Tag Archives: prose poetry

cosmos essence

Flowers & Brandy to find the right words
and trust in power itself
Pen strikes in motel bathrooms
A long walk from the lake

While the others sleep
resting chemistry

Here where there have been other transformations
Only months ago as their piercing eyes gripped her soul
Not here, but there
In the park where there are transformations

Where once there was a search for truth
Where once was catharsis
Wherever is growth is death
Now there are words

Think again how souls rise and sink
Read of order, dancing words
The order of expression
The spirit that travels without a sound

 

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Filed under Healing, Meditation, Physical

somewhere between arusha and tarangire

Hung out by mud huts on the Serengeti Plain
Surrounding the clock tower
And by the fruit stand along the traffic circle
Walking along the dirt road, slender long bodies, witnessed alive.

Across – aisles on the Avenue, to navigate so delicately between
Still, fat, round, Bodies of clay
Encased by glass walls and resting
Alongside cherubs on canvases, imagined, ordered, interpreted.

And my body, and our bodies
Becoming lost to Africa
Passing stale carcasses rotting on the Plain.

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Filed under Physical, Wanderings

headrush

Yeah we’ve all had some hard knocks, I get it. I ran with maybe a bit of a tough crowd and you’ve got like something clinical, ok.

Your eyes go wide when you talk, like there’s some sort of inspiration, like something good is gonna happen, like hope.

My eyes they’re quiet and dark and people tell me I seem thoughtful, but I guess thoughts are all you have when it’s crumbled to bits, and thoughts are really all you have when you’re on the outside of addiction. So sure, I’m full of thoughts.

So that’s how I thought; how I think. Accusatory, defensive like.

I led us on a walk down into the ravine. To shed it all away, to leave the baggage outside and get into nature and into the middle of ourselves, at the root like some weak metaphor. In spring growth is everywhere and the air is so fresh, our movements so brisk.

We’re walking and I’m trying to get to this point about human suffering and how I think we all emerge whole, like there’s a hidden phoenix in each soul, and I wonder maybe we’re just still in it, in the depths of these leaves and this ecosystem, our uprising still a dormant myth.

Can’t look in your eyes. Lost enough.

And I see down on the trail a dead bird. A tiny chick. Like those faux taxidermy birds in the gift shops at the zoo and at the museum. But this one is real. Still and delicate; still, may be warm.

And there aren’t words. We don’t know this story and this suffering. It could have been worthless. I hope it was elegant, beautiful, true.

 

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