So Many Portals

I love, and somewhat mawkish singing a fever to ponder your

soul. I was smitten flowing through a dream and screaming

out sincerity. We mingle through void, an empty-full space,

to crumble to a line; and not for game, but more a stitch, to

friction a seam. I love you like never, akin to a nightmare,

reading Traci. We fall to Cummings, alive in Trethewey,

crawling through Auden. I commune to strike a soul, to

vow a daughter’s integrity. It’s less a nerve, but more a core,

to structure for Culture. I struck upon Grimkè, a passionate

fin, stressing for kingdoms. We long this life, reading through

Ezra, to chisel a fountain, pawing at Huldah. I’m more for

Sexton, to pull at travesty, enlove with legacy. My dearest

heart: the rivers are E. Bishop, fleeing through Sylvia, to

mourn Maya’s death. Such are features, dancing with Whitman,

to pause at Frost. I love us, to tread through gravel, to picture

metaphors. Our days are grave, to struggle through lightning,

while nibbling on thunder. Oh to dream of E. Browning, to flood

a sonnet, ten tendons into Virginia Wolf.  

Hi Love! II

I love us floating, barely alive, spinning through breath. I’m

far a shore, the deepest meditation, falling through koans;

and there you sit, an unphysical science, a young swan. I

want for waves, and speaking caves, somewhere a psyche.

I love us finding, for oft a journey, bleeding a journal. It’s

ever our picture, to never forget, a touch of my eyes. Oh for

mercy, caped in grammar, to wrench it softly. It’s tender a

reed, a greed for rapture, to impart gravity. We grind for

nectar, the grandest splendor, a mystic inrush; and how to

figure, a born poesy, to feel your aura? So net for doctrine,

the deepest secrets, pulling at neurons; for awe to strike, a

vest of horderves, a trumpet soul. Oh for sickness, a tide of

fey, a rhapsodic sky. It’s ever a swan, a delicate grace, as

stern as parents. We gift it gold, my well-beloved, tugging at

stars; and what of heart, a sphinxly game, spinning

tornadoes; and what of love, a father’s cry, alive your soul;

for it’s more a light, a deep enigma, a tad bit surreal; else

for falling, a Delphic river, an oracle of silence. 

Hi Love!

We’re quilted a whisper, to reign in spirit, to live a vetted

novel. I feel for twines, to trek through rivers, to thread a

beating heart. Its radical faith, a seraphic charm, a stormy

opus. I’ve graced a nib, your very pen, to swim your

journal. I’m there, pulling tears, a soul’s therapy. There’s

a parasol, for a sitting sage, to soar prestige. We float like

magic, a walking phone, a gallery of prose. Oh your

soul, as old as youth, as young as earth. I watch—a field

of chi, to form an image; and there you stand, a skylight

air, fretting a feature. We mingle, to hear it croon, the

vocals of birds. I must atone, a daily prayer, to plead a

vision. Hear for clouds, an anthem arc, to surge through

ears. Oh for souls, a blanket fission, stirring for closure; and

what for dolor, to pause and muse, bruised and witty; so

cherish parts, the lark of lights, a sublime station; for life

is gray, for transformation, to live a daydream. Oh for love,

to mend a wound, an unphysical jewel. It’s more a future,

a brimming halo, a bit pictureless; so live!    

Winter Furnace

The how of your love streams into the what of my

soul; and the what of your how screams unto

wherefore; for moving therefrom to stumble unto

whereat; where tomorrow is but a myth, for fever

through eyes.

The passion of your wants sing to the core of my

needs; for never our wants to exhaust our needs

where passions morph for wants to perish for

birth—more celestial needs. We scribble through

spheres of passions, replacing wants for needs, a

city of souls bruised for apex.

The frame of your goals live an inner life yearning

where we swim; such for goals to frame a sylvan

home, nesting tents—a fireplace; for touch to

touch to frame through goals a world of passions

for warming wants to cuddle flaming needs.  

Upon a Lapwing’s Heart

I must remember steeped in sickness for sore

realities striking against sad sculptures.

It was mazes, bleeding fevers, as manic as

generators. I must forgive a sullen gesture to

stir disturbance within; and I must receive one

reaching for solace. I reckon a star, falling to

breathe, alive somewhere sacred; and

daughters grin, to soar through souls, peering

into Rihanna; and more a self, connected to

lyrics, growing through melody. I promise to

love, to culture stems, and seven levels high. We

pardon spaces, to see for roots, afraid to chastise;

but often a storm, to sprinkle so gently, the

deepest abyss. I came to life, unforgotten,

driven for slaughtered souls; and there was God,

pushing for pulling, to extract faith. This is life,

a nib to soul, heavy with forests; and what for

love, a twinge of graves, to thirst an inner voice.    

