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Page 7

ripenings of madness

I can hear the bells again.
For the first time
since childhood,
I can hear the bells.
And I can smell
the sizzle of sunrise
melting up into the blue frosting sky
like a cinnamon dot
that measures celebration.
And I taste the ice
of a wolf's howl
as it shivers my flesh
and chills the moon.

And I can hear the bells again
as they slide down the daydreams
of my softening afternoons,
and I can finally sense
the full circle
and circle
And I can touch what you hand me now
for I can hear the bells again.
I can hear the bells.

solitude #6

how can I possibly expect you
to understand


in this mystery of solitary lives
all that we really share
is a vague curiosity for
the world beyond our skins

until the miracle of death
unites us once more.

proof of god

when I push
on the inside walls
of thoughts
I sometimes feel
a kind of pressure
pushing back


A painting hangs on my wall
of my grandfather
in his fancy hat
and wrinkled coat
He is scowling through his specs
at the artist who renders him
a picture
and standing
with his hand carressing
the neck of the warhorse he bought
on a whim.
The horse's name was Parrelo.
Gramps never knew what the name meant.
He didn't care.
He just liked the sound.
The horse was expensive
and it never went into a single battle.
Not one. Ever.
And my grandfather didn't mind.
He just loved the horse.

end of book?
Created by Janna Oakfellow-Pushee at 02-27-10 00:53 AM
Last Modified by Janna Oakfellow-Pushee at 07-17-10 11:54 PM