birds gently speak
in the early morning minutes,
while children sleep,
and dream without limits.
Tag Archives: poetry
The Inward Morning
A Poem by Henry David Thoreau Packed in my mind lie all the clothes What is it gilds the trees and clouds, Lo, when the sun streams through the wood, How could the patient pine have known Till the new light with morning cheer I’ve heard within my inmost soul As in the twilight of the dawn, Or in the eastern skies are seen, |
Travanj No’c Konflikt
and in the darkness
i saw their shadows
creep upon the door
and move across the
lawn.
and watching far
away as the
guardians work
through their
day,
i swerve off the track
of time, and call a
final thought to
plunder mind and,
foray into exhaustion.
“Awake, only show
anger to your bride, for
with her thoughts she
will eventually turn to
genocide.”
while the asylum’s
neglect their refugees
and fret over circumstance,
the atmosphere will open
and break their emergencies
and insipid trance.
if you don’t stay with him
it could be wrong, and they
told him not to leave,
all along.
those who should be trusted
bashed it all away, in a quick
unjust, crash and sway.
leave me here so that
i
can say, how long its
been since i have
eaten.
at least a day, but it
could be two, its
just as easy, as it
is to pray. an
answer never comes
but if i stay, there will
be one more to add to
the fray.
Nodding Away at the Skyline
drama in violin
play through the night,
as minutes rush towards
the dawn. these eyes
anticipate no sleep.
in the spring
warmth fills the air
and leave no sight,
yet evening rolls
unconscious in its
newly found
blossoms.
the churches
in this season,
fast in hopes of
redemption.
yet no season
with names from
my pocket, is
heaven sent.
thunder mumbles
in a distant land,
yet not too far,
but just enough,
for time to stand.
rain will not come,
so continues the
play,
of the band
cymbals crash
and natures
clash, far beyond
a psychological
horizon, set afire
by our dying
rational.
let the blue snakes
commune with the
land, and the violet
rattlers consume
violence at hand.
the night is still
dark.
will night first
embark?
though it is
morning and the
moon has quit its
learning, dew
raises at the sign of
lights first
yearning.
A Wake & In That Year…
These poems, A Wake and In That Year… are from Jim Morrison’s book of poetry by the name of The American Night, published by Vintage Books. I simply have chosen to share these because personally I find Jim Morrison to be a genius and one of my major inspirations. These are some of my favorites by him, among many others. Not only was Morrison a lyrical genius but he was a great poet, as is shown in many of his published books of poetry. While some consider him a shaman or the Lizard King or even the witty anagram Mr Mojo Risin is used to refer to him; he was best known as Jim Morrison of the Doors. Below is just a sample of his genius.
_________________________
A Wake
A wake
Shake dreams from your hair
My pretty child, my sweet one
Choose the day, & the sign
of your day,
1st thing you see.
A burnt tree, like a giant
primeval bird, a leaf,
dry & bitter, crackling tales
in its warm waves.
Sidewalk gods will do for you.
The forest of the neighborhood,
The empty lost museum, &
The mesa, & the Mt’s pregnant
Monument above the newstand
where the children hide
When school ends.
_______________________
In That Year…
In that year we had a great visitation of energy.
Back in those days everything
was simpler & more confused.
One summer night, going
To the pier, I ran into
2 Young girls. The
blonde was called Freedom,
the dark one, Enterprise.
We talked, & they told
me this story.
Nenoriai
spring tries
hard, to fight
back and open
my door.
let all
assume an
imminent
defeat.
a place,
i can’t recall,
but
i’d dreamed of
before.
i hear the cars
asleep at night
in the street.
i’m trying
hard to be
here,
reluctant,
i cant speak
of it now.
beauty
reserved a
place in
another
life for you.
to me
you are
undying.
Time #3
time,
it lay still,
on a bed of
cool white linen,
a breeze
sweeps through the
window.
gently
it brushes the
skin of a pale white
virgin.
she screams and cries
and beckons in stress.
unheard,
unnoticed,
we never heed her warnings,
yet she comes to our door,
with letters over a million mornings.
each word and paragraph in wind,
of our meek and beautiful end.
