[x]

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.

Motionless, the pool
has trapped the vault of heaven,
spread before my feet.

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.

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

Hypnopompic

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

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

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.

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

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.

The power of flight
begins with a child's fantasy,
the world left behind.

Beyond the window
her past slides into the void.
The train gathers speed.

VisionaryInfinite wonders
beheld by the finite eye,
just for a moment.

The rungs rise and fall,
the direction is decided
by the starting point

so the climber discovers:
The way up is the way down.

A moment, unowned
it seems. In Siberia,
maybe. Winter sun

etched pale on a glass plate,
mysterious yet empty.

Industry no more,
the bustle of commerce ceased,
the tracks decaying.

As, long ago, the Roman roads
were overgrown and forgotten.

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 411 bytes more ▶

More from *AlecBell

Abroad in the world
of strangers, each traveler
is cruising alone.

The body provides armour,
protecting the soul within.

All things physical
are either large or they're small.
But wait, is that true?

Is not everything small
from above, large from below?

Vegetable flesh,
smooth, seductive. Sight and touch
are both enraptured.

Is it space or time
that curves under the vast weight
of stone, of long centuries?

The mind cannot reach
beyond the narrow moment,
the vanished generations.

Daily RoundA new day begins.
As the hours pass it descends
towards its dark end.

Each passing minute, wave-like,
breaks on the unchanging shore.

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

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

Not art that's been "found"
- spontaneous art, composed,
collaborative,

growing to create a whole,
unplanned and organic.

View Gallery

Featured in Groups:

#Poetrys-Renaissance
The Movement of Poetry!

#HumanConditions

#TheSimulacrum
Keep your verse terse

Details

Submitted: September 14, 2011
File Size: 411 bytes

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 28
Favourites: 23 [who?]
Views: 200 (0 today)
Downloads: 3 (0 today)

[x]

Willing Flesh

by *AlecBell, Sep 14, 2011, 4:11:15 AM
Literature / Poetry / Spiritual / Free Verse

Flesh the means, spirit the end,
yet still the unintended. While deep
embedded in the pulsing rhythms
of the body's routine life, it transcends
physicality, flourishing in realities
never imagined before. Spirit is the key
to unlock the heavy door, to make
the great discovery of joy.

Willing Fleshby *AlecBell

Literature / Poetry / Spiritual / Free Verse

©2011-2013 *AlecBell

Pursuing fugitive thoughts, netting them in verse!

The Artist has requested Critique on this Artwork

Please sign up or login to post a critique.

~SZografos Sep 27, 2011

Alec, this is a triumph.

Reply

*AlecBell Sep 27, 2011

Thank you very much!

Reply

=deinktvis Sep 24, 2011 Student Writer

amazing, alec.

Reply

*AlecBell Sep 24, 2011

Thank you, Chris

Reply

=deinktvis Sep 25, 2011 Student Writer

always.

Reply

~neuroticmnemonic Sep 19, 2011 Writer

Your command over language continuously leaves me in awe.

Reply

*AlecBell Sep 19, 2011

Thank you!

Reply

*almcdermid Sep 19, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

Flesh the means, spirit the end -- truth here my friend.

Reply

*AlecBell Sep 19, 2011

Thanks, Al

Reply

*almcdermid Sep 19, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

Most welcome.

Reply

Previous
1
2
3
Next