Seeing There

Looking back with a need to see.
Looking for jewels there.
With a certain mind’s place
of increase and expansion,
where intellect cannot float.
Unfettered from coats
and tattered faces breathing pain,
seeing what we lived to know
about the cries and the denials.

Some just whine about then
and how it oppresses now.
Some see the school of the past
lending its lessons for freedom fliers.
Cycles do try to come a calling
on a breeze of emotional imbalance,
if we are there.

So many levels of consciousness,
within a trick that we can only see
when we look back at level two
from level three
on the vibration’s plateaus.

Along the way from then to now,
there to here, forward on a continuum,
I am a small but budding being walking here,
to discover variation’s beauty,
a procession on display
of possibility’s dance
in a flesh costume,
playing roles.

Joy asked if I noticed these assistances
of getting back to serenity
through secret caves.

Vashti (c) December 2007

The Invisible Curtain Call

Invisible curtains ruffled continuums.
She waited for the lifting and the call,
for the weightless processions.
The pressure tempted forgotten lines,
and the props vanished into countenances
that wished to wear her.
Circles stampeded the pathways
to "Take 33" of the falls into
shells of broken dreams.
So much shattering.
She tried to undress a show
that demanded to go on.
The theatrical ploys plowed
mercilessly, leaving the wonderings
of why carousing at a back
stage pass in the depths of
realizations and sensations
of nocturnal lack of concerns.
"Why look here?" the stage hand asked.
Her eyes searched for the questioner,
finding only air adrift
behind the invisible curtain.
In this she beheld no delight.

Vashti (c) September 2007

Words

Words came out to play
They came out to talk
They came out to describe, imagintion, contrive.
They came out to express, object, interject and propose
They came to question, coach, suggest.
They came out to shout.

Words waged wars.
Words wooed.
Words wondered.
Words told stories, myths, legends and tall tales.
Words found brail.

Words came out to make mentions,
make drama, to laugh breath in-between syllables,
whimper with weepers and whisper with whistlers.
Words faked ficticious fallacies, sometimes.
Word came out to imagine, when.

They came out to mock Moby.

Vashti (c) September 2007

Smooth Surfaces

I placed my hand upon the glass barrier before me.
Feeling the unsight.
Cloudeded by particles of evrything and nothing.
The flat matte, where no such thing was possible
wrote diction’s notes and fancied tales of make-believe.
My fingertips touched the smooth surface, and journied with
the initial chill that turned to warmth
as my humanity joined with its vulnerability.
Reflections and refractions were not in this place.
There was something virtual, and relative to the presence...
of glass.
Its dichotomy of smooth and sharp, whether broken or a solid field,
not translucent but dressed in black opaque.
My hand wondered about feelings and sensations,
dark densities and light screens,
seeing through the unseeable.

Air in Movement

Air in movement.

They call her wind.

Like breath, she crests,
peaking a water’s calm,
ushering currents in time,
light dancing on lifted waves.

She rises and stills,
cleansing with brisk intentions
alleviating polluting hoverings and
dead branches from the trees of life.
Seeds scatter in the wake of her fate.
The wings of gulls remain
untarnished by her wisps --
free messages for feathered friends.

I wondered if they were cold,
like the hooded humans
hiding from wind’s wrath dance,
so they seemed,
unaware of cleansing streams,
frolicking in her cosmic drone.

The unfazed entered without fear.

The marathon runner’s legs laughed
under American Flag designed shorts,
flogged by the pressure of her challenge.

Her walls pressed against the human mind.

Hair-dos gone awry.

Canines pranced with glee,
in their secret love affair,
never revealing why they loved her
penetrations against fury face and fleece.

Taking breath away,
she speaks of a superiority.
Only when I dared to enter
did she let me see the
silent whispers uttered.

Dust storms told stories of
loose foundations.

Jewels of the Sword

Can you hear the music in the star burst
Dressed in dancing light
It’s foundation is a fortress of precious gems
Jasper, Sapphire, Chalcedony
Emerald, Sardonyx, Sardius
Chrysolite, Beryl, Topax
Chrysoprasus, Jacinth, Amethyst
Gated with 12 pearls
Like spiralling group energy
Fireflies twirling in their own plane with no maps available.
Feeling of bodies surrounding in the crowd,
Bone and soft flesh and tendrils of long hair brushing
A musical orgasm of light beams,
The path of lovers of the crystal clear
This sounds like you,
The feel of it feels you,
Light between the cells,
Flickering in reflection
Flesh has crystalised;
Still, you electrify
An intense boiling
Shooting beams through the light bringers
A mid-Light special
Reach for the switch Of current love.

 Image by Rhonda Heisler Mosaic Art

Seeing You

Through the ripples of letters
forming names and words
in spaces designed by
codes and inkblots
you flicker in and out
of mind spaces which
grasp moments
of your silhouette in
sunlight rays and
shadows playing together
as one.

Voices

Voices call for enlightenment.
Sounds lift into the Uni-verse.
A song is being sung.
Erase the weights.
Draw with light upon this darkness.
Is it a fad or a true evolution?
Bridges designed to carry us across living waters.
Do we not wish to swim in that which washes?
Voices cry for the boatman to come.
The landwalkers look for a new land.
There on the other side of the water.
There on the other side of the grass.
Outside of the shadows to the other side of the street.
Voices ask for curly hair to be strait.
Voices ask.
When will voices just sing the new song.