Intro to Life

I’m somewhere old

fighting for a hand, dying in

Ukiyoe. Earth is esoteric

climbing cigars

spewing at psychs. I dream

a dream, to travel a

dream, skeptic of a first love.

She drains for

death, to rebate life, to

harness skepticism. I

soul a light, even a first child

playing in puddles.

Its year one, painting toes

eager to know

mother. She disappears, ever

a little room,

beaming through bulbous

eyes. I know for

mommy, to grope for breast, as

innocent as

second breath. We wrestle time

a feeding scheme

drifting throughout addiction. I

grain a father

sprinkled with water, splaying

with poodles. We

chime like bees, stinging for

laughing, unaware

of purchase; for now for dreams

psychs for

screams, harnessed through

pressures. Am I to

ponder, a baby’s stroller, rolled

through hells; for

where is mother, but insane

asylums, mourning

a baby boy. 

Ghettos

We need for it, ever to want for it, a thirst to spas-out. He’s

droopy eyed, to speak with Satan, surprised for mystery.

Indeed—for preachers, where love grew, splayed and slain.

We grow beige, as gravid as tears, his beating heart.

There’s a nightmare, to flood the ghettos, to rob Chicanos.

I ache in a fresh blue, to sport a necktie, banging a

corporate

life. “He sold for out, a picket fence, a thousand miles

for right”;—but what to give, for opposing light, necking

with death? I live it green, with burgundy eyes, flaming

pure white. Is this his path, trekking Imperial, to stop at

Gompers? I love it too much, to sing it purple, for a child

to see. Oh for God, we died—blazing on sherm sticks; and

more was ex, a few tries, lost at a hospital. I blame the

cook, and crooked eyes, to claim a lover; and still to push,

roaming the graves, and reading tombs. There’s

something here, and only psychs know, to paint me

abstract. I bit a bullet, and hellah draped, forced to grind;

and this is life, to cook a last meal, to love ‘till death.      

This Feeling

I tussle with demons; something inward and mocking.

I feel persons, to wander eyes, projecting doubts. We need

this feeling, weary for practice; where breath—to fumble words,

to perish this growth through symbols. Its gray events, a felt

unborn, streaking static-cries through caves. We churn truth, a

vatic ruth, burdened through briers. I trace a line, a

prophetic

palm, feeling for futures.     You perish such pain; a soul

flinching; as noble as signet rings. I vow—a scripted sky,

silent with fever. You tug a rib, to give it back, afraid to furnace

alone.     Its midnight angst, for a.m. blues, rain abated by

flowers. Its leaky boats and steel pails to bucket water.     It’s

hellish routine, to grow for wisdom, to trophy the grand

bucket. 

I wrestle with ghosts; features of a mind, slanted for

ancient; and desert wails, to grog for pressure, arrive before

sunup; and days for paradox, to grapple with anchors, a belt of

seasoned perceptions.     I see for joy, a mourning groan, to

know for cycles. 

Inner Force II

It’s the small things: a gentle hug, a moment kitsch, even a

piano kiss. I feel you, and somewhat afraid, to conjure

thoughts; so be for kind, even a fairytale, a paradise grand.

We live it veiled, to never know, for spellbound. I love it

like roses, to breathe a petal, to ensoul self. We dearly

unmask, an opalescent storm, to meet our eyes. I start to

panic, a reaching hand, to speak for dreamlike. It’s more

surreal, a starlit mind, trekking through seaquakes. Oh for

relics and rhinestones, as effulgent as joy. I fall and stir

through religious tears, dearly enflamed. We spin to

stargaze, as gravid as sin; and gripping wires. Oh to

irrigate—a beating psyche, a bit imperfect; and oh for death,

as voiceless as life, a drumming kef. I ponder precious, as

perfect as youth, a pistol packing peach. Indeed he shivers,

a bit untamed, pushing through silence; for such to perish,

as proud as patience, peering priceless praise. So more to

life, a segment of joy, a petite value; else a giant, to move

apace, as melodic as, “I love you.”  

