Friday, June 25, 2010
It is the gardener in the I
of the storm
testing the air with his finger
from his master’s pallet.
When I write, speak, live
from the seat in the center
of The Garden,
it is with either:
The voice of old gods—the riders of Shem;
a trumpeting messenger with news!
The mad squiggled lines left behind
on the path by The Fool
on his way to the upside-down noose;
stuck on the card that played him.
But at the end of the day
when I am
lying in bed, eyes closed,
inside The Wayfarer’s Temple,
it doesn’t matter how the voice comes,
all that matters is:
that you read
all the way through to the end.
Let The Gardener’s seeds
from the earth of the sea
take care of the roots and the rest.
All you need to do
is listen to the wind through the trees,
the cherry scent essence
© Kristin Reynolds 6 21 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
why would anyone want to be born?
to be at war
or to turn others into a bloody mess?
that perfect glove
that fits your hand perfectly
it has its charm school manners
but one must be a cannibal
full of big ideas
eating your enemy's brains raw
you need the stomach of a wild dog
to win a meal at this table
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Friday, June 4, 2010
my experience of delusion and truth
and how to tell the difference
during summer vacation
was my term paper topic in tenth grade
I wonder what it feels like to think behind your eyes
to dream the same dream just once
or fall in step with your steps when you have
nowhere to go
what do you think about the massacres in the fields?
the beautiful horror of it all
night coming on with its nocturnal appetites
who are up with the moon cleaning their teeth
I was badly bitten by ants when I was a child
they were so small I couldn't take it personally
cockroaches however covered the floor walls and ceiling
of the kitchen
the whole room swimming with them moved
pulsating with a life of its own
it was monstrous
it was repulsive standing there in the middle of it
I kept thinking: I wish you could see this!