The Passion of the World (Video)
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Category Archives: poetry observed
Poetry Observed
L – Poetry Observed
O – Poetry Observed
R -Poetry Observed
Dreams of Digitial Ruination
Click, click,
{My memory}
Click, Click,
S
C
R
O
L
L
Click, click
Delete?
{So you want to delete that,
too bad,}
My mind is not silicon or circuitry,
but it dreams in digital,
html, css, binary, and flash flowers flow.
From my memory to code,
I become the web,
the intangible,
the fleeting,
and impermanent.
Quickly I am reduced to ruins by the next
update, catch me if you can.
I am the digital age
made flesh and blood by
fate and timing,
I am the foundation
that will inevitably crumble,
I will be lost to time,
but I’ve made my
mark,
I hit the target,
and I flew farther then
my predecessors thought
was possible,
I am the beginning of something more,
that surpasses time,
My memory lives on.
M – Poetry Observed (Hinges)
I stand vertical holding in the air I’ve just inhaled,
here I wait for the exhalation that your touch will bring as
fingertips brush the backs of my heels.
Slowly out of the warmth of my hinges the small of my back
emerges as the ground your feet covet
I sink into you,
as you into me
(I am in your hands)
Soon my field of vision flows in a backwards incline,
neck draping gingerly as I become buoyant atop your two
sturdy stacked trunks
I allow myself to breathe, coaxing my spine to sink into the ease of an arch
As hands find the shallows of my collar bone we sink deeper,
legs seep down with gravity,
we descend deeper as I allow your ever shifting feet to
manipulate my petite frame.
This is a permeable game of trust,
the necessity for comfort-ability in the very real possibility of falling
Is here
a loss in grip, in footing, in breath
yet the counterbalance that is achieved sends me to flight
I am a bird
I feel strong
The wrought iron hinges of me,
bend to your warm milk of a touch
I meld into your depths,
the creases you create as tension eases all else.
y – poetry observed
In this simple porcelain womb, I can truly be embodied
Releasing my belly
Relinquishing my breath
Retaliating my soul
Remembering my spirit.
Layers relax, skin opening
days shrugging off
shoulders a little lower
breath moving, no longer held so tightly
sinking out of lungs
surrendering them to the rest of humanity.
Here
it is dark,
the sun does not allow you to move more quickly
lost
in a timeless room.
held in this warm liquid
(I’m reminded)
watching the flickering shadows
hearing the tiny bubbles popping.
Thats
when she comes forth to speak,
and i’m ready to
Listen!
all covered in rehydrated rose petals
-the tips of red cedar fronds,
frolicking on my sacred lawn.
Who Am I?
Who Am I?
Poetry Observed
Q~FABRIC (innat ure)
As the needle penetrates the fabric, as the pen inks the page, as the warp kisses the weft, The worlds meet as one.
me got lots of stories, lots of patterns, lots of fabrics,
me hold numbersome fabrics in my closet, on my bed, in my life.
me touch them in moments of inspiration, Like when me hear a distant fiddle, or when me smell a breeze of goat.
me hold fabrics of color, of sun, of intricate stories,
of elaborate fairytales,
of crumbling brick,
of fishing towns. Of the distant kitchen in my minds eye that I wish to cook in.
The thread that is my reverie, holds together all of the meaning made memories that are of my fabrics. So many fabrics.
(IM SAD)
I am a displaced warrior of a heritage that is lost somewhere in the word JEW, where the fabric is held in the old story of three.
Story department stories.
(I REMEMBER)
In an effort towards belonging, I will weave.
I will weave the shit out of synthetic fibers, made into a repetitive pattern in a cosmic culture of so much fucking fabric.
FABRIC (n.) late 15c., “building, thing made,” (1)
Fabric is not fabric.
Fabric is animal,vegetable,mineral- it cycles.
through hands.
FABRIC, in its glory, in its truth is what sets us apart and brings us together.
all civilization uses fiber, fabric, to survive.
all survival is in the fabric.
We are hand made, only.
We have handmade a culture that endures, in its fabric.
To claim a place as ones native home, one must have an intimate understanding with its fabric.
To be a mother, a digger, a harvester, a sower, a crafter
me must seek the source.
(what is source?)
the source might be the music, or the holding of babies, or the food, or the wet, or the dry…
the source is the way
the wet, the raw, the blood, the sweat, the fibers, the grit, the earth, the dirt, the sewn materials, of comfort.
The Patterns in Nature : The Fabric
(Sunshine folklore)
cultured fibers.
1. (http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?search=figured-fabric+loom)