Inner Force

If we must, less we die, I proffer love. Such miracle, to cleave

for empty, as full as pregnancy; and oh for rain, a tad bit

awkward, to fawn for love; and still for love, to die and fawn,

ten tiers below. I love from sight, and digging deeper, and

finally there; so love is grand, a need for depth, tipsy off

love. I thought to want her, a bit unqualified, pushing for

miracles; so more a star, filled with reach, and chastising eyes.

I died a youth, to scratch for nerves, to abate pash. It’s more

a slave, to abscond a heart, and pleading return; or rather a

nightmare, a tiny daughter, a heart of splinters. I fault it not,

spinning to sit, sipping tequila. The years have vanished, and

not from thoughts, staring at one gesture. Oh for life, an

ardent joy, to elicit calm. I couldn’t to type, as vile as sin,

pleading for a psyche; and if we must, unless we die, I proffer

love. Oh the hate, to yearn for death, a facet of my psyche;

and dear our God, a genteel muse, to loathe my guts. I flee

and fly, stripping winds, to neck with fire. The life of slaves,

a maestro’s heart, and lunging forth. I love it rising, a neural

ecstasy, a starry lamp. 

Seeds

We cross lakes of wildfires pulling at branches. We rake  

for roots ever thankful the chosen fled. There’s but two

folds slipping through pressures afraid to ask.

     He ruptured entertainment to stir

for hells, where apologies were saved for bleeding lights.

     We woke from darkness to gander illumination

desperate to separate the two; where both lodge in

image, streaming through likeness; but what for purpose,

sealed in order, where the former finds a home?

     Are two but one a division of self operating in a

localized dominion? Nay! Not for division, but rather for

function.

     The heart’s a vehicle transported through dimensions.

Said heart is thought of as deceitful above all things; but

not by mere intentions, but rather by vocation; for the

heart is a mansion, a kingdom, a world within a castle.

Unsaid rooms speak of darkness, deception, brilliance,

even the holiness of St. Mary.

     We fashion in grays, an uncooked faith, stressing lakes

of wildfires. We rinse in psalms a soul bruised for

splinters lurking within itself an unheard person; for

scythe to nightmare we fathom that something must give;

else to cherish the gift of death where seeds flourish into

mustard trees. 

Pigmentation

The depth of a hug from soul to warmth. Its zest, zeal, and

zing; but

I’m located beige stirring through in-betweens as a lost

tawny.

Such is language centered in psychology where color

features behavioral patterns. I try for laughs as grave as

x-humans cringing one’s presence. I’m not for lost, but

rather found in sophic legacies, musing upon aesthetics.

What of a child searching the vast in-between surrounded

by indiscretion? The harvest is ambivalence, a sense of

nonchalance, and an air of confidence: but only if.

I watched a smiling dove soar through human traffic to

find solace in three parts.

This for astute, color is but atmosphere, founded upon a

need for classification.

In moving forward, we pause for that perceived as glamour,

beauty, and spark. We’re apt for motion, a gust of wind to

usher a furnace. We perish to live, to reap compassion,

reaching through a neighbor’s eyes. Such is relevance as

retrieved in subtle gestures featured in gray moons.

I mourn for issue a nation of division stirring through a

torchless forest. I preach it not where a child hungers for a

motive to buttress such confusion. It’s known for unfair a

dying voice where we incorporate such madness.

I move forward to witness a woman’s elocution; to stand

heart to soul with a soaring mystic. We fire so gently on the

fringe of explosion, tiptoeing through a small rapture.   

She’s a Force

We depart for but a moment in time, staring into infinity.

It’s echoed names through raspberry smiles chiming to

a psalm. I feel you like smelted gold, even the furnace of

refinement. I must pay for indifference: loving with

partiality, drifting through portals. I’ve offered the best

seat to a swan, peering into dregs, flushed with

blueberry joys. If but a moment! Nay! If but a lifetime!

We sit ablaze for deep the séance a universe for souls. I

filter mystic words adrift an expansion peeking a cliff.

Its claret flowers for russet hearts skating through

synaptic gaps. We must flood a dam, where beavers

tread, localized in divinity; for kilns are keels fevered in

kernels. We open the difficult to retrieve the fruit. Oh for

ancient souls cursed for love facing for daunting tasks.

I must for know a feral wind streaming through rustic

valleys. It’s ever your mind to travel through spheres,

where touch is but a heartbeat. Read through anima mystics,

for depth of insight. Capture Helena Blavatsky, even Teresa

of Avila, moving towards St. Paul the second.     

