That which must not be named

The Entrance, Exit, and Journey

Death is a doorway.

That is no mystery.
The question begs:
Is death an
entrance
or an exit?

Perhaps
It is an entrance,
to another universe,
A parallel of our life on earth.

Or maybe
it is an exit.
Means of escape,
If your being has caught fire.

But once the threshold of the fallen
is crossed
it terminates not only your existence
but all the others' too,
because once you are deleted
the rest of your life follows you.

Whether death is to enter or to exit,
We do know that it is the beginning
of a journey.
It is a journey with an unknown destination
and an unknown path,
but its doorway is the root
of our expedition,
and from there on, we map out our own way.

The tale of the tree

The sun sets and winds get stronger,
no leaf is left behind.
Trees are standing tall and yet
they crumble away this time.

They lose their hope, their only source
of power to go on.
They wait so long to live again,
they wait so very long.

A silent breeze makes me shiver,
the crows are crying loud.
Bare-branched it's waiting at the river,
but will spring ever come?

A last hug

Come on baby, let me hug you,
let me hold you, keep you warm.

Slowly close your eyes and dream,
no one will ever do you harm.

A silent kiss on your cheek,
a long deep breath exhaled.
Your skin feels cold and looks so pale.

Are you sick? Are you tired?
Of these people all around?

Tell me what you need to hear,
I will stay with you my dear,
hold your hand until you leave,
keep your company, so never grief.

Subliminal Blueprint

This is the space between our fingers
as we lay in aphotic earth
natural law, all but extinguished;

vacancy betwixt aching thighs
met with nothing
but the warm arms of the night...

as the world ends

caught on film, dissipating
into lesser embers.

Metempsychosis

Vintage eschara,
with pin-hole star mouths
and wormy tongues

bore
through reinforced hulls
and calcified pollution.

Phoneme linked pheromones,
hot and naked in the center.

Vintage eschara,
with pin-hole star mouths
and wormy tongues;

the entombed are alive.

Alive,
and wicked,
and dreaming...

The Wall

Tall and wide and impenetrable
some say they have jumped through and
come back over the top
tell us what is
what is there
over there

just
looking at it though
you cant tell


no one can tell by the way it's made
no matter who it is
there is the stopping
you cant go in and out as you please
you cant just open and close at will
it goes and goes
no doorway or gate apparent


scared of it we are
most of us
but curious
forever fascinated with
the wall
that deliniates here from there
them that were
from us that are now


marks the boundary
keeper of history
ruler of time
this wall
has no bounds
it separates us all
in the end


maybe what we imagine
is what will be
quantum physics and all
the observer changes what is observed
reality is in the eye of the beholder
even there


if so
ill take the garden story
music and flying
 and laughing
always joy


seeing we all made it too
there
all of us billions together
without barriers any longer
standing on the top
holding hands without fear


i've heard it whispered
the wall will be torn down
soon
there will be no need of it
any longer


it is rumoured a saboteur came
a while ago
undermined the foundations
made it weak and ready to fall
left it unable to keep its place
for long


yes this wall is really a mirage
if you look hard
but your eyes have to be closed
and your mind  has to be open
to see through

tall and wide and impenetrable
it seems impossibe

the heart knows the way

That Which Must Not Be Named …

All natures greens and blues subsumed
Rendered down
To grey of clay
And speckled browns of mud
The warmth of sun
Its gold is gone
If eyes could see
Harsh naked sticks of trees
As silhouettes, stripped clean of leaves

Harlequin Writes (June 2012)

In Memory

Dew on grass tips
Falling off rose petals
On to the ground below
Nourishing seedlings
Yet to grow

Wet kerchief on the ground
Picked by a hobo
Wiped his cheeks
Another cheek has it touched
Grieving and so  pale

A drooping juniper branch
Leaves leaving for the ground below
Confetti on an unknown soul
Beneath the green sod
In memories, grow old.

      < one letter two >  

     the whiskey making
     one letter two makes
     the other side of the
     room a lover a face
     and never a word turns
     away in the picture
     the heater and its carbon monoxide  
     the face and its blue fingernails
     the whiskey making one letter two
     
           - - -

Happiness this way lies...

by Mikimoondancer

Unstructured railways
infinite designs
Matrix of pathway's
Define, coil, collide
Restructured linings
Insulated from here
A new wave raged energy
Separate ionosphere
All clear
Into the puzzle of
glued bits of past
infinite ends in the
parting at last

.:The Ballers of Crumble Park:.


No longer on that outing for that Merriment & Mirth
Now immersed, head first indeed with The Cursed
Deep down inside we’ll just call it Dark Earth
Place of The Dead…The End of All Birth

The Heated Turf for all its worth
You won’t be the last, certainly not the first
This cryptic place with all that it teaches
Unable to check out within its faraway reaches
Down here The Abysmal amongst smoldering creatures
We’re speaking of The Park below them bleachers

That inner-orbit; you’ll most certainly absorb it
The ongoing toil wherein brains do boil
Where reserved and observed is a looping thrown curve
Thrown by That Zero that you actually served and
We’ve added the fact that you’ve done it quite well

So reflect on your neglect as you…ball in this

.
.
.
 
well?

A walk by the sea

After years of spinning
he came to the bar that night for the last time
his cigar was in the midst, but decided to light another
he stayed a chilling moment in the light
and walked decidedly for a glass of whiskey that burns his thirst

The mournful voices in the bar playing with his head
lights were chasing him to only look into the glass
fell well as its essence, their memories, their miseries
only returned his head to ask (just) "one more"
"But this time, to be without ice idiot"

The pressure felt for years who was no less
that fatigue already would not let think
tangles of twisted feelings for years and moisture
but it would not have to suffer them anymore
would no longer have to feel, no longer, no more

Then he just decided to get up there
to the only place he knew where he would feel free
when he was a child had always loved that beach
the sound of the sea, the feeling of walking over caked wet sand
and walking their sorrows, felt leaving as he walked into the sea for the last time.

Sojourner`s Truth

Time Flies
Time also lies
at every stage of game
each moment feels the same
like a song that holds key
as stylus meets LP
it spins at leisure pace
riding outskirts of the plate
we hear a stable sound
while needle covers more ground
we are none the wiser
as vinyl soon expires
such is the illusion
as we stumble through our sojourn

In those two chairs they would sit and look at the screen, and each other.
When one got up to do something quite mundane;
The others eyes would follow, willing their return.

Suddenly: One empty chair; permanently, no one can fill it;
His side of the bed empty too.

I could see the lonliness and longing in her eyes;
I would sit in a chair far removed,
for although I was a child of that now,
shattered union;
I dared not take over that throne.

Then,through grief, shortly
the other became vacant too.
the house was sold, the,
contents disbursed.
I burnt the chairs.

o:  I won.
Thank you, Mike.
:D