Tag Archives: Poetry

my dating profile :)

22 Jul

I look normal, I seem normal, and I can wear my normal suit as needed.

But life’s journey has led me away from the path of normal.

I am putting my truth out there on my profile into the world of normal, to eliminate most, and to speak to those who will instantly know what I am talking about.

I am not talking about anything overt; I am talking about the inner blossoming.

I am on a path toward self-discovery.

The answers I have sought have been discovered to be within and to be never far.

Breath is the vehicle for me on the ride.

I spend time in silence,

I fall in love all day long, everyday, with ants and trees, and songs.

My boundaries have loosened, my identity has loosened.

I can still dance in the world of normal, but I only do so when absolutely necessary.

I am looking for friends to interact with who have a clue what I am talking about.

I am looking to weed out all who are nice, but still normal.

I leave this breadcrumb trail of nonsense as an invitation to anyone who finds the normal paths of life debilitating; there is more. And it is so much more.

The only clues cannot be named or nailed in directly but can only point, like a mute but colorful road sign.

Contact me if you want to talk of such intangible things, or if you want to watch ants or the leaves dance in a breeze, if you sometimes realize you are the breeze, the leaves, and the breathing eyes watching.

trust

20 Jul

is in the breath –

every.

damned.

time.

thank god,

so close.

i’ve a new name for it

8 Nov

–the vast neutrality.

 

what glorious lonely can do

4 Nov

how many years did i run and cover over the hole?

not able to know the wholeness

until I stopped

and felt it–

empty,

nothing there,

alone.

 

leave me to it.

don’t soothe me,

it needs to be seen–

i’m lonely for —

union.

lonely aches

behind the sternum,

and leaks out of my eyes.

i’ve the courage now to feel it–

lonely,

and I’m pressing into that bruise.

-letting it be there.

letting is

composting me

letting is

squeezing out juice

yet here i am,  still asking lonely

grant me

courage without aid

without aspirin

without the phone

without the tubes (You and cathode ray).

hobby callings

flattened.

i am headed to flatline

daring  defribulation when

either side of death

is now okay.

the pulse is not mine to keep or lose.

ha, never was.

ARGH,

the tone is way too serious, here.

from lonely comes

hilarity

this serious poem is a

belly laugh!

but first i seem to be

leaning into whatever

had me running

to begin with.

for years.

good god

what!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

night walker

7 Oct

There is a small blooming algae

that has come to the creek

that I walk over,

that I cross in the night

carrying my little baggie of bread for the turtles of all sizes.

The blooming has covered the surface in chartreuse

which swirls now as the turtles swim beneath.

Oh, the mystery of a turtle’s mouth as it lunges

beneath the psychedelic dance of green.

Where to toss the bread becomes a guessing game

of chance. How can this night so much the same

as every other night be a world transformed yet again?

No sky is ever the same;

no tide rises to the exact same spot, ever;

all pleasure is solitary and small and everything.

There are so very few who could understand

how secretly happy I am, in the dark,

so alone,

at last no one to tell about my small, singular,

exploding life.

A woman is a powerful being

in her blossoming

which comes long after

anyone can see,

yet her fragrance

is a potion

blessing invisibly, generously

behind her gypsy grin and laugh,

she, a twirling skirt of ascension.

windexing the back wall of the cave

24 Sep

There are no other caves besides the personal one.

There are no other shadows but my own.

Aloneness at last reflects back to me a clue in separation

that togetherness can mask

for now I see my own puppet story skills

for what they are.

I put on a wicked good show.

This cave seems to lack an exit

so the way out appears to be in —

into the muck of my own waste.

Submerged and miserable,

there are only two options—

drown here or

stretch for breath

and reach untainted ease, at last.

Perhaps i’ve grown so old that the shackles no longer hold my wrists

or the flattery of the shadows is no longer true enough

to hold me sway, awaiting impossible union.

The drying out of this body

a time bomb that I ignite.

The eyes that meet beyond the bomb

do not shadow play anymore,

and once the cave is left

the dark draw has no pull.

 

 

 

the turkey and the chef

17 Nov

In the pan

browning on all sides of

my cubist self–forward, back, and side at once.

edge living

is hot!

 

at times I try to jump from the flame,

my own juice

basting over my head

a humiliating baptism to the one

who has forgotten

the agreement of what’s for dinner.

the hairs on my arms seek like radars

trying to read the flames’ intention; even though,

I signed a waiver.

 

veins pulse while

the heart is in its throws–

 

with or without me along.

I’m  cooked so long

falling off the bone

tender

tender

who sees the anxious fingers

slip into the pan

to satisfy the longing

for a preview bite

of this upcoming feast?

 

 

 

 

 

%d bloggers like this: