the waiting

Posted on January 31, 2017 by skipavm@gmail.com


the waiting
the mantra of hope,
the sound of absence,
a breeze through the empty room
lost in the wood
at night,
at the day’s darkest moments,
there is a candle I can faintly see
if I look with a softened heart,
my eyes are able to shut
this is how I sleep these days.

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Toppled Chairs

Posted on January 31, 2017 by skipavm@gmail.com

 

 

 

The slow crawl of unkempt grasses
there is so much absurdity
to a chair that never accepts
that it is a toppled chair,
to see, it is the rest of the world
who must be titled
it’s easy to ignore the beauty of discarded chairs
the spaces they once occupied have forgotten them,
oh, it is not what we throw away,
but where is it thrown,
did its function fade with its color,
did its color fade in the withdraw of love.

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Posted on January 31, 2017 by skipavm@gmail.com

Portrait by Arshia Qasim, 2016

This portrait was drawn by my dear friend Arshia Qasim; artist, poet, writer, empath, neurologist and the list goes on. She has recently taken on the founding of the Alhamra Art Center of New Jersey (https://www.facebook.com/ALHAMRAARTNJ/). Here, she will be displaying her beautiful creations in her first art exhibition called “Walls and Windows – a Spiritual Travelogue.” 11 February 2017 in New Jersey not far from NYC! (https://www.facebook.com/events/1802919163259034/). Please visit these pages and ponder the beauty and grace of creation.
It is truly something to behold one’s self in the expression of others. So this sent me off pondering.
In addition to what we know and have yet to learn about ourselves, within our image are the hidden geometry, colors, the textures that emerge through the inspired perceptions of others; each an artist in their own way. The mystery of oneself glistens in the many “reflectors” around us.
Perhaps we are the convergence of countless perceptions; each of our individual and unique presentations merely being a “RE-presentation” of the very-same-true-image which is itself beyond our understanding. While precious and important, “that” we are unique is of less interest to me than “why.” “WHY” is why we search and searching is creating (pathways and records – artifacts); that is, we create because we are so deeply and often desperately seeking perfect ubiquitous cognition of “why” – the artistic byproduct of this struggle is the indefatigable yet imperfectable “expression of an understanding of something we can’t understand.” This is the inward battle that makes us greater in seeking greatness; forgiving in seeking forgiveness; self-full in seeking selflessly.
What a blessing it is for every human being to be unreplicable yet derived from the same origin. Each of us sees the One origin in the state (and visage) of another and IF we train ourselves to look FULLY and lovingly at the infinite spectrum of diversity – we achieve such a beautifully “confounded” state, that all distinction blissfully dissolves and everything is Unity.

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Of All You Behold

Posted on January 14, 2017 by skipavm@gmail.com

Over the edge of a foot bridge, I gazed into the stream of time looking for my reflection, instead I found it reflected in me. #25wtT

 

You are the portrait of all you behold,
each vista a hue in a story told
Of those you’ve loved despite possible loss
for every true artist finds gold in the dross.

You are the symphony of the sounds you hear
the conductor poised just within your ear
Your instruments raised, as you follow along
the path of a composition paved in song.

Your eyes are facets in a gallery of mirrors
a montage of venues, each polished and clear
Our lives are entries in the register of time
a scintillating life-story written line by line.

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Palpable Specter of Absence

Posted on January 14, 2017 by skipavm@gmail.com

The palpable specter of absence,
brushes the lips ere the press of a kiss,
softening on the edge of a sigh’s sweet perception
and there upon this precipice
we cast our wishes
in all cardinal directions.

Every sad memory
holds a glowing lantern to Your face
and I fade into this visage
leaving not a trace,
nor the slightest pain
whilst Love falls as threads of light
in the gentlest of rain
gathered up in thirsty jars
open skyward
watching stars.

Not You again
but me again
who drifts from my own presence
on the sweet attar of Your absence’ essence.
tis You again
not me again
I am a ghost in my home,
a pleasant haunting
after You have gone.

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Aesthetic Nihilism

Posted on January 11, 2017 by skipavm@gmail.com


Beauty is rebellious… An essence within the march of surly youthful endeavors to always buck the establishment. Beauty usurps beauty in a multispectral uprising against the status quo. It seeks the foreground of awareness, and the ever-expanding symmetry behind which banality and inattention frets.

Beauty is the catalyst of carefully culled confusion – the “aha moment” of clarity, where a single deep blue river inhales and braids exhaustively into scintillating rivulets. It is the sound of swooping translucent wings, slicing contrails through sunlight above the alpine tree line – dancing curves bent delicately across stark still tundra.

Beauty is the viscous glaze of realization settling over the jagged latticework of our city’s brick and mortar… the orange spark from the knap of the sculptor’s chisel. It is the song of a dove at dawn intermingled with that of an owl at dusk.

Beauty is the intricately folded fingers of my grandfather praying to something he cannot see, that he can hardly believe, and diligently hope.

Beauty longs with endless desperation to be described by an artist who herself has been bested by the glory of her own rebellious desire to endlessly create anew.

To be beautiful is to be an aesthetic nihilist – to replace all that has ever been beautiful with all that is beautiful now in a search for all that is beautiful next.

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My Teacher is Now

Posted on January 8, 2017 by skipavm@gmail.com

I asked her to tea. She said, “my teacher advises me not to.” I told her my teacher said it’s okay. She asked me who is my teacher, I said, “the tea is my teacher.”

I asked to kiss her. She said her teachers do not approve. I said that my teacher does. She asked me who my teacher is, I said that “the kiss is my teacher.” She asked, “why not the tea?” I replied, “but what does tea know about a kiss?”

I asked her if she would go with me now for a walk. She said, “so your teacher is now the walk?” I said no, “my teacher is now.”

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Leaves and Limbs

Posted on January 8, 2017 by skipavm@gmail.com

“I free you,” said the bare limbs
to the falling leaves.
Below, they gathered in a memorial;
A sea
of so many colors,
Perhaps To honor
the loss of their beloved
or perhaps to finally effervesce
in so many hues they never knew
were each awaiting promises.

Looking up in their paisley passion,
“We free you,” cried the leaves,
as they clattered in Autumn’s breeze.
The limbs’ shiver surrendered to utter stillness
and the slide of leaves turned and shredded
and star petal vibrant colors began
to bleed,
to brown at their ragged edges.

Sympathy for the beauty
that hangs on by a frail stem.
Sympathy for the limb who
could do nothing as its verdant creations
withered in a cold submission
A cold,
it could not control.

What returns to you in Spring
are not soldiers and replacements.
What returns in spring
are not wishful memories.

I’m not here for you to die upon.
We’ve come not to die in seasons,
but to fall from this life
in endless cycles
beyond which time and place
lose touch with reason.

“I’ve one love,” said the limb
To hold death and life
In the buds and knots
That lie within.
All lies within.

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Happy Now Years… The History of Now.

Posted on December 31, 2016 by skipavm@gmail.com

O’, such romance, this fickle affair with time.

But imagine if every day were New Years Eve; were we to dutifully absorb a moment of wistful reflection at morning awoken or before closing our eyes at night. Think about it. If we thought back over the past 24 hours and counted the memories of special importance, reconciled bitter regrets, and then toasted cheerfully to the next 24 hours.

Or to recount that kiss at the door; and that delicious free cup of coffee the barista gave you, and when that man opened a door for you this afternoon because your arms were full of groceries. Remember that argument you had with your son as he left for school or the unexpected bill you received in the mail. Or the intersection this morning when that guy with the “homeless, cold, and hungry” sign sadly looked away — while you locked your car doors as he walked by.

Reflect and hope to never forget or take for granted these snippets of the recollected day. Apportion the relevance of your losses and squander not the gains. It was a day to look fondly upon new friends that came and went in the instant of a smile and to wish well of passerby’s with remembered frowns but forgotten faces.

Remember the closing of this past day is not to honor the loss of celebrities or shake a white-knuckled fist at the notoriety of national politicians, or fear river floods and forest fires, and writhe in humanity’s ignorance of shelled villages and refugees and Nobel prizes and downed jetliners. The world of the hour has not happened to you, rather you happened to it. Send the day off with a gift of your own – never see it off empty handed, while yours are full.

Why do we recall, love and loathe so distantly? Consider the nearby little feats and failures in the life of the spectator that become prey to the grand affairs of the illusion of measured time. We quickly turn past pages of truth to fancy ourselves in the foreground of this artificial accounting of merely tabloid worthy and otherwise untenable acts and scenes in someone else’s play.

Honor the nourishment of the long year in sipped spoonful’s of precious seconds. Make note of what is within the reach of your hands and lips. Turn your eyes to whomever nearby can hear your sighs. Tune your senses to the utterances of close company that caresses your ears.

The brilliance of the sun and its blushing moon do not know time. Let them be timelessly beautiful. Why amass the individuality of four seasons into one? Why blend the distinction of morning and night? Let each hour’s basket of immeasurable moments be your one celestial sized revolution. Be the historian of NOW.

Each slice of movement no matter how still is worthy of celebration. Happy “chronoversary.” Happy Timelessness.

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Precisely Enough

Posted on December 24, 2016 by skipavm@gmail.com

When I do not have You
I endure,
Yet, I’d break were You only mine
Without You
I depart
When I’m with You, I arrive.

If I am kissing You,
I cannot hear Your words.
When we are done kissing,
Your voice echoes throughout me.
The empty hand rises,
the full hand falls.

We fashion the other into a ghost
Yet You are tactile to my touch,
All around me fades away in Your presence
The world is the ghost
and we haunt its translucence.

I am always struggling
I am always succumbing
So, are we worthy of all this loving?
I endure, I break – yes
I’m here, I’m gone – yes
It is too much,
It is too little
and this is precisely enough.

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