Wisconsin clouds drift swiftly by, the pines fade in and out of memory, Madison distant, cities so far away
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I am fragile as the vintage porcelain that lies dusty on my shelves,
It is cold here,
The air is sterile.
I wish nothing upon my abusers but rest,
It is forgiveness,
The clouds are dark.
Imperfection is a flower where my rationality is death,
It is quiet now,
The ponds are glass.
-s.r.f (ode to the fog)
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From my new poetry book, The Transcendental Introspection, due out this year
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Fires flood in from the north, the sun is no longer herself, parched in ashes, my eyes can now gaze upon her sad beauty
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Working on my new poetry book, lost in the pale quiet sounds, the blurry shadowy colors, of deep winter
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Luminous echelons, the whisper of ghosts, muses permeating the sky
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where water flows is where I’m most alive, to feel consciousness running through us, traversing eternal seasons in a glorious arc of time
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Softly the wind of this night haunts me, though everything is quiet and still
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The road ascended and winded through, autumn leaves fell, and I was there with you
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landscapes of rusted dust, landscapes of ancient love, the landscapes of tragic yearning, landscapes that linger as you close your eyes, landscapes of blossoming spring, the landscapes shaped by nostalgia, landscapes where we run and can no longer hide
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as the mourning frost melted my heart suddenly open like a lotus
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And the magnificent Earth, she reaches for the eternal sky painted cobalt blue, ivory towers of clouds part no longer shrouding the midday sun, and I am so grateful to witness it all and be truly alive through all of my days
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lush winds swim through my soul, stirring, creating, revealing, lifting tides that arise inside of my heart
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I seek comfort in the moss and rain, I bring you ferns on judgement day
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My spirit rises
Upon the summer
Wind, hazy days
Entwined with words
My heart still flutters
In your presence
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Only you came through in my lonesome psychomanteum tonight
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