SHE PEERS INTO THE ILLUMINATE

She Peers into the Illuminate  

Heartbreaking and freeing,

hidden and in view,

the night transcends

a beating caged bird.

Her certainty bleeds over

a metal pedestal,

a waterfall of hope

revealing the strength of sinew

buried deep inside of her

citadel heart.

Bronzed braids guard like snakes,

a teeter of fear as

her elevator drops,

red fills the blush of

the past road-map,

and the future lands love

through the doorway

of her fluid nakedness.

TJK

dverse poetry

KALEIDOSCOPE EYES

kaleidoscope eyes


woman,
at this time, you are mine.

rhythmical birth of past loneliness fade as fins
from waters surface
and the silver frailty of my body's hope surges
through the veins of her fingers.

the salty water sprays like breaths from her mossy lungs,
sine waves of two souls, legs turned strong from sun. 

my piccolo window opens and
dances in upward white whispers, clapboard walls washed
as the rain sands down the inside of my many rooms.

exposed.

nothing,
no one sprees chills
within the bones of my pome
as you--
you warm the frigid air,
your touch soothes vacant phantoms, and your torch finds
fire's night with the glow of your earthy knowing.

my church tides clutch my inner secluded habit
and I transpose to know the inside
of my bare horizon.

how do I do it, how do I stay true, to you, to me?
six days alone, five seeds grow, where are you-- seven
merging moons circle the nights yet born. I weep.

today, 
the way you say, shhh, and kiss my eyelids so I can sleep and
delve into your infused spiraling depth.

I dream gentleness coming from your kaleidoscope eyes,
beauty from your knowing lips, softening in your tender approach--
and there woman,
I have found you in the dark of the sea, and in the light of the moon.
TJK

IT IS AS IT SHOULD BE

                                    Maybe life is random, but I doubt it.      Steven Tyler.

It Is As It Should Be

This morning unnoticed pages from a book litter the field out back--

rectangular paper easily mistaken as brown paper napkins or crinkled leaves.

My consciousness calls me, she speaks to me like

an indelible whispering river above,

moving with inspiration and other world words.

Each page waits for me to discern, each page a gift left behind.

I notice the energyless energy-filled center.

I walk. I breathe deep. I see the effervescent oxygen from tree.

I am drawn down, there at my feet a page from a book,

half on curb and half on street, I read #76- The Stone Mind.

Tenderly, my hands lift up my past written on

this present piece of paper, a humbled child’s need,

memories laced with relief. There is great meaning

in a moment unexpected. Black inked words form wisdom,

sneaker prints left on pulp paper, it feels disregarded and yet cherished. I crave

the dirty paper which was left behind to be found with meaning for my eyes.

Wind lifts and leaves a tussled poverty, carelessly forgotten,  

pages easily ripped by hand from a

bound book titled Zen Flesh and Zen Bones.

I look around to see if anyone owns these abandoned words,

or the spaces in between.

There is no one to hold the haphazard journey of this prose.

There is more, I scan the green for more messages from long ago,

a boundless moment of irrational page numbers from 55 to 209.

They are wrinkled and scattered as paper flags across wet summer grass,

prayer flags draping the temple gold, green and black,

past rain saturates parchment, I halt a decomposing state as

I stack the thick wet paper upon my palm to dehydrate.

I read the simple stories and release the stone stuck

in my brain. I read the stories and find I can’t hide behind false hope.

I read the stories and my virtue is my rebirth;

I read the stories and find my wheels meaning has ancient worth.

Tenderly, I learn there are messages in something that went wrong;

I read in a heightened state from an oracle placed upon the ground.

TJK