Each month, write a new collection.
I'm So Much MoreI'm so much more than what they seethere's much more than this in side of mea desperate soul, who longs to be freewho wishes just to beI'm so much more than who they knowthere's so many places I wish to gowhether at lightning speed, or terribly slowdestination makes my heart glowI'm so much more than what they thinkthere's so much more than food and drinkthan coming and going, from beyond the brinkmy desires are my missing linkI'm so much more than what they praisethere's something better than a latest crazeto travel out, beyond the hazeI want to get lost in the mazeI'm so much more than even I'm awarethere's still a mystery in my airbut the world's not ready, for me to shareand I'm not quite ready to care
Thanks Molly. Your phrasing and rhyme and journey are grand.
Yeah, you are really someone who knows how to use rhyme!
Yes. Agreed.The egg-ly matterPoised on a landing stripCasts a shadowed rimTaps a hollow thunkChalks to tasteAnd touches cold.This visible plainIs superficialReflectingWhat we perceiveWho we think we are, andOur notion, of otherNanosecond marked.Reality Lies beyond thoughtIt is essenceTo child:It’s a roll-y spinning topTo youth:A salted breakfast scrambleTo householder:A sweet rising doveTo nomad:A precious broken shellTo sage:Eternity.
Love this and the way it breaks into a kind of surrealism itself.
metamorphosis of man, canvas, bird and egg, hung in the gallery where everything is auctionedwe start with the birdand the egg then move on to paintand magritte who speaks of the wholeof the dreg we start with the bird and the egg crack shell wing armuntil they beg as oubliette we beginto eat westartwith the bird and the eggthen move on to paint and magritte.
Rene Magritte Clairvoyanceonly the eggknows if god will giveher wings
In the still life paintingthe egg’s porous shell casts a hard oval shadowon a tablecloth while a bird’sstreamlined feathers are poisedto flap away from an artist’s easel.Life is encapsulated in his tight frameuntil the wife blocks the sunlight. Her harsh voice bounces off the walls. She’s pregnant, she says, by another man. She spins away and the air smells of laundry. The painter’s brush has fallenhis chair is overturned but he istoo late, she is leaning on someone else’s arm, and is gone.He curses, pulls off his tweed jacket, his waxed hair undone,enraged, he kicks and howlsthe paint splatters,his existence is no longer still,or unmoving, but lived.