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UnspokenHow pure, your being.
Misfortunes like drifting snow,
And still you are warm.

When grey packs of misery
hound me, I picture your smile.

My familiar,
silence. A shadow dancer,
the partner for me.

Why bother questioning?
He dances flawlessly.
Mirror
Motionless, the pool
has trapped the vault of heaven,
spread before my feet.
On The PodiumThe art of conductivity
as the maestro explained,
is that the man with the baton

serves as a lightning rod,
earthing intuitions from god.
Hypnopompic
A key too rusted
to turn, a door once solid,
now rotting away.

As sentience stirs again,
the dream's images decay.
The Ladder Of JacobJacob dreamed. Though we may know nothing about what kind of man this father of patriarchs was, the record of his dream has been preserved. We have no way of knowing if this was indeed ever a dream that a man experienced. The story has him traveling alone, so artists have portrayed him. In the ancient text he settles for the night, resting his head on a stone.
As he sleeps the vision unfolds, he sees a ladder that reaches toward heaven from the earth, a ladder by which angels are ascending and descending.

He hears the voice of god, so he believes. The god tells him how remarkable he is. We might understand this vision as an allegory of his
Stranded 2
The end of the line
had ever seemed likely
to leave the traveller

abandoned in empty space,
no hope of resolution.
Solipsist
Spirit torments flesh.
The sharp goad of emptiness,
of solitude, stings.

Touch, soothing or harsh,
might redeem isolation.
CadenzaSuppose each one of us older than the stars,
suppose that we are other than the ragged beggars we seem,
suppose that our engulfing slumber, our inner darkness,
is constantly erupting with the vanity of dreams.

Consider those uncounted aeons swallowed in the oceans
of that virtuality, where we, the ever drowning mariners,
must cling to the absurd shapes we call reality.

Will we, unknowing captives, ever be free?
Has liberty become our cage of captivity?
Oh yes, we writhe, our nakedness become despair.
as our frenzied touching reveals that nothing's there.
Pioneer
The power of flight
begins with a child's fantasy,
the world left behind.
Air Force Revisited.
Flying fortresses,
dense enough to deflect light
yet insubstantial

Water drops suspended in
the high, thin air, wind sculpted.

(Originally:

Flying fortresses,
solid enough to impede light
yet made of nothing.

Water drops suspended in
the high, thin air, wind sculpted.)
AfterwordFunerary goods
always include coin to pay
the ferry man's fee.

What if we had always been wrong,
If none waited by the river?

The end of the line
had ever seemed likely
to leave the traveler

abandoned in empty space,
no hope of resolution.
Redundant
Industry no more,
the bustle of commerce ceased,
the tracks decaying.

As, long ago, the Roman roads
were overgrown and forgotten.
Ladders
The rungs rise and fall,
the direction is decided
by the starting point

so the climber discovers:
The way up is the way down.
Storyville, Bordello Sketches1

Girls, pale skinned and nubile,
who by candle light might pass,

women who lend a joint a little class,
a suggestion of sass in the swing of the ass,

these were the gems the madams looked out for,
girls who could turn sad guys into would-be Casanovas.

Still the punters knew that the dollar was always king,
their dollars could buy them any pretty thing

in the room. They also knew that black girls
had learned what they had to do for a necklace of pearls

and stockings of silk. So the guys played make believe.
In the first light of dawn nobody was deceived.

2

The Storyville madams
hired piano players, even bands
to help the gir
Patience
Migrant birds depart
before frosts stiffen their wings.
She will be waiting.
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More from *AlecBell

Urbanite
City within her,
gazing through the mask. Her face
insists, no comment.
Poor Impressions The painter Monet
observed things every day.

He didn't care
that it's rude to stare.
Flamenco
The dancer entranced,
her partner invisible,
hidden behind closed eyes.
Roadway
Empty underpass,
lifeless spaces, concrete bathed
in unreal light.

Featured in Groups:

:iconthesimulacrum: #TheSimulacrum
Keep your verse terse

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October 29, 2011
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Mutations

:iconalecbell:

Existence in flux,
on the edge of becoming
or ceasing to be.
:iconalecbell:
A commentary on Tree Lovers by *TriciaS

See the full size deviation here: [link]
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:iconchryssalis:
Mood: Wow! *chryssalis Nov 13, 2011
:clap::love:
Reply
:iconalecbell:
*AlecBell Nov 13, 2011
:iconbowplz::iconswingonastarplz::heart:
Reply
:iconamberous:
~Amberous Nov 5, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Loved this one. Evolutionary...
Reply
:iconalecbell:
*AlecBell Nov 5, 2011
Good to hear from you again! Thank you ;)
Reply
:iconemmasloane:
~EmmaSloane Nov 4, 2011   Writer
Eerie portent or conservation of matter? Provocative in either event.
Reply
:iconalecbell:
*AlecBell Nov 4, 2011
Thank you Emma :love:
Reply
:iconemmasloane:
~EmmaSloane Nov 4, 2011   Writer
My pleasure, Alec :heart:
Reply
:iconalecbell:
*AlecBell Nov 5, 2011
:sun::heart::heart:
Reply
:icontricias:
*TriciaS Oct 29, 2011
Your words have added another dimension to my picture.....and I love the title!
Thank you so much Alec!:hug::heart:
Reply
:iconalecbell:
*AlecBell Oct 30, 2011
:heart::love:
Reply
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