It is by brew alone I set my mind in motion.
It is by the juice of arabica that thoughts acquire speed,
the teeth acquire stains.
The stains become a warning.
It is by brew alone I set my mind in motion.
Category: Short Fiction & Poetry
Vessels, Empty & Full
Happiness, fun in the pursuit
Hard to hold within one’s hands
Without, its loss none can refute
Joy, so simple and quick
Living in the shining now
Interrupted by words politic
Excitement, bright and true
Nothing can bring it down
Except every last one of you
Tired again
Tired again
No reason for it that I can see
Living each day
as I always have
and I always do
and always will
Tired again
and the day still remains
Hidden
Structures, in a way unforeseen
Fog, sensibilities lost and found again
Wonders, do sometimes cease
Cyphering Motifs
Colors vibrate the spectrum
causing shifts through the phases
leaving only bright reflections
of intimations in its wake
forging ripples in the grand pond
of the universe whose waves
slap against the shores
of consciousness creating
mandelbrots spiraling forever
outward yet snuggly held within
the golden ratio as it gambols
amongst the magical Circle of Fifths
another sleepless night
drowsing in fits and bursts
5 minutes
10 minutes
but never more than an hour
eyes open and staring at the fan
5 rotations
10 rotations
slow wind brushing the sheets
vivid dreams spark and die
5 times
10 times
too many to count in the in-betweens
another sleepless night
Morning Moments
Morning light washes over my eyes
Warm, soft and buttery
Quiet in that brief stretch of time
Flashing across the frozen brush
Layering warmth where it lay
Only colder in the shadows and nooks
My heart is warmed while the wind blisters my cheeks
I should’ve worn pants…
Image by Jacques GAIMARD from Pixabay
‘Incomplete Particoat’
What cerulean light through yonder window breaks?
For it doth burn mine eyes so true
Have the slumbers of my distracted globe lingered opaque
For the world to colour itself so blue?
While palls of Indigo dim the hearts bitter ache
Ought shadows not illuminate our ravin point of view?
‘Thoughts’
Voices floating on the breeze, “What do they have to say?”
“Nothing worth listening to,” shouts the back of the mind.
The wit wonders & listens all the harder but the words drift away.
Faustian Liturgies
Footsteps lingered in the threads of the carpeting
As the sound of your voice echoes back from the walls
Fingernails scratched into the wood of the moulding
When invocations mingled amongst the outer squalls
Patterns forged from shards of decorative pargeting
While the ropes bite deeper when the victim crawls
Where visions of monsters lie within the beholding
Bitter the poison on the tongue that it scalds
The grinding of steel while it is sharpening
Ever louder, the darkness calls
Jon Gray Lang.com 