Simple

I am just a simple poet as the rhythm, rhymes and rhetoric rings in restitution.  

Sweetly clear like a crystal bell chiming against silent minds.  

In standing a prism, angular and astute with residual anguish but the transparency is obscura, like a photographer's still life in framed works, preserved in time.  

Perhaps an upside down picture in-between the convergence of pixels laying in the x of con-vexed purpose of mind.  

In the split second of imagery, the innocent are free and the guilty are privy to consignment of space and time.  Yet, the instant that light resonates like a halcyonic symphony when the sounds of indubitable composure becomes repose of an honorable condigned conscientiousness that convenes on the soul at that specific moment shines brightest in sight.  

For multiple eyes bear witness to the simplicity of life in movement of still lives.  

Eminent light effervescent in graceful giving to insight, the bright night merits the banishment of dark cracks in measure.

The polished glint of some preservation of shimmer, subsequent to the sparkle of invisible radiance, like the feet forgetting to dance, or the the voice to speak, the mind to wander, so that the heart can dream to remember a song or small step turned two step.  

The rest lies in the rise of light and images.

http://www.abelardomorell.net/photography/cameraobsc_01/cameraobsc_01.html

Ten to Morrow

10 years ago there was a sliver of what you saw.

Perhaps it was the light of the moon, sliding through the cracks.

A decade of time flushed by space and divides resting in

the separation of forces, flexed beyond cardinal speechless ties

a voice box subsequently drowned in sound, gasping between sonance.

The droll darkness succumbed reluctantly to a lone single drifting note.

Yet nor was it, hearing fear that abated the freedom of night.

A lull of a subtle song set a youth ling floating softly in sheer silence,

thus unspoken in utterance, slow seconds waited without whimper.

While within a split second of nature’s solace, sound once again became murmurs of rhythm.

May such a constraint land on my own broken bones and injured brain

perhaps to be cushioned by the remaining layers of skin

and maybe softened before breaking any other’s spirit.

Anguish shouldered by angels behind the stump of inexperience.

They hold the anchor on their backs, not to be dropped onto some other’s footing.

Tenuous years have passed but also divided in half by loss.

The sound of crying in dark hallways waits for familiar echoes.

Reaching out to ghosts, knowing her voyage was passage,

into the distant nights, the glow of fellow lights began to show.

On one and two, a young child let go and the others watched her go.

The dark slithers asundered to the swallow of night.  In turn, her head speaks.

Often the angelic lights ask how one can let go of graces in evening’s bow.

Silent suns arise into celestial creatures struggling to send home

the cessation of Earthy beasts in crucifixions of sorrow against might. 

The ends of the Earth often meet in deliberation and interlude to master the stars.

Today, a sound off into time, no longer the echo of past lies and surrender,

a heart beats in breasts of masculine and feminine ticks as one.

A bittersweet adieu to the young lady in the cast of blackness

as the garment of gentility rests peacefully against a renewal in

the longing for the half mark of life to make amends among friends.

Evening on ten’s tomorrow, we shall rise like the Dead has risen.

We shall not fear, but exchange the sovereignty of lives past

and challenge the cherished about the sanctity of mortals and eternity.

Her sweet song will rise in the voices of inamoratas and heartthrobs

as the meeting of bodies and animus mix blood of past, present and future alike.