We Often Scar, “I Love You”

What for life through love to scar, “I love you.” Something

so social buried beneath debris. We want for silence to

offend nature. I found you sipping sorrow, as fluffy as a

rabbit’s tail. I watched you morph through happiness to the

detriment of soul. How for something so personal to find

its grave in marshy swamps? We shared meals, played

footsies, and bore witness to growth. I’m want to

understand such social injustice, where right is for wrong,

as is wrong is for right. Two persons come together as

fluidly as rivers to seas. They die a double death, healing

while forging new love. The one gives just as fervently as

if the other. Its new items of kitsch, florid clothing, a

wealth of clueless participation, where darkness strikes a

blow. One is without means of explanation, where the other

ignores the scars of, “I love you.” Seasons turn into horrors,

where silence is paraded over nature. We can’t but cling to a

life-vest, but time should be afforded to healing, even

reconciling differences; else for death, melted in grudges, for

earth to give up the ghost. We wanted for blue-jays, violins,

a heart beating organs. We sought for jasper wines, for mantel

trophies, for catbird cries. Our garden consisted of painted

daisies, scarecrow figures, even passion flowers. We perish

without honor, to search for ransoms, to restore a thwarted

pride. What for begonias to bud upon souls to find comfort

where the lotus blooms? I touched a blazing star, warm to

earth the Ghost gave breath to bleeding hearts. I ,here, retract

pen to pad to plant a candytuft, where muddy lakes coddle roots.

Mirror Cosmos

Its opus gripes, morning liquor, for burning candles. I wrestle

a phantom, a bit impatient, a mental disease. The lights are

slanted, for popping pills, three rills into a nightmare. It

troubles ethos; for claims are made, from a troubled mind;

but ever to search, a subtle whisper, where kingdoms

formed. I met a thought, a mystic thought, eager to vanish;

but self is close, despite the wine, peering at images. “Is

that me”: ranting for raving, to shatter a window, dying for

ethos? Such irony, to charge one event, probing for anger; but

ever a course, to dull a spear, at such a distance. I love it

more, an awkward bond, cemented in static; but not for brick,

but rather chi, aware of slight concern. We watch it, to tune in,

sparking fireworks. I can’t escape, the years of rain, to plague

a soul. Its refills, ink to paper, for a furnace heart. Invest in

power, to reap a fortune, to chastise inwardly; for there’s a star,

to reckon soul, a need for solace. I’m more a flame, a biblic

grain, enlove with a sickle. Was it us, to live the pain,

addicted to narcotics? I fault us not, to scrape a sky, to feel

alone. It’s sip to sip, a need for more, afraid of such thoughts. I

offer this, the mind is jewel, to root a cliché. I loved for love, a

yacht of styles, as sober as newborn kittens.

The mind’s awake, a flutter subtle, to fall back for years. We

ever watched, an essay slant, to maintain distance. It cuts the

soul, to snap a pencil, while sipping coffee. I say it often, a torn

regret, pleading for ethos; and not for logos; and not for pathos;

but rather ethos.

I disappear, jotting lines, a gnome at a coffee shop. The earth

is flares, streaking through hearts, to flicker a flame; but want

for little, to feel for joy, aligned in finances; else for sores, a

grieving arm, to shatter mirrors.     

Wooded Area

I trek a notion, a fuller version, reaching for horizons. It’s

not for words, but rich a grain, to master words. Such a

force, a lock of nectar, a form of physics; for Aum is

channels, a striking flame, traveling a heart-cave. It’s

new a light, a daughter’s voice, wincing from chills. I’m

sore aware, for streaming grays, to search out for cause.

How to vet, and how to touch, a torch of persons? It’s

deep a challenge, an in between, as beige as unseen. I

fond her hurting, floored in time, wrestling for freedom.

We spoke of rules, for subtle chains, dying in fragments.

Lights were foggy, from soot to smaze, feeling for 

promise. We ventured tours, exotic lands, sharing kindness.

 

I trudge a slope, an inner flame, drumming through shadows.

Such is volume, an inner fount, pouring through infinity.

It’s flushed with chi, for chasing waves, to flash through

sparks. We sit to pause, a fuse a second, as active as particles.

I see it more, a mirror speaking, chanting syllables. It’s

often rapture, a thread of hearts, to thrum through psyches.

