Dear Whomever

Photo by: Weisses Rauschen 

Give my regards to the little darling
who lays in the petals
and dreams of cheshire grins
and moonlit melodies

Little Bee

Rich is the honey

That drips from the honeycomb

Sweet nectar

Collected

By the busying bees

Induce me with your aged wisdom

Show me the field where life began

Where treasured gold sits warmly

Sings cooly

Dances freely

Breathes fully

Mundane

Morph No. 2 (Cloud) Jo Ann Callis

Mundane, baby, my life is a Monday, baby.

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Forever waiting for the four days that follow

And while I pace

and pace the floor  

The space between my thoughts grows wide

Surely this life is something to be had

but all that I find are musty smells,

and the faint memories of things that have been or could have been

but were somehow lost in between tomorrow's expectations and today’s carefully formulated calculations

...

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Mundane, baby, my life is a Monday, baby.

Human

And then I asked myself, whats it mean to be human?

After our brain has been wired and rewired
And finally given the opportunity to welcome life?

After the heart pulses a steady beat?  

After we’re all fleshed out and the roots are firmly packed in?

After the trees have had their seasonal welcoming
And greet the leaves, whispering
“Generations before and generations to come, and here you are in the midst of this one”?

After the blood has warmly melted into our veins
And stems off one sturdy branch at a time,

Passing through the tips of our toes
And stretching through the thickness of our legs?

Up up up to bathe in our core and ignite?

After the lungs have extended their arms,
And the hollow space down below has finally found its soul mate in passing,
Has replaced its shallow empty breaths with a rich field of oxygen,
An unbroken line of melodic air?

After fingertips spark creativity into the hands that will make and

Rise through the crevices of the elbows and

in and around the hollows of our cheeks?

After sensations tingle and rich colors pierce the eyes?
And dissonant sounds resonate deep?
And cinnamon spices tickle the nose?
And soft bristles and hard edges stroke the skin?

After our sun has risen and refuses to set just yet?

What’s it mean to be human?

Surely, I dont fucking know.

Grit

Gravel minds in gritty times,

Take these callous hands and make them feel again.

Build me up until I’m real again.

Photo by: Weisses Rauschen

No Help For That

Charles Bukowski
No Help For That