Stream of Consciousness
Cryptic in Triptych
Prologue Streams of consciousness, for me at least, often lead me and us (where us read me) to interrogate, investigate and conflate the very fibres that make up the me and who that might be. Even when starting along, pulling the anchor aboard and setting adrift on poetic currents and craftship mastery, the still ebb and flow leads towards choppier waters of warring and debating, embracing and debasing ponderings on existence.
By Paul Stewart2 years ago in Poets
Goodbye: The last of all last words spoken
Good-bye by Walter de la Mare The last of last words spoken is, Good-bye— The last dismantled flower in the weed-grown hedge, The last thin rumor of a feeble bell far ringing, The last blind rat to spurn the mildewed rye. A hardening darkness glasses the haunted eye, Shines into nothing the watcher’s burnt-out candle, Wreathes into scentless nothing the wasting incense.
By Antoni De'Leon2 years ago in Poets
i remember Red
Like the first time I saw the sunset. I mean really saw it. Hanging off a California cliff with my best friends i never talk to anymore. So high off our youth convinced we could fly like eagles with talons locked in ritual folly, clasping each other as wings, if only one would jump. There in our dodo's conundrum we bore witness to the inverted rainbow of colours unapologetically sprawled across a once common sky. Eyes peeled raw by this fiery source of red, not a blood tint but the type of crimson hue that faithfully carries pink, powerfully soft, zealously warm in its earnest to protect. Finally, real red shooting up slyly against the grain; feral, aloof. And as Red evolves unpretentiously they forget to mention that its final destination is but a penultimate ruse. That its latent, sultry violet - a blanket to surrenderers - extends into the cosmos indefinitely, until you begin to believe obscurity is just collateral damage for beauty. They don’t really tell you how sunset is spectrum in reverse - exhaling to keep it all alive - though i haven’t been able to see right-side up ever since
By Aaron Calloway2 years ago in Poets
on this date
i want to write – i’ve been somewhere – inside – looking around at events – images – seeing with somewhat clear eyes – all that has hurt me – situations, people – but every now and then remembering to allow myself to feel the good in those people – how negative experiences have their purpose – to learn, something new about myself. How did i respond to it – did i give up too much of me? What is enough? What to keep back and how maybe we serve each other as giver and taker. The musical journey i took to those inner places – was timeless. At times scary, often serene – i don’t know where i’ve been but it felt far and deep away. The music was PRIMAL, sensuous, peaceful, happy, exotic and often mystical. i did not know what they were saying but it was beautiful. i think i remember dancing in my head. Sometimes it made me feel like i was being reborn and once or twice i think it makes sense to say – i recall when i was born. i arrived in this place and now i am here. Writing lines that aren’t too cerebral but seem to capture what i experienced. Lost loves, recent disappointment, thinking more about one person than i thought i would.
By Melissa Houghton2 years ago in Poets
