Tag: Poetry

I Guess They Call this Writer’s Block

I can hear the river’s call dancing along the bank. It is the very sound of Life as it pours from the heart. This Stream of Silence carries no passengers- no stones, fish, or debris, only water flowing. Yes, I feel inspired, and yet the pen rests on the page in Stillness. How many ways…
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Don’t Worry

Don’t Worry, this pain you are feeling is nothing more than the excruciating agony of two holes drilled in your back and wings shoved in.

Wings

An unharvested tree will only produce rot. Even a goddess will sour if trapped in a box. Tonight my back aches from the weight of wings unused.

Music

No true poet claims to create beauty; he discovers it the way a tambura player discovers that perfect place on the string to stroke. Deep within your soul there is an antique table where the two Buddhas, Sorrow and Joy, sit to have tea. Their arms rest on the table’s edges as they lean close…
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Butterfly

Taste your sorrows the way a caterpillar sinks his feet in the mud- each of his leg hairs tremble as they lick the wet, savory earth.

Starlight

I am in one of those moods again where I just want to kiss anything that moves. I would even kiss the Sun if he would let me, but instead he has climbed down his own sunbeam and nestled in my heart. Now, when I kiss the plants, the insects, or the Moon, they burn…
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Coconut

You crack open my head like a coconut, snap off my wrist, and use my finger as a straw to suck out my water. My hand is a spoon to scoop out my meat. I am carved deep and empty. What remains of my shell is in love with you madly.

On Beauty and Sorrow

Soothing rains can only fill as deep as the shovel digs. Paradise is an island of beauty with winds of sorrow and bliss. Even quilts weaved from spiders and rainbows will rot when covering mold. But mold unmasked is sorrow felt deeply, waking the heart of the soul.

True Conversion

True conversion is not the swapping of words, the trading of dogma or the switching of casings that harden the heart. It is when the shells shatter from a swelled heart blossoming that we are truly born again. Read More: Poetry

Paint Thinner

I have become a caricature of myself. I splash paint at the mirror before me, trying to match its beauty. I am a dove gathering fallen feathers on the moss, trying to fashion wings. I am a fish wearing swim trunks.