always disappears
your yearn born with you,
you must imagine not getting it,
not be in the moment .
The moment is gone
or to be. Moment
is a door neither closed nor open,
half in, half out. A midwifes
tender grope for a head, a nose,
In the inside dark her touch a torch.
More at https://thewombwellrainbow.com/.
Perception
What is reality, but a mirror
illusion-a deception
within itself…
For how can
one ever truly
be aware
of worlds
beyond
their own-
if un-willing
to open their
eyes to
truths
unknown?
Life is a continuous
cycle on the
road to
self-awareness,
repeated lessons
of moments
forever eternal
Striving- we can only
move forward,
knowing
what we know
Learning,
ever-learning
as we go…
We are made of
this, fall into blue
sky and no matter
how old we get
there is always
something missing
call it what you want
but I know it as
something that is
sometimes beautiful
and other times
the darkest corner
of the room,
we don’t all hold our
heads up the same way.
There is a theory in the garden of weeds
where life is a continuum
in the world of virtual reality
are you a believer in free will
or an on and off switch
dipped into an alternative world
where forever has no limits
only stars hold the secret of discovery
and genius lives high into the conscience of a sky
from left to right
another side of the universe
until that aha moment
when you look and touch me
am I real
or a facsimile
I watched the world
become a postage stamp,
cars became toys
then faded out of sight,
then in the darkness,
the earth became a series
of small glowing globes,
veins filled with lit-up
jewels, until reality
came rising up to meet
me again.
(After the satirical cartoon by Ad Reinhardt.)
I can’t see your face
through the bottom of a glass of wine.
It is as blurry as your words
your soul.
You change your shape amoeba-like
and your colors like a chameleon
never quite the same
never predictable, never true
to the person I knew when first we met.
It could be the glass, of course,
reshaping your memory in my mind
like a sideshow mirror
distorting the truth
or it could be the wine.
Whomever you really seem
I toast your health
from the bottom of my glass
wishing that I would know
who you really are.
That fragmentary
pyramid feature separating
common scuffling rags
from golden loving robes.
A young woman
in one turn, an elderly
lady in the next
She’s a curse, a cure,
or an optical illusion.