Agate

After viewing the Agate stone in the Museum of Natural History, this poem came to me.

Agate
A nucleus, a center,
Layers surround,
To reveal its beauty
You must go deep underground.

Peel back the harsh stone,
Chip it away,
The orange enfolded story
Has much to say.

It's mislabeled as "common"
Which means it's well know,
But I disagree
Because its story it's own.

This gem's much like me,
It's common and not
I'm multifaceted too
But, well, at times it's forgot.

We are quite the same,
Exteriors that are strong and tough
But below our surfaces,
We're anything but rough.

We're smooth and we're different,
With much to say,
If you want to learn secrets
Our outsides, we dare you, to chip away.

Space

After a movement exercise exploring Space and geomentric forms, this poem came to me:

A shifting mass,
Formations change.
Geometrical form
That feels so strange.

More accessible then ever,
Building blocks of structure,
A break in the chain
Causes this delicate form to rupture.

But it won't break,
It can't be destroyed,
Every new shift
Is a discovery deployed.

A new solid mass,
Stronger then before,
Each more of shape change
Opens the door

To an inner outer flow
Which brings nature so near,
Who would ever have guess geometry
Would be in things we hold so dear?

A Chapter Closes

I found this going through old notebooks of my scribblings. I don't remember where this came from or why, but I enjoyed the imagery in it. Clearly it was from the end of something powerful.

A Chapter Closes  

Love grows, love dies

Much like the winter snow.

Bliss grows old,

People change.

Pain, distrust,

A God becomes a mortal,

A man a devil.

Crash and burn

Emotional slide

Fabric of life rips.

One becomes two.
The end looms,

A chapter longs to close.

Spell Drive

This was a poetic response to  Bruce Nauman's "South American Chair 1981" that I viewed at the Dia Art Museum.

Suspended, imprisoned
No way out.
I hang, caught in
A vortex of my own despair.

Everywhere I turn,
I'm surrounded
By an impenetrable
Circle of an iron cast.

I freeze,
Pierced by the
Hard coldness of
Reality.

The fall
Without an end
And yet,
I yearn...

The Traveler

End of a semester and we had to explain what we felt. Here's what came to mind:

The Traveler

A long road

Weary--full of fight,

A traveler looks down it

And sees no end in sight.

His steps are hesitant,

Even a bit scared.

He knows the struggles ahead

Leave him naught prepared.

He travels along, one track mind

One breath,

The road's filled with wonders

The likes of which, he couldn't guess.

The journey seems long

But short just the same,

Seems along the way

His body and mind he's learned to tame.

A sudden light hits him,

It's glow bright and new--

He has a rebirth of sorts

Pure as morning dew.

Discoveries here,

Frustrations abound

And yet, for the first time,

He feels completely aground.

His body is quiet,

His thoughts seemed to have slowen,

An inner peace as deep as this

He's never before known.

Feeling Alive

This poem came out of a creative movement assignment linked to initiation from the internal organs. It lead to some interesting results.

Feeling Alive

A powerful lightness,

A rejuvenating rush,

Power and pulses

Never before touched.

On every breath,

A movement takes wing,

A moment of joyous

Freedom doth sing.

Air rushing in,

Movement surprise,

Never before

Feeling this alive.

An awareness of senses

A breath, a light,

Mind and body

Both full of sight.

Never this present,

Never this real,

Was never forced

This freedom to feel.

A Strange Longing

A Strange Longing

Emptiness surrounds me,

Fills my entire being

And I don’t know why.

A black pit,

Deep within my soul

Threatens to consume me.

I can’t understand this,

This strange longing,

This aching pain.

I’m a success,

I’m not lonely

And yet I yearn.

But what do I yearn for?

What do I need?

What do I desire?

Fame and fortune,

They are words

And have no effect on me.

I exist in a relationship

So I can’t be lonely

I don’t yearn for that.

But there is something deeper

Something that speaks

To my very soul.

But I can’t name it,

Identify it nor can

I label it.

It just exists,

Like a parasite

Refusing to release its host.

It’s burrowed itself

Deeply under my skin

Deeply into my very soul.

It won’t release

I can’t shake it

It remains.

What is this thing?

Why is it here?

What does it want?