art, introspection, nature, philosophy, Poetry, spirituality, Uncategorized

Quiet I’ve Found

It is the sound of a quiet room
And graphite in spiral-bound
It is the crick of the clock
As the seconds turn around
It is the fervent hum of air
Lightly rowing in the vent
It is the window whispers
Of crickets in their tents
It is leather on my chair
That cracks when I shift
It is light through my hair
As the lamp lights my grip
Of graphite in spiral bound
It strokes, bends, and slips
The shapes are like soft sounds
That bend in my lips
The feelings are like heavy pounds
That from my heart drip
And fill in this quiet I’ve found
As I silently sit

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art, introspection, pain, philosophy, Poetry, spirituality

Naive Wishes

Paint me with naive wishes 

They are the only ones worth having 

Haven’t learned fear 

Haven’t known failure 

Still have the time to prove 

Paint me with with naive hope 

That has every reason to go on forever 

Doesn’t need to be realistic

Doesn’t feel pressured to be responsible 

Young enough to know no limits

Paint me with naive love 

That blooms in every young soul 

Unabashed 

Unbridled 

Unflinching 

In the face of every sad love song

art, introspection, nature, philosophy, Poetry, spirituality, Uncategorized

Summer Swell

Warm jasmine in the breeze
Rushes up on me
Forty shades of green
In the shade tree
Bright and tropic petunias
My glass sweating in the sun
The ice twirls and mirrors
Swift summer heat
Turns each leaf
It spins right up to me
And twists my hair
The sky peaking through
In orange glow
Tilts my eyes away
Where it glitters on the porch
Kaleidoscope dancing
Envelopes my wide world

Art Credit: Middle Way Art Studio

art, introspection, philosophy, Poetry, spirituality, Uncategorized

The Dreaming Age

Sometimes something special reminds me what it’s like to dream again. And it’s like this hidden emotion that gets forgotten until something lights it up. And I see it as clearly as I did when I was younger, and simpler, and when things were much more magical. And it overcomes me. I don’t have to work for it. The dream just comes back to me. And that is more poetic to me than anything I can explain.

I think those kinds of dreams happen in that intricate time when we are changing from children into adults. I think that at some special youthful interval we get a chance to be overwhelmingly complex and fearlessly hopeful. I would dream so deeply then. My dreams tend to be more technical now, and less beautiful, and less like dreams and more like goals. Without the magic and without the hope of undamaged youth. But sometimes I hear a special song and it takes me back, and I feel more like myself than ever before.

Poetry, Uncategorized

Inkwell

I walked out in the yard
And I was tired but happy
My soul has seen weather
It gets so wound up
Life stirs me up
And now I spill out all my color
My fire burns out into the night
I sit on a ragged blanket
In ripped blue jeans
And I drag on a cigarette
And it fumes out into the air
And the stars are closer to my heart
Than anything else
Here, my color is spilt out everywhere
Under a navy night sky