PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

"Feel it, 

the sensation of breathing, 

with a new friend. 

Not

 

the addition, 

but the release of a union

of muscle and sinew, 

effort

 

cast to the side. 

The breath

enjoyed

with the support 

 

of the floor. 

The ground, 

the dirt below, 

thinking now

 

of feeling the green grass

in between your toes, 

the Earth, 

our Earth. 

 

Nay, she is not ours, 

we are instead Hers. 

Your breath... 

given strength by Mother Earth. 

 

Do you feel it? 

The ebb of the Earth, 

the beat, 

the ancient, encompassing embrace. 

 

Do you feel the flow

of the Ocean,

the breath of Mother Earth

made manifest?

 

Do you feel the presece

of the energy,

in this room, 

right now?

 

The energy that is still, 

the energy that links us, 

neighbor to neighbor, 

the energy of the mightiest wave

 

crashing onto the shore,

the wrath of the surf

felt as fury by the surfer

that Hell hath no. 

 

The energy of the exhausted canine

resting finally on couch

with the child who so tenderly

ran it tired. 

 

The energy when Autumn comes

when you're not quite done

kissing Summer

goodbye.

 

Do you feel the breath? 

Do you feel your mind 

spiraling all over this

whirl of whimisical words?

 

Do you feel the heart? 

Your heart? 

My heart? 

The flow of energy 

 

of the one to your left

or right? 

Us all, limited not

to labels

 

or categories, 

not by old, young, 

American, skin tone, 

the foolish boy or the sweet lady.

 

Try Human, 

Homo Sapien, 

try Earthling, 

giggling practitioner about spirit fingers. 

 

But, 

you know what? 

I do not

need to instruct, 

 

because I feel it. 

I feel you. 

I feel joy,

stress, searing pain, 

 

us joining as a whole

with our Om. 

So beautiful, 

you people. 

 

This is it. 

This is you, this is me. 

This is Mother Earth. 

I feel it.

 

And maybe you do too."

"A visit at my table, 

a very welcome visitor,

has a cup of coffee

set down,

 

but not before

the friend has seated herself

does the surface 

of the brew spill over,

 

splashing quietly 

as as she bumps the table with her knee.

Such a detail,

the dark, dark liquid

 

spread across the light brown

wood of where I write,

threatening to soil

the art being drawn.

 

The spillings

of the latest happenings,

the earnest devouring

of each others stories

 

lead to reading,

of depicting the next best thing

in lives still be finished,

download in progress.

 

A spiral

from one image to the next

from the warm-lit coffee shop

to digital acquisition.

 

Like this poem,

the conversation goes,

topics spiraling.

Not out of control,

 

but wildly different

in varient,

from the new job

made of dreams

 

to the steaming progress

of artwork creativity.

Reading,

the visitor stirring

 

with silent smiles

and sparkling eyes,

asking how and why

my poetry winds

 

into art so quickly,

but my answer is clumsy,

the failing of conveying

a real reason

 

for words written.

Awkward in handling it,

and unable still

to write out the soul

 

in one sentence,

stanza,

poem,

book, even. 

 

So let's write three,

I tell her,

and glee is sounded,

rounding back to her departure,

 

bumping coffee again.

But it's wiped away,

no evidence

of the one who sat across.

 

Nothing lost.

Meaning, rather.

No theme,

but a underlying feeling." 

Rambling away goes the auctioneer,
Inner peace for the highest bidder,
Whips and chairs tame circus lions,
in the sweltering heat of winter...