Rejigged this a bit. Hope you are all well and coping.
unknown source
We are more than breath and bones, or the dust of a soul’s divide that gilds our pale faces with heavenly alchemy; we are combined essences swirling underneath complex skin with all of love’s triumphant splendour placed on our brows.
We are more than breath and bones with no more taught sinew to soothe since all mapped outreaches tethered by distance and timid pasts have been conquered, and before intruders, unseen, steal west with their disgrace. We stay low and soft within this warm, diaphanous wrap; it is no fair costume this skin of faux silk.
We are more than breath and bones, as within each of us lies such vast continents yet to be stroked, to align with us under our blue skies. Synapses crawl to make us, messaged and volatile, their eager grip might conquer us still… we are more than breath and bones, and we will not be torn asunder.
We are more than breath and bones, or the thousands of strange shadows that tend us; each have all but one shade, and poor imitations lend counterfeit images, all of you. But, the truth lies in a kiss of your cheek, and there I see us in every shape and shadow we know.
We are more than breath and bones, or the dust of a soul’s divide that gilds our pale faces with heavenly alchemy; we are combined essences swirling underneath complex skin with all of love’s triumphant splendour placed on our brows.
We are more than breath and bones with no more taught sinew to soothe since all mapped outreaches tethered by distance and timid pasts have been conquered, and before intruders, unseen, steal west with their disgrace. We stay low and soft within this warm, diaphanous wrap; it is no fair costume this skin of faux silk.
We are more than breath and bones, as within each of us lies such vast continents yet to be stroked, to align with us under our blue skies. Synapses crawl to make us, messaged and volatile, their eager grip might conquer us still… we are more than breath and bones, and we will not be torn asunder.
We are more than breath and bones, or the thousands of strange shadows that tend us; each have all but one shade, and poor imitations lend counterfeit images, all of you. But, the truth lies in a kiss of your cheek, and there I see us in every shape and shadow we know.
“Scientists estimate that 150-200 species of plant, insect, bird and mammal become extinct every 24 hours. This is nearly 1,000 times the “natural” or “background” rate and, say many biologists, is greater than anything the world has experienced since the vanishing of the dinosaurs nearly 65m years ago.”
Is our sole purpose
to contribute
to the epic verse
of the universe?
Or to document
in written, raw emotion
like stepping on
emeralds in the sand?
My dreams harden,
and sparkle
inside of geodes’ imaginations.
With the right mix of erosion and stress
earth’s natural sandstone
of arches and columns,
come into their own,
also eroded by tears
and mammoth tusks and hard shoulders;
rocks rubbed to a fine polish
stand mile high,
and
of long ago,
A time unknown
to our bare feet, till
we, the intruders,
came and made them
lost.
History will repeat
itself –
and extinction’s epitaphs
will be made.
But slow the pace of this
manic and unnecessary, beating drum.
Survival and intellect,
tribes and competition,
greed and capitalism,
humanity’s neo morals.
We are all a part,
we are the rhythm,
But without a heart
(Ecosystem)
We are nothing.
Whilst sprawled
like arching, aching shadows
thrown over us,
we have become static and unresponsive
like cold, unfeeling surfaces
when days become just habit.
We spread like blackened dustsheets
to catch drips of light
that might show
the chaos happening inside this tiny
universe.
Pout your soul
when standing back to back
in darkness,
form that barricade
so the universe is hidden light –
the adhesive
that blinds, tears and rips
through the hair cracks of
all faith’s hypocrisy.
And all for naught since the universe
is governed by laws of science
which give the probability
of so many possible states,
there is no room for a creator;
unglued belief and cries of conscience
masked with relief come unstuck
from its black pitch –
and a stampede of high frequency
causes the Doppler effect.
A gentle buttercup’s shining gift clings to the ceiling of my chin, lighting it up; igniting once again fragile dreams of a young mind with such a tiny fire – minute, but as golden as the sun’s aureole of burning fire. I wanted more suns, more planets, more chances and more hope outside of my back yard and the gentle, wispy tendrils of our Milky Way.
