A Rain held back for Months;
Its much anticipated Deluge—
Perhaps tucked away in another Time and Space
Somewhere—
Finally pours down.
And in the absence
of Obscuring Dust,
Unmasked
like the sparkling sands
Beneath the ebbing tides
Are Concealed Memories
of an Ancient Strength;
A Higher Glory—
All the Substantial and Fine prints
of Our Saintly, Peak Empire.
17, 17, 17
Everywhere - the air has become Charged.
Could We now go back
to Sleep, this death row slumber,
of slow but certain
downward demise ---
Is it possible
to now close your Heavy
Shell-shocked Eyes,
Once We've been Called
to Awaken and Rise, and
to Cast Thy Net
to The Right?
Have the Brave
Engaged themselves, for Our Sake,
In the most Pivotal Conflict
of the Times...?
This War that spans
Across Space and Time;
that Decides the Fate of Man ---
Which Path shall Our Children
Set sails on,
Enslavement, Chaos, or
A picturesque episode
of Blossoming Peace?
And Who are the Enemies?
Inter-dimensional demons...?
Hahah - Surely they were
Tough to Beat.
(Have you had Visions,
Seen the Foul Smelling
beasts...crawling Beneath
the deceivingly vacant Deserts?
Have you...had your hands bound
as you witnessed the raping
and devouring of your Kin
Under the the blackened sun...?!)
Having survived the gory
Eclipse,
Where is Your Righteous Anger?
Shall We be Valiant
In Memory and Honor
of the Good, the Exploited, and the Fallen?
Shall We take on the Sword
of Vengeance,
After We've mourned
The Innocence destroyed,
White Flowers Inflamed,
Ravished?
.
.
.
Fellow Men and Women,
The Prophesied Age of Aquarius
hath Dawned Upon Us
All,
After having been maliciously
Denied
So many times (dark hands).
The Warriors of the Past
Who risked Everything to
Usher New Earth forward ---
1860, 1960, once more 2000 ---
Are they now smiling,
Now that We draw nearer to victory
This Time, Once for All?
No more resurrections
to the vile. Hydra's head
Severed, cut down
Under Cyrus' Command.
Brace Thyself.
Normalcy as We knew it
Gone out the window,
Everything up shall be Revealed
to be down;
Hidden Treasures are to Sprout.
Fact shall be overturned by Truth
Logic is to be rectified by Love.
Open your Mind and Souls ---
Do you see
The Fountain holding
The Water of Life
Rising, soon to burst,
Freely?
Have you been Alarmed
By the specks
of Tragic Truth
That have peered through
The Fog of terror and anxiety
In this Year of years,
2020?
“They are dropping like flies.”
Who are these unfortunate Souls,
Who let go of their Names,
Their Friends and Families—
Their Loved ones,
and Exchanged
Their Significance and Purpose
For an irreversible membership
In the Nameless Club
of Decaying flies?
Who are you?
You Individuals now turned
Empty seats?
You, The Hole
In our Hearts?
If God Willing,
You are still here,
Help Us, if you cannot help
Yourself —
Help Us,
So we shall not shed
More Tears,
So we aren’t further
Sobered and Yellowed
by your Departure.
There’s plenty o’ Pain
Here,
We’re sure —
But it’s still bearable
and Beautiful
With You Still Here.
Another Year and Half on Hiatus, When will your Songs be Heard?When you've been put Under?
Break your Eggs, my Friend---You are every bit as ConsequentialAs the Stars and the Moon!It'd be a SinTo hide your EssenceAnd mute your Lustre.
Faint
But not so
Distant
Echoes
Of Sweet Melodies,
Sang by the Innocence
Of Our Children.
The Sun’ll Shine
Once again,
As their Precious Tune
Draw nearer,
and Nearer —
Let it be,
That This Time,
The Better Angels
Of Our Nature
Will Never Again
Allow the Beauty of Innocence
To fade and wilt into
Grotesque and Unseen
Absence…!
Never again,
Shall We turn a Blind Eye, and
For millennia,
Tolerate the hidden,
Unseen, unheard, but
Grossly Rampant Lacerations
That took place
Night after Night,
Six-feet Under.
Yes,
The Sun Will Shine
This Time —
This Time…
Broken Hearts
Are Not Forgotten.
Chestnut eyes
Glistening like rich amber,
Kissed by the Sun.
Scintillating a luster
so provocative
yet Ancient,
Irresistible is one
to be Entirely pulled
down the Timeless Stream
of Ancestral tales,
Now
All Condensed into
A Pair of Irises,
Shining translucently
In bottomless
Mink—
Such is
Their deeply settled and
Undiluted shade,
That in its Resolve,
Rose a Piercing
Sheen, prudently gazing
Upon the Millennia
In thousands Hitherto,
Or ever after.
Is This
The only Beauty
Tragedy is ill-fitted
to bury
Six-feet-under?
Spring is surely a most wonderous time of the year, but it is not a cliché comprised of magical healing, nor does it promise total restoration of all that’s wrong with ourselves and the world around us. One could stand amidst sceneries breath-takingly beautiful, and still be haunted by inner shadows convincing him/herself that nothing is alright, that there has been too much wrong for glimpses of hope to realize into change or mending actions. However, if one chooses to see in symbols, drawing connections between observed physicality and metaphysical connotations, then a natural phenomenon like The Spring has much to offer: look at the Dandelion, never planted with intention, even conventionally seen as a pest, a weed that besmirches the neatness of civilized gardens; yet without any positive expectations, they flourish nearly everywhere, scattering on the sidewalks, swaying underneath interstate speedways, and sprouting in the middle church yards (as shown in photograph)—embodying bundles of wishes, waiting for the eventual breeze make them come true. Now think of us, how similar some of our lives may resemble that of the Dandelion—outwardly without deliberate meaning: we don’t know why we are here, or what is expected us on a grand scheme. We are scattered upon our Earth to germinate all over the place like the Dandelions. But does this mean we ought not to bloom like them and erect our individual bouquets of dreams and ideals out of the soil beneath? Should we do so regardless of how undesirable or lost we think we are? The Dandelions do…then as their not overly distant relatives on this Earth, could we learn to live more as they do? Make a sincere wish for yourselves this year, and send its silky winged seeds sky-bound—may it germinate and sprout into existence when Spring returns again.
Spring was late to smile upon us this year—Her sweetness felt shorter than usual, yet it was just as reassuring as the all the eternal Hope that She embodies. We shall take in full Gratitude what Grace, regardless of how ephemeral, that She has kindly imparted upon all of us—whether we opened our sleeping eyes to See or not.
The Sun, without notice, rises
Upon our individual dystopia;
Garden grown amok, overtaken by
Weeds rampant—intertwined with
Floral carcasses.
A fatal reality of decay, brought forth by
Negligence, perhaps coupled with bright
Streaks of depression, and its consequent sloth—
All the while,
Nothing was there to be done;
No unwinding of this tangled,
Graying yarn—
As we spent days chasing bread,
and slip past nights, nibbling on
Cheese, then poisonously chasing it down,
Not sleeping, but passing into
Unconsciousness, ruing our Daylight gone.
A bundle of rotting Roses,
Burgundy and Brown,
Sitting slanted and splayed
Unfittingly in a vase oversized—
We are.
Yet here, maybe there; somewhere—
Under the caressing of Morning rays
In pastel, there is a vague, indescribable
Beauty to it all.
Particular Moments 