A swelling silence bubbles in
this space above my head.
Slipping severed senses
call me in into
the rabbit hole.

I rise from it
from

Reality. Time. Space
and illusion
coalesce.

Transforms and tells me
what to do,
how to love,
how to not conform
to material view.

Slipping severed senses.
Electromagnetic
waves around us resound–
audio and indigo
and micro
waves hugging us,
encompass us–
violets greens yellows blues
oranges and reds.
The colors of my thoughts
meet the color
of my rage
as they do not separate
the white light
but combine my
courage. It is all
I have.
All I’ve ever had.

The light shimmering through
this sunroof simply allows me
to see this room, this space
completely–
not only for
what passes
passions
eyes.

Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned.” ~ Siddhartha Guatama Buddha

© Paz

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“Today’s challenge is to write a poem of space.”

Whew this one came out of me quickly like a fart. Now to catch up, if I can.

Oh and if you’ve been reading, you know I tragically lost Lorna the other day and haven’t had the chance to birth her or any other poem, but I did clean up and edit Lorna 1 & 2 in the meantime and plan to bring back 3 & 4 by any means possible.

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Spring Brews

I.
Drenched with what was,
what will eventually dry
and become white-washed
like ghosts behind
these brown eyes.

Morning dark
like night
or evening as I
adjust to dim light.

Wake up in a fog.
Wake up soft
and soggy
like these brown sheets.

The jitters will
only come later
with panic, with shrill
and erratic static.

II.
Sleeping too much
only tires the body,
the inner dwelling,
my soddy self. My sire

stoops over me now.
Gentle creases beside each
eye, like little creeks
meeting in a lake.
“Let’s go,” he says. I shiver.

We ride on. A storm
is brewing.
He interrupts,
“It’ll rain. We need cooling”

Clouds above grey, loaded.
The road, cars, widshield
all the same, aligned, faded.
Spring, I wonder, who’s to say

from behind this glass,
below her headless mass
we’re merely tinkering nothings,
traveling through endless outpourings,

raindrops clinking on tin cups
ready for her wind, her purring.
And the clouds’ grumbling, what do
they argue about in all this stirring?

III.
A witch behind the couldren
up there high. Stirring still
behind her
kettle-sky, her boiler

down here, drops of agitation,
acid rain
ready to fall
down, down the drains

like this faint
lass’s young heart.
See, she and I
that Witch-Sky
are much the same.

Her fury crackles
thunder turning off
the lights
much like I have lived
shutting off my…

IV.
The more I wait
under sedating
spring shadows,
the tartrate still coursing

my veins, the more
I wonder when she’ll
be done brewing rain
come down from her den,

done with unrestrained storms,
done filling my heart like worms
in a carcasses’s
eye sockets, when she’ll climb

down to cleanse,
to un-braid her sky
and let in some light
to untangle my thoughts.

© Paz

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I didn’t know there were prompts to this thing. ha! Well, I kinda did. But I guess I was too steadfast and didn’t read clearly or bother to.

So today I actually followed the prompt. Meh. It was a slow, lowly day unlike the last two, super-hyped up weeks. Slept too much. Bleh.