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Illegal Dream

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.

 

Burning Warmth

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.

Yes,

     
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
her fly.

 

Whispers

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,
     and beyond.

I will follow and breathe
     the words You have spoken
          through the ages;
a sigh echoing through

     
the canyons, of time.

 

Darkened Windows

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.

 

Burning Tree

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,
into tomorrow.

 

Sun Tea

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,
     evaporating faster
than stained moments, left behind.

 

Ivy

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.

 

Metrolink Crossing©

Speeding on the Blue-Line,
     metropolitan mayhem subdued
          in suburbia.
Sprawling diversity lumped between
     freeways.
Affluence in debt to poverty. The Metro
     defying the momentum of stagnation.

Down the tracks we rail against
     anarchy.
Progress grinding over ties
     of love.
Sojourners stand at the stations of the cross
     and wonder, when they are leaving.

 

Vanished

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

     
memories.
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.

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