Permanent Marks

Line art, fine art, black arts, permanent marks,
All bits, like all points, on all prior parts.
Those scars, scrapes and all fusion of shapes,
New lines etched on what deteriorates.

In ink, a thirst or reflection fastened,
Imagery indelibly imagined.
Raw, renewed or repeated catharsis,
That bit of buzz and heart unharnesses.

The artist said there was only one rule.

That other Dimension

Espy and explore eratic echos,
Recklessly considering framed feelings.
Should I be more worried for that fellow?
He seemed constrained by his revealings.

His aspect was aligned within limits,
Until we chose diametrical doors.
Beyond his, my life may just prohibit,
Or maybe, just go missing for hours.

On the finding of confidence.

Can you recognize the aphotic doubt?
That midnight pool, you gently glide throughout.
The clot of air, horrid, humid worry,
Blurred branches fettering out in fury.

Bleary digits stretching out to quelch,
To trap, to tear, and to tow to the mulch.
Those lurid margins and high stands fornenst,
“Awake!” “Awareness!” to what they dispense.

The sharp jagged bank will set stiff your gait,
But the stones are surer than the callous hate,
Of copse that will hitch the wrong sort of knot,
And vicious impishness of faithless thoughts.

Let dilemma drip down to rest in tarn,
Hike the bituminous path, the creases worn.
Set high away from that stygian pool,
Scape your escape, in reminisce find fuel.

Alight that tinder of apprehension,
Of self-distrust, and fear of rejection.
Throw in the fire the bole of reluctance,
And have a moment of warm indulgence.

Can you recognize the aphotic doubt?
That midnight pool, your roots run throughout.

Winter’s last

WINTER…
Has visited this runway with many dresses.

The meanest,
The furthest,
The definitive,
Some terminal,
And climactic,
The bitter end,
And with curtains.

Maybe this is the last swan song?

I drove at the moon

I drove at the moon from Nolalu,
It was large and red, but my phone can’t show you!

It felt like being on a runway,
But it seemed like a tunnel.
Only a Northerner has these thoughts.
But I can share what imagination wrought.

The ceiling was black with specks of light, that could take you away at a moment.
But, the trees and snow bring you back to the earth and act as a strong opponent.
Heading home to the top of the lake at night while glancing at the sky.
One wonders darkly if ice or beast will set the spirit awry.

Now and then the land opens up,
Or the clouds reveal the stars.
It’s in those moments one could take off,
If not stuck sitting in a car.

The moon is close when you live in the North, especially late at night.
When the travels done, and your safe at home, there is comfort in your life.
Still after you leave that treacherous breath,
There is something enslaving about that view.
It happens in those peaceful moments,
When driving from Nolalu.