Little things

I’m not a poet.

I’m can hardly call myself a writer, but I do so because I write things.
Little things.
Things in the present, the past, things of essence, of matter, things from an atomic perspective, things aquatic. Things if not important to anyone else, then at least to me. Little things are most precious as they never tend to grow too big, too old, too bitter or too serious. They evoke a natural rhythm that never breaks, that is timeless, endless. Darkness and light intermingle and are of the essence to the process, allowing all gods to be human and encourages drinking the smell of the sea. All return to a self before birth, before corruption, before judgment. In here every line is sacred.  And so here we are, star-dusted and excited, hoping to create a space in which play is free.

 

 

 

Photo by Pablo Saborío Vargas

The walls

The concrete walls melt as the branches reach in.
We taste the air while around the purple fire.
Under the full ephemeral circle of light we are all children and with pockets heavy with imagination we cultivate a determined mind, surely we won’t return.
But the bricks are strong, full of gold and pleasure and pressure.
The lake is full with plastic swans and I know you like the embrace of plastic arms, but we are fading.

I can’t see the moon for the clouds. I can’t see. But her laughter is there alright.

Atlas of thought

Concise. The dove roars. At first not sure if it was an owl. I know now. The sky is blue. Filled with birds. They shriek. Something about a blue sky. Our hearts beat faster in warm winds.  Here in the north. I think of waves. Dolphins. I must have been a sailor. A seashell. Sometime before. And the vapors of clouds. Mysteriously they seem solid. But we go right through. Always an inspiration. A reminder. That things are not what they seem.

(Beautiful) Painting by Tanja Baltzer, SKY01

http://www.tanjabaltzer.dk/

Endless, shapeless

As the mountains walked oceanward

I wondered,

how growing from seed to stem

was made possible.

Too, I wondered how with every

fallen leaf of each fall

a child grows into dehydrated laughter.

How separation become habitual –

as if you and I we’re not of the selfsame soil.

 

If we were wondrous enough

allowing magnetically to be drawn into life,

like fish and ships

propelled by a force,

we could disentangle the knots,

or if unfeasible it seemed,

at least reacquaint ourselves

to seeing from the eyes of children.

Before darkness

In the moment between the dim of daylight and darkness, the cosmos stands quiet and patient –

As a nun awaiting the voice of god.

The instant is brief

But the satisfaction rendered

Linger upon the mortal as velvety thoughts of the afterlife.

 

Photo by Pablo Saborio: http://nihilisticpoetry.com/category/photography/#jp-carousel-6945

Hungry souls

Cloud formations

Clean the city’s skin

Its buildings like necks of swans

Stretch out to reach the end of hungry souls.

Apples hang lazily in trees

Above the tracks –

We always want to go

To the inside of dreams and curl up

Like waves in the wombs of mothers.

 

Photo by Pablo Saborio: http://nihilisticpoetry.com/category/photography/

How things are…

You can’t refuse your own time
because everything is a succession of the past
and they who lived did as they thought best or baddest.
Now, conscience is a flower not planted in all
but we love even the crooked,
and all hearts has pulsating veins.
The eyes of babies hold nothing malicious.

Echoing wings
of glorious angels.

Photo by Pablo Saborio: http://nihilisticpoetry.com/category/photography/#jp-carousel-6825