Magnolia Moon

As celestial artist
Sinks into unthinkable horizons,
Hues of amber, saffron and gold,
In broad swooping strokes,
Paint the surface of a magnolia.

The fiery medallion ascends,
Drifting slowly past nefarious sky,
As the enemy of sleep, adorned
In gleaming robes of silver,
Guides the night through darkness.

As sinuous light shimmers,
Oceans rise clothed in jewels.
Floating on tips of terrific peaks
Her face reveals through lofty trees,
Appearing to reach out and catch her.

Nostalgia

There is a sense of longing,
For places never been,
Within vast citadels of truth,
Where time melts away
Into irrelevance.

There is a sense of yearning,
For dreams unfulfilled,
Inhabitants of possibilities,
Where within consciousness;
All becomes permissible.

There is a sense of craving,
For a wind never felt,
A gale bearing the scent of sky,
Where the blanket of existence,
Envelop us as one.

There is a sense of pining,
For a silence never heard,
Freed from shackles of thought
Where avenues of the mind,
Descend into unfamiliar quiet.

Dance of the Fireflies

A hard, tropical sun sinks into the horizon,
Melting away mountains tops in margarine skies.
But as evening gale affectionately whispers,
It cools and then settles; Returning
To them their accustomed ruggedness.

Flickering, always flickering.
Out of the woodworks, emerge:
Flashes of red, green and gold.
They float about with a peculiar insouciance,
Painting psychedelic trails on blackened skies.

Glowing, always glowing,
Like skeins of neon smoke,
They flutter about in Cimmerian surroundings.
Through companioned trees, they glide,
Paying homage to matriarchal moon,
Bringing closer the distant stars.

Dancing, always dancing.
To sounds of wild rippling echoes,
Casting sonorous hums into silent spaces,
They dance away in magnetic forests,
Always playfully in a nocturnal trance,
As they patiently await a somnolent dawn.

The Siesta of Reality

It is when dreams turn to reality,
That a dream no longer is, but was.
Reality is now the interpretation of that dream,
Where the infinite struggle begins between,
What is real and that which is not.
Or so it seems, for what is not real
Is still real for it permits that which
Can be imagined. So it is real and not.
They say that dreams are perfumed,
Exotic, and overly romanticised.
But how could they be? If only
In dreams that a certain longing is permitted.
But when that longing is no longer,
It is the reality of that dream,
Which becomes the here and now.
But what is not here and now? For
Dreams are here, now and then.
To live out a dream is only the
Animation of that dream, The
Reality of which is still a
Somnolent dream, now turned to
Complete consciousness within
Another dream! But through all this
It is the imagination that never rests.

The Seeker of Things

To gaze the ebullient stars above,
Is to observe the lightness in your eyes.
Together, illuminating a universe where
Infinite possibilities are made clear.

To examine the velvet leaves of wilderness,
Is to recognize the smoothness of your skin,
The deftness of touch that shapes worlds,
And all that has feeling within.

To explore smiling valleys that caress horizons,
Is to acknowledge the curvature above your lips,
Displaying the undulation of a lively ride,
Swaying with the precision of a pendulum.

To sense the endlessness of a river,
Is to ruminate the surge of your thoughts,
The interminable distance between dreams,
Reflecting the imagination of life.

Silent Crescendo

The other day I chanced upon two lovers,
Embracing by an observant sea
While giving them a scornful look; I turned away.
And pangs of sorrow enveloped me.

You see... love’s always been an undrawn curtain,
An elusive treasure behind cautious drapes,
Occasional light may slip through its apertures,
But an all- too- familiar darkness holds sway.

Sometimes I feel like that little kid,
Desperate to peer over frenzied crowds.
Climbing, jostling, pushing myself upwards
To see what all the commotion’s about.

For love is like those implausible peaks,
Picturesque from afar but hard to achieve.
Encircled by the concealing of clouds, only
The tips of which aren't covered in shroud.

I suppose it’s like that mysterious ballad,
Where but shadows pirouette to its tune.
And as the music gains momentum,
A silent crescendo comes crashing down.

A World that Blinked

Enchanting Eyes.
Treasuries of sorrow;
Impermanent as the smiling night,
Invoking rapture and delight.

Wild Eyes.
Like silent daggers take aim,
Accosts this accurate heart,
Piercing it countless times.

Vigilant Eyes.
Lighthouses that navigate souls,
Guiding spirits to safe passage,
Windows unto worlds unknown.

Ancient Eyes.
Recounting tales of poised rivers,
Of grieving forests kissed by morning mist,
And clumsy peaks battling infinite sky.

If she is to look away:
All shall parch in great pangs of thirst.
All will burn, wither away and die.
All shall subside and reduce to dust.

But alas she looked away,
And the world blinked with her.