Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘grass’

From the grass bed,

cotton fluffs of white

swirling past

shadowy ebbs

and crests

of green hills.

 

Dots of trees

fringe the edges

of reverie in the wind.

I’m wide awake

 

asleep

daydream embracing

splashes of red

soft velvety blossom

full under

the warm sun.

 

Free spirit flowing

with the world

shifting its axis

closer

 

to self-made heaven.

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

My hands perspire from the grip

I need to loosen up.  Bringing in the air

to these burning palms laid down from commanding-

life directions in the intersection of good and bad.

The right from wrong.  I twist and turn in indecision.

Bending  and yielding.  Speeding up and slowing down.

I try to break down the clods of earth

from forming  into mounds of rock.

I try to make a path through the grass

and keep the weeds from growing.

 

I try to calm down my reflexes and think

that the tyres won’t leave the road

and it’ll continue chasing the horizon

until that cul-de-sac to begin again

turning in circles. I gave up the throne,

to allow the changing of hands

of the driver seat into that passenger,

I surrender for the first time. Watching

someone else’s lording over the brakes 

and keep moving the distances away.

Away from  myself.  Trusting.

Read Full Post »

I’m No Frank

Frank Lloyd Wright

and his falling water. Masses

of concrete cantilevered,

and extending outwards

like hands reaching- symbiosis.

But I’m no Frank

and dreams might be

my little fingers clasping

hard and pushing pencils

for somebody else’s utopia.

 

The hewn boulders of rock

resisting the foundation

on which this grand design sits,

I bear the weight of expectations.

Balancing upon the scales

on which the measure of cement

is mixed in sand and water.

The lapping over of slates into a bond.

The forward thrust of hammer to nails.

The tightening of ties around stirrups.

The alternate laying of the roof decking.

 

And the network of drain pipes,

cables and ducting, and waterlines

resembling the veins and sinews

of the building’s skeleton. I build

a symbol- the framework of the mind.

The genius envisions an edifice

in his intellectual acrobatics,

justifying to the world the modern-

reality that build themselves on paper.

 

Summoning the masons to lay

its plaster to newly cured blocks.

The painter to swab the walls

in fresh coats. The decorator

sets the chairs, the beds,

the mirrors and the tables.

The vases and layers of curtains.

The lifeless sculpture pieces

and paintings hanged to the walls.

Fixing rolls of wallpaper  and carpets

over polished granite floors.

 

The carpenter assembling

cabinet boxes, ledges and shelves.

The windows fitted to the sills.

And the doors hanged on frames.

The location of the chandelier.

Installing wooden slabs on stairs.

The green patinated balustrades.

The landscaper to plant shrubs, and ferns

and vines and trees and patch of grass.

The water fountains and the waterfall

arranged mimicking a natural set-up.

 

But I ‘m no Frank.

The hours stretched for miles and miles.

The drafting table becoming wet with fog

until  the first  hours of the morning.

I can hear the mad conversations

of the vellum and the graphite saying,

“deadline nears, it’s almost here”.

Read Full Post »

An invisible force within.

Sudden freedom.

A new life

for the first time,

this heart revealing

a paradise

 

amidst the simplicity

of things and the hours

walking around thankful

this morning.

 

Like light rays streaming

into dappled shadows

of the leaves above

dancing on the grass.

 

Such, such is my soul

as hope springs.

Lifting my feet

lighter and flying.

 

No past.

No future.

Only this moment-

just pure and joyful

simply being alive.

 

My miracle.

Read Full Post »

Someone had it written clear-

that one should not just keep pacing

on this earth, like a  somnambulist do.

Instead, he should lay beside the grass.

Ears close to the ground hearing

faint sounds and whispers coming

from the earth’s bosom.

 

Hearing how the rhythmic breath

of stillborn seeds of coniferous trees

waiting to break out of its shell,

awakening to the hymn of the spring.

 

Hearing how aquifers running deep

into crevices, into rivers, carving

canyons, gorges, fjords to the open seas.

Sailing away, riding with the wind.

 

Hearing the tides keep pushing,

and pulling in. Or the breaking waves

into the cliffs. Scouring the shoreline

of an island down to the ocean floor.

 

Hearing how the mountains gliding

its terrestrial skin past each other.

Like a potter reshaping and remolding

the land into a new continent.

 

Hearing how it grumbles beneath,

venting out ash plumes and lava streams.

A force roused from deep slumber

churning mood swings in its womb.

 

Someone had it written clear-

that one should not just keep pacing

on this earth, like a  somnambulist do.

 

We should hear the gathering storms

of the impending avalanche. Iceberg splitting.

The glacier receding.  Oil gushes, spilling

over the gulf. Helpless cacophony of wildlife

endangered. Landslides and the levees

breached by hurricane. Rainforest on fire.

Desert sands advancing. Clods of soil

drying up. Locusts swarming over fields.

Ground crumbling into sinkholes.

 

We should hear how restless it gets

day after day, when  the clock is ticking out.

Faint sounds becoming loud voices

sending distress call to reckon with,

summoning mankind to listen. The earth

finally eclipsing to its perilous journey.

Read Full Post »

The walls are coarse to touch, hard and steely,

it was a challenge not to see but to feel with our fingers

sharp points that will prick a skin and bleed. By then

the grave of the earth has avenged its loss. The stair

is a winding wonder of wooden realm. Forest scent

permeates like sweat staining musk to the olfactory.

Curtains we plucked from the fibers of the grass

that exist  in some temperate savannah, polished

and handwoven by the nomads of Siberia.

The glass came from the silicates we scoured

from the rivers of Babylon, coal-fired in a furnace

by a hundred men impoverished with ten cents an hour.

And the floor is a polished limestone quarried

from some majestic mountains of the Far East. White,

cold slab, for our feeble feet resting on a tombstone. The chairs

are fabricated in hides separated from the meat of animals

domesticated and cultured for a trade in an African jungle.

We commercialized the organic in the will of the greedy generation

crazy for the avant garde. We are fond of collecting. Prized.

Natural. Unique. All, for the sake of a want  that cannot be satiated.

And at a cost, we hunger for more as we build our little kingdoms,

looking for some definition. Until we find that there is no more left

of the skin of the earth, we have stripped of its clothing

to cover our shelters.  Unless we travel to the moon

digging kryptonites to embellish facades of our own vanities.

Read Full Post »

As I would keep my path

clear

of grass growths.

I will find a way

leaving a trail.

 

And watch

the sky touching earth.

The feathered wings

of my angel

on the horizon.

 

I hope.

I would keep my footsteps

slow.

To observe

some familiar things.

 

I used to see

in my many quiet mornings

in the clearing.

 

I would follow

the sun beams.

Over the veil

of the fog.

 

As it lingers

above the field

of windflowers.

 

I will gather some fallen twigs.

Some fallen leaves.

In a jar.  Keeping moments

 

for potpourri. I am breathing in-

my home in the prairie.

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »