Dreams. Those soft touches in the night
of young love and days gone bye.
A beautiful face lingering in my mind,
warm inviting smiles reminding me of yesterday.
She stirred my love years ago,
when her soft little hand touched mine;
to dangerous to hold, yet irresistible.
I awake to see the dream in fleeting moments,
on Sundays for an hour or two.
A soft tender vision, still to young to hold.
She ignited a flame,
and I have respect for the fire.
A warm glow on her face,
and a blinding smile.
Child of light you stoke dark coals
and kindle memories long gone out.
Do I dare hold the heat?
I shall watch you dance
from the windows of a cautious soul.
To many years between us
tell me the blaze will burn for another,
but still I enjoy your warmth.
The God Part
I don’t believe in knowledge,
but I’ve forgotten why.
Information is lost in our age,
and used to find more ways to lie.
I don’t believe the internet,
when we’ve lost the link to truth.
Reality isn’t really virtual,
but these days the photograph’s the proof.
I don’t believe in globalization,
but this little world is bought and sold.
The charge for cash has got to change.
The balance to check is known by some.
I don’t believe love is really known today,
you know the other l-word
is what we should say.
I believe in God.
Fire In The Freezer
I felt the fire in the freezer.
The burn from the cubes
makes me stick to the edges
of who I could be.
Frost blurs my image on the walls,
and makes the near seem distant.
I shiver in reality, as cool flames
make my expectations numb.
I’ve felt the fire in the freezer,
and the chilling paradox
is such a strange sensation.
Social Coverage of an Enchanter’s Film
Pixie dust: Magical golden powder
fuelled by happy thoughts?
Mineral magic brushed on sprites
because people like to live in a fantasy.
A powerful augment and rejuvenator
nostalgizing life’s blues,
into golden glowing tones.
Nymphs use the crush
in order to find a soulmate person to love.
But boys seldom break Never Land’s rules
of only visiting in dreams.
If her wings get wet,
the dust will no longer make
Listening to the wind
on a cloudy day,
whispers beckon be follow,
over the mountains of circumstances
to the peaks of bliss,
through the valleys of fears,
across the plains of memories,
to the coast of my character,
I will follow and breathe
the words You have spoken
through the ages;
a sigh echoing through
the canyons, of time.
The glass in the windows,
is stained now in colors of tolerance.
Your light casts a dim glow on the floor
of subtle hues of acceptance,
and Your blazing glory is softened
in this new age of approval.
Blues and pinks inundate the image
and mingle with their own kind,
as the picture shifts into debauchery.
Your light once shone
through Your likeness,
but now the windows of their souls,
are darkened with their own design.
Stuck In The Middle
Not quite on either page,
I hope to write between the lines,
but meaning may not rhyme
with the spiritual or the material.
I’m stuck in the middle,
sliding towards the binding
which may hold me together
long enough to smear an implication,
on the pages of time.
Fragments Of Ourselves
They say the hero has
a thousand faces.
Analogies blur in meaning,
and we forget who we are;
never knowing the Image.
The crowd of copies
reveals a redundant appearance
and we refuse to believe
there is one Face,
looking back at us.
We look into the mirror
of our minds,
and our reflection shatters
into fragments, of ourselves.
Concealed In The Wreckage
I would rise and fall with the tide
before the storm of emotions
sank me in the depths of despair,
obscuring the light
in dark shades of melancholy.
Beneath the glittering surface,
hues of blue conceal the wreckage.
Down in the pit of my soul,
what was once useful holds a treasure,
waiting, to be found.
A storm covered my horizon.
Your wind turned counter-clockwise,
and spun me ‘round to face the north,
and I waited, kneeling in this wilderness.
Flashes of insight flickered in the distance
as I sat in the darkness.
Then You struck near to my heart,
and ignited a tree behind me.
A figure glowed in the fire,
His light illuminating a path,
I put the gallon jar out
on the air conditioner,
and waited for my life
to turn a rich amber hue.
Not manufactured powder
of modern instant times,
but the sun playing
in a bag of leaves;
fragrant childhood memories
gathered and contained,
submerged and defusing,
waiting to be sipped, in age.
Life Through The Liquid
Through the window of existence
neon beams gleam from the dark side
of the moonshine.
Being refracting through liquid distortion;
a subtle glow pouring
into the last shot down,
during the happy side of sad.
Within the medicinal poison,
life often shines through an amber hue;
bending times into forgotten memories,
than stained moments, left behind.
The reaper is now in purgatory,
harvesting the useless weed,
only to watch it return
with a vengeance.
Slashing through mortal sins,
he winds his way up the staircase,
only to look back and see,
that he’s accomplished nothing.
Guilt grows along the fence
separating him from his neighbors;
collecting a crop of bitterness
and wasted years.
Speeding on the Blue-Line,
metropolitan mayhem subdued
Sprawling diversity lumped between
Affluence in debt to poverty. The Metro
defying the momentum of stagnation.
Down the tracks we rail against
Progress grinding over ties
Sojourners stand at the stations of the cross
and wonder, when they are leaving.
Swelling and crashing
upon the shore of reality,
only to draw recollections
back into the deep.
Surging upon the present
the deep rages upon my thoughts;
pulling moments into melancholy
Time lost in remembrances
of footprints long since vanished.
Every Chapel Has a Ceiling
Gazing up in the chapel
we search for inspiration.
God reaches down from above,
as we examine His image
in our minds.
Standards of art and society
like oils in the mural on the ceiling;
we paint our hand reaching upwards
and marvel at our accomplishment.
Such a noble attempt. Like a child
covered in colors, of innocence.
Under The Sun
Heat rises and condenses,
like the breath of exhausted angels,
shrouding the city from the sun.
No relief will await them.
The fallen hope
for one more night of deeds
done for the darkness;
knowing the sun has risen before,
and will come again.
Crescent Moon Rising
A crescent moon is rising.
Dimness in a dark world.
The sun still shines,
but the moon beckons
violence from the east,
and many do follow.
The sun illuminates the rising moon,
as the earth stands between,
a prize to be won by the masses;
casting the shadow of religion.
The moon will rise,
only to fall, in the end.