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Hypnopompic

A key too rusted
to turn, a door once solid,
now rotting away.

As sentience stirs again,
the dream's images decay.

About A LetterWriting to you,
discovering what I need to say, my words building blocks.
I craft them to shape an offering to you.

Years have passed since we lived our bonded everyday,
since the anguish of our disentangling, the lifetime, as it seems,
that followed of convalescence and recovery.

I hope that we can meet now in a space dappled with darks and lights.
the tapestry of experience we shared. I see its patterns stirred constantly
as the peaks and troughs of feelings we once shared eddy in my mind.

My words can only bear witness. Even after so much of cooling,
of erosion, as other passions have reshaped the mindscapes
we created in ou

A City Augustine Never Dreamed OfSuch strangeness stalks these dream haunted alleys and lanes.
At noon the city's byways still remain submerged in subterranean shadow,

sunk in a motionless reverie. No creature stirs, Within enclosing walls
murmurs, even cries might be heard, were there any curiously listening.

The sun vanishes abruptly. The day ends, precipitating all the activity of night,
the sensual argument of the drum, flares providing erratic, dancing light,

and shadows whirling suddenly like dervishes, across the crumbling plaster
of close packed walls. The alleys seethe with the flesh of strangers,

lives that pass too close to each other, remaining unrecognis

The Perspective Of HokusaiThe great wave surges from the left. The image is frozen as the great tower of water crests. Slicing the mountainous sea, three fishing boats in motion from the right, are threatened with inundation when the wall of water must fall upon them as the wave breaks.

On the far horizon the snow-capped peak of Mont Fuji can be seen, tiny, against the momentary bulk of the wave. Yet and boats are necessarily transient. The foreground is full of the challenge of survival, a moment in the struggle that passes fast into oblivion. The mountain, that appears so small, is wrapped in its motionless tranquillity, its snow mantle dazzles the eye.

Close to,

Ends and beginnings
cycle perpetually.
Yang dances with Yin.

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

NecropolisThe city of hollow stones … you've visualised it, far distant, as your night thoughts writhe toward those dreamscapes denied you by the stubborn absence of sleep. Pyramids, obelisks, hollow shrines, all tokens of divine possession. In this city, those who are not possessing have been possessed.

This valley of departed kings has long since succumbed to the sand blasting of desert storms, buried deeply now beneath an ocean of dunes. Still the lost city's blind gods watch over the emptied spaces jealously.

Here past and future
will never part company,
fused in stasis.

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.

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

Dusk sinks into night
Light's final moments promise
that worlds emptied

of colour, diminished,
will bloom again - the wheel turns.

Blindfolded

The seen, the unseen
so close together. Only
our indifference

makes them all invisible.
We prefer not to see them.

SagacityDid he love wisdom?
His love was unrequited.
In his heart he knew
.
none could cultivate the void
from which alone all else grew.

Delicate blossoms,
lures to attract the future,
to nourish fresh seeds.

Decadent, MetallicAbandoned metal
dreams of disintegration,
blacktop forgotten.

Functional no more,
decay imposes its own
brilliant display.

Existence in flux,
on the edge of becoming
or ceasing to be.

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More from *AlecBell

TriplicateLook at me
what you see
you might get.

you might not
all forgot,
nothing yet.

Shall I sigh,
wipe my eye?
All too late.

Romance In GermanyGeorg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel
did not invent the bagel.
He found the dialectic
made him much less dyspeptic.

SistineMichelangelo Bounarroti
was not a man for a party.
He used his repressed feelings
to decorate ceilings.

About A LetterWriting to you,
discovering what I need to say, my words building blocks.
I craft them to shape an offering to you.

Years have passed since we lived our bonded everyday,
since the anguish of our disentangling, the lifetime, as it seems,
that followed of convalescence and recovery.

I hope that we can meet now in a space dappled with darks and lights.
the tapestry of experience we shared. I see its patterns stirred constantly
as the peaks and troughs of feelings we once shared eddy in my mind.

My words can only bear witness. Even after so much of cooling,
of erosion, as other passions have reshaped the mindscapes
we created in ou

They ignored sharp thorns,
the sting of separation
too far off to see.

Did their season of pleasure
leave them painful memories?

Beleaguered

Her expression grim,
she expects little of good
from her surroundings.

Does her fixed glare allow her
to remain unmolested?

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On The Podium

by *AlecBell, May 5, 2012, 11:42:51 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

The art of conductivity
as the maestro explained,
is that the man with the baton

serves as a lightning rod,
earthing intuitions from god.

On The Podiumby *AlecBell

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

©2012-2013 *AlecBell

This is an entry for :devakarra's Short Poem Contest. The theme for entries is Music.

find out more here: [link]

My poem was awarded second place

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~starell Jul 14, 2012

i love how you captured the rythm of the music with the cadence of the poem it's just very clever overall.

Reply

*AlecBell Jul 15, 2012

Thanks very much!

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~starell Jul 17, 2012

no problem

you inspire me!

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*AlecBell Jul 18, 2012

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~EmmaSloane Jul 1, 2012 Writer

witty and wonderful!

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*AlecBell Jul 3, 2012

Thank you very much,Emma!

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~EmmaSloane Jul 3, 2012 Writer

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~Egir May 21, 2012

This is quite magnificent. Very clever.

Reply

*AlecBell May 22, 2012

Thank you

Reply

*halcyonshores May 19, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

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