CPoetry

one movement is no more fatal than its countermovement; risk is never within the margins of my wooden back-and-forth. pleasure is the distance of my travels, and life is the complacency of my stillness.          in the heart of the adult          there is a rocking horse.          can i find a fortunate soul          whose horse gallops free                     from its rockers? ::: how do you do it? light a candle on the plains of a tundra? from what source do you draw heat? the imagination of heat. ::: words written from the eyes. chapters written from a look. suspense written from a glance. love written from a gaze. endings written from no look at all. continue talking. i will continue reading. ::: you gave me a daffodil painted, laced, and tainted with rocket fuel. that daffodil rides the furls of Neptune's winds now... but n...

 if the rains of worry find me--- if each droplet of unnecessary, unfettered, relentless, pesky thoughts bends the curvature of my temples and distracts the clarity of my vision, i stop. i remember. i return to... my breath; the lighthouse beacon that reminds me of the impermanence of the thought and of the permanence of presence. ::: those tropical birds eat their fruit, display their dazzling plumage, and see no farther than the sand of their beaches. sunshine and fair weather are their havens. mundanity, fear, stagnation, and utter boredom are hidden by the layers of perceived comfort, opulence, and security. do not seek to be those kinds of birds. seek to be the wandering albatross; take to the high seas of your struggles. fly---better even--sore on the updrafts of adversity's waves. welcome many shades of grey, and host the thunderclouds of pain under your wings. navigate unknown obstacles with your tail feathers. the lightness of your perseverance will keep you afloat, while ...

i was a lake. but your love carved me into a river; when winter walks between the trees of us, i will not freeze over. my love for you will be moving, keep moving, still moving, always. ::: the silence i long for can be found in the leafless dregs of winter. a widely accessible silence that gives the appearance of rarity within the noise. out here---when i cease my step--- i may believe i can hear my own blood being pumped through my arteries. out here---thought decomposes to feeling. out here---i disappear into ::: i thought i knew of love... never did i anticipate being a light bulb swallowed by the sun. a persistent yearning for discernment showed me a true love will make me a star leaning on the infinitude of space. ::: there are too many open doors in this burning building. the smoke says, Why don't you stick around? it took this burning building and open doors to remind me there is always another exit; there is always a means of letting go. to that---i jumped out of a window ...