About us

Poetry

 

It was taught to me. It was by emotion, radical expression. It was by analyses. It was alert through intuition. It was churned by intelligence. It challenged reason, affixed to logic. Most adapted a

 

hostile trajectory. Such affection for it, as it unfolds. So close; so distant; at sectors, most indifferent to it: some type of relationship, damn near an entity. It has sentience—a given life: when going well, such intimacy; when reluctant, such frustration. By a graph those waves, in suggesting

 

freedom, so spatial, such a false reality, to deceive self, if to create a piece. A serf to it; a rising understanding; Love might have adopted such temperament … those with fever, so furtive, much on display, feelings will shower, snow will fall—summer might be instrumental. If to make poetry

 

into a fantasy, she dies and resurrects in each line, she resuscitates sentiments, and suffocates freedoms, such responsibility in approaching her castle. To have cherished some property—to have

 

felt some connection, to have needed some therapy, such autonomy, such slavery, poetry is paradox, so much to adore. Some are for her. Some are against her. An inner inn. A mental intoxication. A graveyard full of letters. Sheer capacity; to make an office; to negotiate over supper. Tragic sanity; endorsing souls—making creativity, such addiction, then a shut down.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Being

 

Being is of self a chase. We contend against worries, moving in sort of a daze. I’m reluctant to address it: affection is pivotal desire. We refute one element in time, confused by what we’ve cleaved to: excellent promise, irresistible internality. I was with want to possess some talent, something charming, still a hope, a wish, for in all assertion, poetry is an isolated algorithm. One

 

presumes everyone is moved by it, not so. Nevertheless, words probe us. One might adore a given genre, contending against worries, finding solace in literature of some nature. Life is connected to itself and others through memories, a popular theory. Memory is alike to immortality. Indeed, when speaking on living forever, we might desire something more emphatic, more overt. In any respects,

 

mind is a link to being passed down from one to the next generation. Nothing of a discovery. We’ve lived it. We’ve thus experienced it. Issues remain, nonetheless, breakthroughs have been made. Each person is Yahtzee. Each building is undone for construction. Eyes are on each edifice. To have loved is to have felt life in passing; we desire what has been lost, it becomes mourning. In

 

soaring in one’s career, one will retire. Here is different. One can join the Board. One might get unsaid Love back. It may flow differently. I’ll address moods in closing. They seem important in determining temperament. Moods seem random, however, often, they can be traced. Indeed! Something unphysical is at play: what is intuition: unphysical knowingness?

 

This space is meant to offer a location for musing upon prose poems. It is with hope that something soothing is happened upon with each visit. 

 

Intangible & Tangle Gesticulations

 

Smaller airs, neat seduction, if ever a crime; roses by jazz, affection made warm, days dreaming of more. Free association, oaken blues, filthy fire flies. To become pieces of a picture, analytical arts, taller green gates. If meant to as beyond one’s station, daunted by interior banter. Father of a gallica, mother of a zinnia—flickering flames, moths massacred. It was always with pride, such arrant ways, avenue waves, heaving into heaven. So contemplative, indecent chaos, reaching for causation. To read about an abstract river, sheer shivers, nevermore as it was intended. Trying to obtain correlation—between soul and benthic sciences.

 

Love is a dangerous soul, singing in sky-ology, soft serene sceneries. A soul will study and always feel a schism; the here, as in now, separated from its presence, boiling inside, never reaching its potentiality. To have adored. To have loved, to have demised—such sunshine elements, sweet and devilish irony. Nasty realities. As never believed. Not for dishonesty. One needs to keep reality tucked into spheres, deep into galaxies. A soul searches for balance, nothing of which to find, furious in blues, pausing to watch an Amtrack train. Such women by self those trinkets, those flowers, those wines, even clothing and jewelry.

 

 

Graven Palms

 

I thought until an image appeared. I have a polemic, Love. It must matter. By confliction of memories. Trying to talk love; trying to disguise a graven shadow. Such is travail. Sensing graven palms means something acutely. A rope is fraught by cords; a river is filled with carcasses. Blood trickles into seas. I was puzzled, it was made clear—those scales mean existence; by furnace, by affliction, a man of sorrows. A Great Arm—reaching to cuddle souls, akin to a wing nestling its chicks. One direction: wondering—if it were easy, to explain why so many chase it. A portion given to souls. Most would not believe it, maybe cups overflow. Maybe this forms a need. And I see in folds, each page earmarked, wondering, if it truly matters. What will a tomb read? And sudden thunder, falling from skies, to speak riddles. By instruction—becoming energy, executed through creativity. Maybe cosmic tone, hue and reality, maybe souls find favor; indeed, maybe faith, belief, runs deeper unto bringing them to life, in some folks. I must ask: Are souls policing God? A sailing enterprise—filled with rationalization. A spirit would build an empire, train spirits, trying to contain it. One will unleash iridescence—mud black demons, pearl white angels—refined by kilns.

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Studying Pieces

 

I’d aim to create: time is always moving. I’d aim to relate; wisdom is hiding gently. In seeking, I must seek myself: Dialogue. I first enjoyed a figment of my imagination; it has become ever whelming. I spend hours pointing at a phantom. One would try to assist, another implants itself, weather feels by course. In all by getting, with Love at a cliff, we never relented. I wonder if brains do according to time. Yes. Mindful of it, as imposed upon it, nevertheless, to do according to time. Fantasy seeming timeless. And Love might hurt aside a soul: treasured premonitions. Maybe sequential meditation, if to break what never breeds. Each dimension—sureness of power—to see a poem and sigh. Time isn’t coquettish—it never flirts, it moves in one direction: animation comes to pass. I imagine pressure, so dear a dynamic spirit: intent on movement, subsumed by excellence, to see, to admire, to perish a smidgen. (I was uneven in love. It hit like a storm. I figured it was good for me: rationalizing.)  Maybe Zeus would articulate it. Maybe Artemis would bless fertility, so bad a connection—to have a healing union. (I can’t debate it any longer: mind-matter, lyric-wraiths, a soul granted ignition.) In searching a precipice, ignoring pretention, the weeping willow, discolored at times.