I Speak With No Perspective

I speak with no perspective
Yet I possess assurance
Or think that I do

I speak with no compunction
No persistence, nor aspiration

. . . but I speak with love,
And I breathe confusion.
Life intermixes the two
And gives them to me
To live.

In case you were wondering.

Photo: Faerie Girlby MeganCoffey ©2012-2018 MeganCoffey

April 27, 2018 0

Change Your Frequency Change Your Life

“The trick is to feel the presence of what you want when you are thinking about it.”

– Opinionated Head

April 25, 2018 0

102 Degrees F

She stands in the warmth of the sun,
hot thighs pressed together purely for the pleasure
of the feeling of skin against skin.

There is tension in humidity.

In the heightened suspension
of water particle after water particle parading
in the dampness of the wet, clinging, air.

Her skin is strangely aware of itself at times like these and
she of it and it of her, though her mind notes only the
discomfort, ignoring the rise and fall of its corporal rhythms.

There are hiccups

in the air

hardly discernible disruptions

of the slightest degree

pockets

of coolness if you will, a temperature interrupt

an honesty laid bare.

She stands in the warmth of the sun, burning
yet dripping moisture, seething with an untenable fire
of the inner kind, restless, moving and yet unmoving
finding not comfort nor expression
pain nor release.

From what?

I don’t know.

I only see her moving, see her
becoming awareness of the existence of her skin.
And her body hears hints of whispered thoughts
and is surprised
though still disbelieving of the fact of a
consciousness besides its own.
It does at least try to grasp
the concept.

Molecules begin dancing more quickly now
pregnant with the fires of intense friction
murmuring in their own muted language

the self-same language of babies, and of children
that secret language of twins and animals
defying a hasty description
or any kind of competent judgment.

They become breathtaking in a
most literal sense, stealing her concentration
yet all the while teaching
her how to breathe.

Wet and hot embrace
breathe one another in, gradually
while body and mind mix the rhythmic
memories of their comparative souls
all under the guidance of

temperature.

They have successfully grasped the first precept.

She stands in the warmth of the sun, contemplating
what she cannot figure out, hearing her name
in a thousand places, at least.
She glances up and around but by then it’s too late
with her thighs pressed together
then apart purely for the pleasure, or is it

comfort?

And in perfect time with the humid air.

April 25, 2018 0

The Difference

I bathe my face illicitly
in the heat of the rising mist
and then I begin to court disaster
when I bare my naked fist.
The people sit insipidly
rolling their eyes at the sky
pictures of aggressive indifference
these people cannot fly.

Or will not. As the case may be.

The barren land before me
accuses me in its dust.
I journey to the mountaintops
the objects of my lust.

Unrequited. Or not, as the case may be.

Where the clouds mingle with mortals
here is where I’ll reside
stepping through portals of compassion
I feel an urgent need to hide.
Breathing my madness
in the heat of the swirling mist
Courting disaster
in the face of my naked fist.

Obsession. Or compulsion . . . ?

* * * * * *

Photo of :
Eris Goddess of discord and strife. Eris is daughter of Zeus and Hera, or else, she was daughter of Nyx. She is often called sister of Ares, the Greek god of war. Eris bore a number of unpleasant children: Battles, Disputes, Famine, Fighting, Forgetfulness, Lawlessness, Lying Words, Manslaughters, Murders, Quarrels, Ruin, Sorrows and Toil. Eris is mainly a personification of strife . . .

(found on pinterest)

* * * * * * * *
And then there”s

“Chomolungma” :

The Tibetan name for Mount Everest is Chomolungma or Qomolangma, which means “Saint Mother”, and the Chinese transliteration is Zhūmùlǎngm.

Chomolungma – the Goddess of the mountain itself, the Goddess of Plenty who who dwells atop the towering peak and provides wealth and spiritual insight to those who seek Her counsel. Her name is the original name of Mt. Everest. (Tibet)

* * * * * * *
I can’t decide which fits the poem best.

April 23, 2018 1

Her Virtue Lies in One Hand . . .

Her Virtue lies in one hand, the other hold her Sin.
She smiles at the disparity and shrugs her shoulder to begin.
She breathes in life one day by day, one minute before the other
Juggling the two like so many balls
Ever mingling one with the other.
To love her life is ambiguity, always feeling the constant tug
Of one against the other, “you can’t have both” or so they say

And so she shrugs

Though she used to wonder what course to take
Which spirit to embrace, how to separate, or to choose
How to settle for just one face
To be this . . . to not be that . . . my god! Her nature was at war
And she did not understand the conflict – at first, but no more

Now she stands awed

Pepsi in one hand, V-8 in its twin, triumphant and complete
With both her Virtue and her Sin. She smiles at the disparity.

April 19, 2018 3

If It Were So Easy

walk away they say, and I pretend
I don’t know what they mean
walk away they say, and I wonder
but will I be clean?
walk away, gently, walk away
walk away they say, repeating
themselves, and are dismayed
by my lack of attention, annoyed
in this point of contention
I know that I need to turn around
but I am moved by compulsion
one I cannot seem to name
I am moved by the habit of years
by the movement of tears, by the
trickle of fears, fickle or not
one after the other, in the night
in the day. I wake in the night, saying
“don’t touch me, don’t touch me”
I cry in the night, begging
“don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me”
dream I plunge a knife deep in
his heart, and cannot stop, and
cannot stop. I am evil in this
dream. Get some sleep they say
but I know it’s best if I don’t
just trust they say, but
I know that I won’t
walk away? I think but I
am surrounded on all sides
I have no place to hide
walk away they say, and I pretend
I don’t know what they mean.

April 17, 2018 3

GenXers, Millenials – do they repair things like their parents’ generation did?

April 14, 2018 0

Darkened Rooms

darkened rooms dot the fiery landscape
eerie in the shadows of impending gloom
masking the startling evidence of the gloaming-apparent

and they shimmer

gods and goddesses step down from perfect pedestals
greeting us with a kindness derived from the universe
sniffing our hair to find the unfamiliar scent of
modern day, the tell-tale traces of civilization

they do not know how to speak to us, as we have all
but abandoned the language; they do not know how
to hear us, as less and less often
do we sound the voice of our souls

they merely stare at us curiously, tilting their heads
in wonder, in a growing sense of disbelief
stooping down from immaculate pedestals
kneeling . . . almost, to peer closely at our faces so\
forlorn, sniffing our hair in mute despair, watching
our mouths move with impotent frustration

“we’ve stayed away too long” muttered one gruffly
and wiped away a stray tear, while
Artemis patted his shoulder awkwardly
saying, “come . . . mayhap we can find a Seer.”