Consciousness Poems
A lost frail Memory.
by Hari Krishnan B V
Flashing with hues of footprints in a rainy forest,
That storms in the white space of my mind!
Not again, I ask myself, what’s a memory?
A river that flows upon the pebbles of the past?
Or a Garden that nourishes my lifeless static?
Yet, in its fleeting dance, every legacy is crafted.
Neither the buzzing bug that flew to hurt me today,
Nor the marching mantis I tried to dodge yesterday,
These flashes are of the taste I had in drops of polio!
......
Sometimes : Alexis karpouzos
by alexis karpouzos
Sometimes my soul turns
and goes back to forgotten years ago,
when the birds, the animals, the clouds
and the wind were our brothers,
when we walked barefoot in the sun,
and the children were sleeping in the heaven,
when the universe was present in our arms.
in between
by Annisa Dwi Afika
lost soul, trembling steps
say, do i have my own ground,
where i can trust it to hold me steadily, when i feel like tumbling down?
or my ground is made from bits and pieces of others, that could easily break when it no longer favors me?
or perhaps, i've wandered without a steady path to claim as mine
apart from the earth and the universe, where do i stand?
apart from the living and the unknown, where do i stand?
apart from the past and the present, where do I stand?
apart from being a participant of society, where do i stand?
......
Home
by Samuel Cody
Under the dark light of the sun, 'neath the pale shadow of the moon
In that strange land where angels dread to roam,
That place where demons dare not loom.
Tis in that land which chills the gods unto their bones,
I stride to and fro; wandering as I please about the dunes
In that place where all others fear to moan,
I stand up tall and exalt the land with my intrepid croons.
For tis in that sacred realm, that I am home.
The Red Room
by Liv Atkinson
I think that if you were to crack my ribs
If you were to peel back my skin and cleave apart the muscle and cartilage and bone
Let me bleed as you dig your fingers into the cavity of my chest, clutch my heart, and pull,
If you were to take it and cut it into a million tiny pieces,
You would find a little red door
With an old brass handle.
The door would open to a room the color of merlot wine
With cherry hardwood floors.
It has yellow paper stars on the rich walls
And glossy guitars
......
A lost frail Memory.
by Hari Krishnan B V
Flashing with hues of footprints in a rainy forest,
That storms in the white space of my mind!
Not again, I ask myself, what’s a memory?
A river that flows upon the pebbles of the past?
Or a Garden that nourishes my lifeless static?
Yet, in its fleeting dance, every legacy is crafted.
Neither the buzzing bug that flew to hurt me today,
Nor the marching mantis I tried to dodge yesterday,
These flashes are of the taste I had in drops of polio!
......
in between
by Annisa Dwi Afika
lost soul, trembling steps
say, do i have my own ground,
where i can trust it to hold me steadily, when i feel like tumbling down?
or my ground is made from bits and pieces of others, that could easily break when it no longer favors me?
or perhaps, i've wandered without a steady path to claim as mine
apart from the earth and the universe, where do i stand?
apart from the living and the unknown, where do i stand?
apart from the past and the present, where do I stand?
apart from being a participant of society, where do i stand?
......
The Red Room
by Liv Atkinson
I think that if you were to crack my ribs
If you were to peel back my skin and cleave apart the muscle and cartilage and bone
Let me bleed as you dig your fingers into the cavity of my chest, clutch my heart, and pull,
If you were to take it and cut it into a million tiny pieces,
You would find a little red door
With an old brass handle.
The door would open to a room the color of merlot wine
With cherry hardwood floors.
It has yellow paper stars on the rich walls
And glossy guitars
......
Botox
by Leon Moon
an angel is reborn
without wings or horn
an angel is reborn.
a perfect child
with no memory of dawn
with no knowledge at all.
Glimpse of Actuality
by J R
In a small room, in the afternoon, as you close the door.
An open window, casts its bright vibrant shadows, onto the soft carpeted floor.
In the plight, of the night, As you stroll the streets of New Paltz.
A small Bombay cat, shines its blackened furry silhouette, onto the stark smothered asphalt.
You take for granted the complexity, of the objective subjectivity, You beg and plead, that you need, more due to its simplicity.
The beauty of duality, though an illusion it is truly. Open your eyes, pray the divine, take mercy on ur piety.