Wings of Fire

Have you seen it, a pile of petals, to symbol love? I held her,

to allay fears, to unbolt passion. Something gave ghost,

where breath soared, a chimney of smoke. I walk a den,

afraid of love, to give design. We live paradox, aware of a

stranger, pensive to get closer. We shelter souls, to echo

dreams, with shattered nerves. Oh the patience, to wrestle

demons, kneeling for altars; and there’s a tempest, a touch

of contempt, camouflaged in smiles. We howl for pastime,

enlove with our time, pulled through forces. There’s such  an

unction, filled with raindrops, a partial tomb. The soil is

moist, to plant for seeds, an inner paradox. Oh for fire,

and stirring ransoms, as surreal as joy. I chant a hymn, to

praise a totem, as sagic as songbirds. It’s more to Aum, and

bluebird wings, to trim an aster. We love in balm, a tad bit

sore, gripping and pulling amore. Every impulse, a forward

motion, to tiptoe coals; and dragonflies, plague the land,

resting at our doorpost. I watch for crops, to reap for love, as

wrapped as pash; and love grieves, a local cry, leaping an edge.  

Afraid to Speak It

I’m dark enough, and seeming darker, to fret for freedom;

but how escape, a mirror of darkness, haunted for holy?

If only life, a flood of riches, and every plague; but oh the

motion, to tend a garden, to wrestle ghosts; and whom to see,

flickering dimly, a heart of vibrations. Such for sweetness,

a swan’s song, diving to swim. We knew it coming, the

end of times, a storm of silence; and who was I, to grip

for life, a freedom’s fish? I love it more, in retrospect, and

something foggy. We die to pages, to live the margins,

shifting through detriments. I hope a healing, for somewhat

wretched, to patience such death. The old must fall,

stripping and stressing, and ever for chastise. I see it in

grays, an in between, soothing welts. It’s ever a mind,

chiming to winds, afraid to speak it; and more a curse, as

crooked as time, to flame a rush. The heart is howling, a

symbol’s music, an inner séance; so love for more, to die

for love, if not but once; for what to fear, and ever invest,

a currency wild; for life is vision, and partial pains, the

grains of summer. I thought to live, to approach a face,

afraid to speak it. I felt to die, to cringe a thought, scraping

at tomorrow. I’m dark enough, and seeming darker, to

fret for freedom; for life is tan, an in between, to trek for

ghostly; and what to give, to sit it tipsy, raking a heartbeat;

for eczema flares, a furry of nerves, as gutty as cramps;

and still to move, and pluck for petals, warring gremlins.

The earth is turquoise, a false to live, stirring nightmares.

We paint it checkered, and bouncing pieces, a bit

unwelcomed. Oh for stars, a tear of cherries, to furnace a

lovelock; for death is darkness, a gothic rill, to seal a soul.  

Energy Intelligence

This feeling is heavy, vague, for centered in moodiness. One

ventures someone is tugging, even through will. How to vet

such grayness, where substance is ambivalent? We often

live here, despite race, class, and stature. I have said little, to

search out a root, where self is essential. There is reason

for sadness, founded in memories, insecurities, or a host

of unresolved traumas; but to shift suddenly, often leads to

immediacy, despite links in a chain of events. For example,

a feeling of vagueness falls upon a subject, where he travels

to a place in time where trauma struck; but there is still the

issue of the initial cause of the feeling of vagueness. We

address the latter, while posing insights into the former

cause. One may say that it is impossible to determine the

former cause, but is it? For example, if a person says a

word, which is associated with a past conflict, after

careful thought, it is appropriate to suggest that one is in

a sad state of affairs because the word that was said tapped

into unresolved feelings. We experience this at times: one

is having a pleasant discussion, where a turn of phrases,

changes the air of conversation. What about something a bit

esoteric? Is there room for that; such as one’s mood being

altered by the frequencies generated from another’s psyche?

For example: a professor writes a troubling article on the

Human Condition; her colleagues are miffed; as a result

of this energy, the professor feels uneasy, even sad. Later

on that day, her colleagues divulge their feelings about

the article, and the fact that they have been in discussion.

Would it be reasonable for the professor to conclude

that her mood was altered by their discussion about the

article and the energy it generated? If this is possible,

than it is reasonable to state that we carry each others

emotions; for it is reasonable to state that we carry each others

energies. This lends reason to stating that moods carry

energy, not merely energy, but energy that compliments

the nature of the mood. In this, we are prone to suggest that

there is an intelligence operating energies; whereby, one

is able to transfer, either by chance, or intentionally, a unit

of energy that carries an emotion. If we search closely,

statements of this nature may have been stated in the past.

The point for reference here is: we carry each others

moods; energy can carry an emotion; and the first cause

is often detached from the latter result; such as one pulling

and tugging at one’s being, and that person tugged upon

resorting to thinking of a past trauma.