the generation of knowledge
a task an event a time period
birthed in ignorance
no future thought just now
over and over creation here
the window of memory closed
on the thousands who first
built fire understanding nothing
except burnt fingers smokey eyes

Places of virtue, with no elaboration?
Found timely, after a version of sincerer orders...
Sweet to the eye, but lead to forever for a sin?
We remember you, when the world has obscured...

A rainbow from the stead we favor
Sat in the curiosity of a judged silence
We know you, as if fascination has a flavor
Spare and tiding a gentler eye, we dote is again...

The good nature of promises made, promises ought
The tows of sharing, the shadow of worth, with one more wish
For an illuminated smile, you offered for first and not
The second silence of the future, where an awoken friend is...

Smile for me, one more, time...
If senses approve, senses know a season
With a realm to its shall, a host of sincerity trying
The about you show, waiting on a house of forces, and legend...

Habit, does a crying home have the sense to know you?
Welcome to a door, that changed the rage of avarice, into a blue sky
Does liberty's accuse, compare me to a wizening pace to view
The reasons of worth, made grandiose or aled to when life is why?

Your affront, the taste of a hand of love
Set to rights, or making the times known, by the sides of renown
Rest and see, a lover make you the qualm, if not a history with a covenant
Sickened eyes with a role vain enough to pray for your dream to be found...

There must be
a hell where
forgotten
words and lines
dwell.
Similes scamper,
lost like beetles.
Bat winged metaphors
fly to that dark
hell of forgotten
poems.
If those wandering
words escape, they are
gone forever.

When I swim in
the ink, and the
writing streak starts,
the prose comes to
me while I try to nap.
Now, I sleep with
pen and paper,
to put the words in
that white paper
prison where they
belong.

The breeze stretches and cools the season
along the country road
variegated light, leaf-filtered
from trees that lean
in rivalry for my eager eyes.

Their foliaged arms dangle, then drop
an amber snowfall all around
as if to awaken me
to the autumn creep
into my bones that click and tick
with each tottery step.

Earth awakens me to the beauty
in this splendorous season
of the gliding swaying passage
of life in alteration
and spiritual invitation
to bathe in the slow current of creation
along this road
and its cool and bright possibilities.

You said you saw our baby last night,
The one we will never have;
Our dream baby.

I was holding her
Against my shoulder
Blanket pulled up around her little head
And I turned to you and said something banal,
Like grab the bottle from the fridge, darling.

And we have found each other beyond
The years of babies.
You have yours and I have mine, already,
And they have all reached the far side  
Of dog-tired  
Midnight dream feeds
In a cedar rocking chair.

You and I have both already been
There;

This continent we will never walk together.

But I feel her now,
Our dream baby,
In everything.

She rests there in the gentle way you caress my face
As starlight plays across the blankets.
She clings close to your laughter,
Curled inside your fervent and unrelenting
Belief in me.

And in the mirrored chambers of your hazel eyes,
When I am laid beside you and softly
Humming my mother’s
Oldest
Lullaby;
It is there, I can feel her smile,
Our dream baby,

A love beyond ages,
A sacred creation
Between your soul and mine.

Everything is pure imagination,
colors pulled from the mind’s
massive palette,
as new dimensions reveal themselves
in swirling abstractions
of curling rainbow action.

The colors she sees internally
are multi layered and 3d,
rapidly releasing childlike energy
and remaking her inner existence
into a safe fantasy,
as she takes that imagery
and makes it her waking reality.

She takes the power to paint and reshape
a poorly formed life of pain
into a playground of
crimson, purple, yellow,
pink, and blue
for everyone to view.

Everything fades to background noise,
and there is only art unfurling,
as the unconscious writes its own story,
as time moves at its own pace,
letting awe and intense focus
color her sweet cherubic face.

what is the teacher
perception what is the
student creation