I want more than to see the slow weighty drip of bees in their search above the green inky nibs of grass and bare stems scavenging for tiny morsels of nectar; visions of their bare legs, blind like steel rims, coming and going, until they have almost vanished from wildernesses everywhere – the wilderness
beyond washed up cups and plates, ironically adorned with designer berries and rare wildflowers; together with the bees, our own are rapidly disappearing. From behind sterile kitchen windows, I imagine a phantom paradise, a forgiving universe –
tiny planetary nebulae: silky soft blues of Nigella – wrapped in silken veiled threads – the gaseous halos that hide her modesty inside a constellation of mixed blushes of red primrose, blinding, white light daisies and swirling lavender forget me nots with singed yellow starburst centres –
feathery fireworks pinned to deep inky blue skies and purple hazed clouds of Globe Gilia, ignited by Indian Blanket’s luscious rouged pinwheels; fiery, and tempestuous molecular clouds of maroon red clover in colonies of Musk Orchids’ subtle shades of soft outer edge to tame the wars set alight inside the firmaments of an abandoned circular soil patch – its circumference an orbit of neglect, but nascent.
Baby Blue Eyes and Blue Sage – sea of a tranquil moon’s clustered star formation will surround flaming burnt ochre Fox Cubs – spikes of their brilliance reach for us in stark, vivid long arms to fingertips’ casual touch; white noise shrieks from their centre – shouting life.
California Bluebell and Chinese Forget-me-not join hands to form new constellations, tossing flaming titian hair against its sky; new and exciting join the dots on the blue black felted boards, playtime of our children’s children creating a sky full of new ploughs or even dragons.
Orange Cosmos of Sulpureus their heads of daubing yellow to sea spun corals burn ornately. Supernovae remnants; remains rain down in tiny iris-like flowers of many rainbow colours – pink, yellow, purple, blue, white. A whirlpool of flare stars, contradictions and swirls mill around fluffy pink red giants.
Violet mauves and tangerines bleed into the whites of tall tubular guards, with golden throats. Clusters of Godetia’s satiny pink and magenta’s splotched petals form the soft ridges of my daystar’s fiery accompaniment burning outwards to meet the cooler buttercup yellows of simple wildflowers and timid flames of dreams.
On hazy summer days tall lupins will direct the traffic of bees that will come, and come again and remember that they can fly as near to my sun without fearful scorched glances from a flame haired temptress – a beacon in a circle of hope for a future.
In winter she will still be loved but missed until the mistress of such unveils and vanishes right before our eyes but not for a while, not until summer squeezes dry these last few rainy days.
In a lack lustre centre of sombre, ruddy black clay – the antithesis to my vision lays in the perimeter of drizzle welling up inside this fan fiction death star, dreary rainwater produces ominous shadows in dark wavering reflections – punctuated with ice pick rain drops disturbing silhouettes already snagged – they are caught on brambles before they are are even sewn
~ but for now I can still dream ~
of new rain – deep red from the blood of Mars, rains from the lilac storms bombarding the shaded evenings of Pluto – swept with perfumed gypsum – the sprinkles of planetary rings. Multi-coloured auras soften barbed swatches of crowns among sunflowers and honey rich dandelions – aglow, incandescent guardians – incense sticks lit with scorching rage to effuse sweet smells while camomile and chicory loosen the hinges of lost tastes and losing battles to restore our deprived senses.
A Woodcock’s magnificent hallowed call pierces this universe dream, seeping through the heaven’s heavy heave of tri colour combinations in the foliage surrounding and protecting our new life, increasing the chances of a new found hopeful existence amid celestial heads of blue cornflowers, the beaming bright yellow and red charms of wild poppies – all to tantalise the bees – oblivious to the importance of their function and place in our lives – helping to create new life, wherever that may be.
“Scientists estimate that 150-200 species of plant, insect, bird and mammal become extinct every 24 hours. This is nearly 1,000 times the “natural” or “background” rate and, say many biologists, is greater than anything the world has experienced since the vanishing of the dinosaurs nearly 65m years ago.”
As it Comes 