She And He Are Just One In The Forest

Above the earth she seeks in dendritic patterns
Mirrored by his deepest caverns
One dies in the light of colored rays
While the one below lives on what’s decayed
Forever they travel opposing directions
Yet, each thrives with mutual intercession.

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Posted in love poems, Poems Beyond Their Words, poetry | Leave a comment

The Makeout Party

They were smoking and kissing
Crowded on couches and papasons
Curled in contrapposto
I tried to twist myself into the scene
And I played records in the basement darkness
Made jokes below my true intellect
To make them laugh
To make them stop.

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Peasants In The Castle Of Being

Hungering, goes
The hunter green vine
Winding up walls
Of a cinder block throat.
Swollen thoughts
Coursing from
The belly of memory,
Splits rock
In the pulsing edifice
Erected around
Men endowed
With bones of metal
Crumbling flesh
Broken Hearts
Are hauled off
As delicacies for
Peasants.

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Posted in Poems Beyond Their Words | 4 Comments

A Heart Filled With Emptiness

Everything enters the mind
through the hidden passages of the heart.
On this journey of beauty,
wade not in through details, but whirl in wonder.

You complain of an empty heart,
yet drown in the rising tide of its echoes.
Your heart is not truly empty, else love
would most certainly have come to roost by now.

One that whines does not have an empty heart,
but rather a heart filled with emptiness.
Stop beating your fists against invisible walls;
you cannot push through a door that opens towards you.

You tie your turmoil into tiny silk satchels,
steep them in bejeweled cups of boiling water
and stir bitter tea, sweeten falsely, drink up anxiously,
and burn your tongue.

Gather up the emptiness from your heart,
jump into the burning sun … and bake.
Your emptiness is not sated by more content.
Those believing they hold a heart, have not the arms to let go.

When love finds you, do not receive it as replacement.
With whom but yourself do you barter, negotiate, and compromise?
Throw the merchants out of the bazaar;
all here is freely given and received in the commerce of the heart.

Your beloved shining in your pellucid eyes
reveals the bounty within the shadows.
Dive deeper into those dark depths
filled with nothing but the light awaited.

Let rain fall in all directions,
let water flow upstream… be all that you are not
and let not what you are now
become all that you wish to know.

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Real Love In A Series of Affirmations

vday3

  • Real love is the endlessness of a mirror’s own reflection in another
  • Real love binds the sheep, the wolf and the shepherd together in compassion
  • Real love is an impenetrable wall of wisdom between you and what you only think you love
  • Real love cannot be given by or to, nor forged into a palace soaring around us; it is only submitted to within the fathomless self
  • Real love is more patient with us than we are with it
  • Real love is lost in the beginning of a whisper and returns at its end screaming
  • Real love is jealous of any other kind of love
  • Real love can have warm lips in the winter and a cold heart in the spring
  • Real love is the last that you will learn of your self when you first know it within another
  • Real love is just beyond where the tip of the flame disappears
  • Real love is shared between constants not variables
  • Real love is as it is and not how it should be
  • Real love is a brilliant flash giving us but a glimmer of our frailty through an everlasting glow of our strength
  • Real love is the very same mortar between the bricks of the mosque, the church, and the synagogue
  • Real love persists most when it is pursued least, and never fled
  • Real love is in the direction a broken compass points that when followed leads you home
  • Real love is last ticket to anywhere; the water, the ferryboat, and the captain; and most of all, the continents it spans
  • Real love leaves no trace of it ever having come, its footprints are yours
  • If you find real love, let go of it…do not name it… the real Real has found you.
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A Jot of Clay

https://remigiosol.files.wordpress.com/2013/03/broken-clay-heart.jpg

https://remigiosol.files.wordpress.com/2013/03/broken-clay-heart.jpg

Through the torpor from some unseen cloud,
a bead of rain slipped past my lips
and down my throat.
Sensing my thirst, this sojourner arrives
from some other place, some other time.
Love for this one bead I sip, and no other do I note.

I ponder its purpose as my own design, and
my senses say some breath divine
must have stirred recollection in this granule of dust,
that so carefully culled water droplets
to quench my thirst for truth,
from swallowing such a small amount of trust.

Blessed, I thought, that jot of clay
beneath the feet of man
to be seen by God and chosen,
dried and lifted.
How humble the drop of rain that learns to love
its own reflection in the ocean.

An ennui of steady rain
weeps silent reminiscence
that tastes of wine and smells
of incense.
Your return to earth is
a drop of certainty in a deluge of doubt.
It is the friend with a jug of wine, an intoxicated heart,
from which I drink up love for my journey through the drought.

From the infinite,
this one ray of water
finds a channel winding toward the sea of my heart.
I, once a dry and lonely jot of clay,
that drank from the heavens and dwelled with dew,
once more found weight and fell away.

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In Time, In Time

 

camiMy young daughter and I are not much different;
Little less of this, a little more of that.

She wonders about God’s existence at all;
While I weep for His closeness.

We stumble through our words as
One asks and the other tells of His whereabouts.

There are answers for me in her questions;
There are questions for her in my answers.

Thus it would serve us well to listen to one another.
‘Tis the new wheat that turns from green to gold.

In time, in time… the value of golden wheat,
Baked in the sun, becomes our nourishment.

It is my love for my daughter and her love for me,
That God reveals – in time, in time –

…That there is nothing else to love but love;
God is all we’ll find, even if He is all we resist.

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Poetry Dispensers

Antique-Small-Wooden-SWISS-to-market

She applied his poetry like a salve…

But he complained,

    “It’s a stick

    to poke giants, stir potions –

    and you think it’s medicine.”

She let out a held breath

blowing the dust off her music box;

    the cylinder turned ever-so-slightly,

    the metal comb made pretty “plings”

and he exclaimed triumphantly,

    “See?!”

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Murmuration of Starlings (#25wtT)

 

Murmuration of Starlings

Photo by Gregory Hunt, Daily Mail, May 2016

 

We writers
who tremble to look up from our notepads
Lest we miss, in everlasting flowing words,
our beholding of
the murmuration of morning birds.

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Juxtapostion of Muse and Poet

A muse is not a person,
but a condition between friends.
So goes inspiration.
We just write down the poems
that other says into us.

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