order and priority on a
flat line, like a king without authority,
delineating his final wishes to a
deaf mime – no means to receive or deliver,
only to animate a royal waste of time.
Nobody’s hearing this echo, but me.
These tiny grains shimmy, then freeze.
This free-flowing motion takes a knee…
as I sift vigorously.
The shake out leaves me perplexed,
somehow yielding no more and no less
than what I arrived with – sufficient portions
to compose the next breath
of a life I am not willing to die for…
but in spite of.
to break these holds that
put brakes on my whole; that
stifle love’s everything and
placates my soul’s lowest denominator.
Below the line hosts only a
fragmented respirator for living.
There is no giving of life, no
fullness in divide, no satisfaction in this
biding of whys that leave convictions empty.
Nothing breaks down –simply– anymore.
This overflowing vessel of hollow
loses its core amidst the broken parts,
suffers its more within this complex art
of sifting… and sifting… and sifting.
Photo Credit: solidswiki.com
Another piece of my heart stolen by this gem from Sreejit!!! ❤ ❤ ❤
Love this piece from Sreejit! It is our new theme song/battle cry for the unprotected storytellers of the world.
Source: Painting Our Illusions: Where the Storytellers Dwell
Here, these thoughts splash…
Where words drip from numb lips,
whispering heart’s throb through bristled tips,
not smooth enough to brush it to life.
Meanwhile… colors hit hard,
chipping delicate sheets with their biting shards –
rocky edges unsoothed by shallow dips in the rinse.
just a pretense display, as the showroom bulges
with the prints being laid.
Soon to be played is will’s posing,
always supposing its sway can repaint history
in softer shades.
But it can’t.
Truth shows vivid today,
with no way to whisk away uncleansed stains,
weeping their pains through filthy veins,
gripping tight to their brushes.
Too many pages left unturned, ‘til
burned into forever are the layers of poor design,
left stacked upon the scale of hardening time,
setting ebb and flow into a state of refusal –
where everything beautiful comes to die.
I want to flip this over, but
it all just sticks… this
stench and ick… this
composting shtick… this
perpetual state of sick that
bleeds its broad strokes across my canvas,
where subtle existence loses its favor to
raping hues of unforgiveness, along with
envy’s splatter, and pride’s full clatter, ‘til
not a single inch of white space remains.
Tomorrow, I will paint under the sun…
and pray it rains.
Photo Credit: CherylPascual.com
As if the elevation of her cheekbones
wasn’t enough to catch the eye
As if the prim and whimsy clash on her tongue
didn’t pause the passersby
As if the swish of a brush could command any more
than the supple glistening of those jowls
As if the curve and swipe of a vibrant hue might
draw in deeper the captive scowl
As if the blush of her grin didn’t move the clouds
and cause all storms to seize
As if the float of her hymn didn’t quiver the bones
and lower the saints to their knees
Still, never a day could spend its time without
succumbing to the witnessing
The adornment of Heaven’s earthbound kiss
… but a veil upon splendor’s being
~ In memory of Grandmother ~
Photo Credit: Rouge And Lipstick Still Life painting by Phyllis Tarlow