After dropping you off,
I find myself in a friendly gaze
with God
or The Great Mother.
I smile for a blissful moment,
returning occasionally,
humbler each time.
It shifts a twinge
down right,
down left,
journeying its way
down
the hidden pathways
in the glass
it clings to.
Category: Poems
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Precipitation
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A certain inner peace, quite safe and pleased with herself, wherein there is a certain knowing of the world whereby wherever she alights upon the world that same pleasant fastidiousness whereupon she chuckles with herself she chuckles with her acquaintance wherewith the unknown and uncouth are handily known and tamed: a traveling tea party
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1. Receiving, knowing it is more than I can repay 2. The giving of such 3. The twainGrace
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Little boy: patience, or, at least let yourself be. You don’t see the angels loving you, the humble intricacies of your snowflake, the mountain you pirouette from. I admonish you: love yourself, still, only if it be thine will, lest you deprive the least of your lovers of a tittle of your jot. Nurture yourself, breathe, grow, should it suit you. The bright Devil burns, still not yet God.
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Art is a gift, something intricate — oh, stark something.
Bitter Pith
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It hurts my feelings, this lump of heart and soul, eons in the making, gathering together my humanity into something presentable only to have you taking it with a grain of salt, being skeptical, doubting, and awaiting proof.
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I withdraw to my hearth confident all have fires within, this public thing notwithstanding.
Hermit
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Wind weaves through my wheat, sun–touched, tender nubs heavy with grain lifting up to the sky. They bask. Would your giant hand brush through them, feel their thoughtless, supple stipples bounce upon your flesh before they burn brittle? Just whim and I gasp as your nails unearth the moist crumbles of my cake. Fallow me easily as deep as an entire man.
Whole Grain
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My hoops, untouched and so taken, dizzy and swaying, rejoice as your arrow rushes through, home at last.
Threaded
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A sobering realization to hear “enough” from my own lips once so desirous to devour a guilty swallow of enchantment you so easily weave: intricate and vast — beyond what I can see — interconnected waves, ringing, ringing, washing over, flooding me. To have you see me turn my gaze from your majesty: I can't bear to witness it. Then, to live on remembering I could not contain your beauty, could not contain, for an instant in my memory, the mellifluous image you constantly alight upon the world: my sorrow my mirror reflects darkly. My belly is full of beauty: full, only with a meager portion of your infinity. Have I done anything?
Love’s Labors Lost
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