calling it love (yet involving cultural variances)

skyscrapers, tall buildings, city buildings, commercial buildings, etc.








calling it love (yet involving cultural variances)





it's as if they know—

how to lift their wings
to fly



only to be able to reach
that glorious blue sky




it's when city dreamers
really, really
could dream high


yet trying to go on their
own particular ways—
not even finding relief, sigh!
would you still hold me
until the golden dawn?

tell me what year are we now, again?
we're here, olden.. but then
we still have  
fallen apart, as you joked

—that you bleed—
(unrequited love?)

that's how we
pass the blame to reality
but really, it could just be
an untranslatable word

for perfect love




mere affinity—







 skyscrapers, high rise buildings, city buildings, built environment, etc.

Subject No. 7








Subject No. 7



Still, there's time and room

for my religious studies—


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—Truly righteous.  But...

No better than a mystic

Ah, divine nature...

A Spiritual Valley

Sunday morning Gospel

At a southern Baptist church

Praising with the choir

Listening to the Word of God


Where grudges are forgiven

And friendships re-united

We sinners find forgiveness,

Family, and a home


But here I sit

Alone at home

I couldn't be roused

To my own Father's house


I can hear the church bells in the distance

Calling white-washed tombs to repentance

Calling broken souls to be renewed

Calling crushed hopes to stand firm


Yet, here I sit

Looking out the window alone

Listening to their tolling

Refusing to be more

Than an armchair theologian


If my “deeds” are just words

Then they are not worth talking of

If I didn't speak to my Father today

Then why do I expect answers


If we are “the Body”

Why are we so apathetic

So CONSUMED by our own lives

That our faith wastes away


And as these thoughts come to me

I make myself more comfortable

Still refusing to be any more

Then an armchair theologian.

Transcendence (And Body Politic)


Transcendence (And Body Politic)




Her guises were stripped off

Like paint;


I had wondered where she could 

have gotten to—to act like a saint


The earthquakes have multiple meanings, after all:


There are moments of truth. 

But our attitudes, in facing them, such are several.


Why should we try to act on certain

situations, just to make us huge?


Her views of change mattered to

me, for lacking subterfuge


'Tis so raw, so fresh, 

so debilitatingly godly


When fake media is stressed, let all

disdain blasphemy.


Are we just spirits in human bodies,—

in the physicality?—



For, when— it makes it clear,

our true selves gather up

a multitudes' spirituality!

Author's Notes/Comments: 

"Transcendence (And Body Politic)", w/c is also an affected poem, previously titled "Transcendence", is a repost from my Twitter platform (inevitably composed on April 29, 2017/at around "06:58"...based from the deemed quirky causes & that perhaps had sprung from thoughts of a possible love interest (rather assumptive [on my part] & my motivations were unclear; thus, a type of a poem like this was done).  Also, I had edited this version (a little bit by modifying the use of punctuation marks & perhaps the stanzas/form, those were minor tweaks).



Thy Code, Thy Choice



The bugs of thy code, hidden like a virus

Steals not your data, dates thy compiler

The mem of thy soul, stressed and archaic

Already knows a thou, c, perl, hebraic


The code of thy soul, enough long to rule the world

Willn’t compile if thy seed is a virus

Will not even, case done with the python

‘Tis, ‘tis a problem, the poison of a viper


Living through thy blood, bleeding through thy fingers

Spreads on a zip and it lingers, and it lingers

Can’t know what you want, or what thy code’ll be

If ruby, java, just a virus or php


Remember that the evil has no single, single patience

You should run, not compile, through the code, through those piles

Just remember all these words, these words of the matrix

Now tell: red or blue? Fast, fast! With no waiting



Hadley Valley/Lower Spring Creek

Existence, all trapped in one

Myself, and all that's around me

I discover spirit, reigning supreme

Over landscapes lonely and alive

The ice and snow gloriously rises up

To meet skies drenched  in indanthrene

Staring across fenced suburban valleys

Shadowed by painted brush stroked clouds

In these moments, I get that mystical feeling

In times such as these, I seem to transcend

For a fleeting second, all seems to blend

I grasp uselessly at the air, as I start to

Ascend these majestic goldenrod highlands

Holding onto love, with some sort of ancient

Eternal longing, that never seems to cease

Or ever fade away, here at Lower Spring Creek

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Lower Rock Run

Imprisoned, rustbelt cities entrap

Souls, careless and untrained

My intent is to revere the flowers and streams

To hold sacred these stars that glow luminous

To honor divinity in billowing cool pastel skies

Submerged, my naked fingers

Explore earth, steeped with richness

My dream is to flow like wind  across the prairie

To kneel in jubilation underneath the forest canopy

To seek shelter in the eternal solitude of sappy pine

These eternal truths

These natural laws

Revealed through the simple

Act of observation and silence

Teach us and guide us safely through

The shadowy valley of fear and unknowing

Effortlessly transforming

The first rays of early dawn

Into majestic afternoon sunlight

All this I have learned

By walking a myriad of paths

That led to some transformation

On Lower Rock Run


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Revelation at the Forest's Edge (Winter Dwindling)

And at the edge of the forest

I looked out upon mankind

Taking notice as winter days

Began to dwindle and fade

Meditating along snowy fields

Contemplating life and death

Observing simple revelations

Passed down from our elders

Gifted to us freely by the earth

Hinted at by glittering galaxies

 Illustrated in fleeting dreams


This I hold to be true

Everything is a circle

It all goes around and comes

Back around

Gently in an infinite arc

In the endless flow of seasons

The revolving pattern of night/day

The orbits of the planets around the sun

The luminous profile of the ancient moon

And the mystical enchanting eyes of an owl


I close my eyes to look inside

An iridescent world constantly

Shifting and forever evolving

Our spirits rotating on a wheel

Of birth, death, and all between

Nothing is random or by chance

Everything so strangely familiar

The inside implodes outward

Startling ghosts still unseen

The otherworld still inaudible

To the untrained human senses

Philosophy subsists

In realms of harsh famine

Words sprouting from parched

Earth left unclaimed

These fractured degrees

Tormented by plagues of discontent

Leaving the masses in a hazy vacuum

Of senseless wonder and disillusionment

Melodies pass through ethereal indigo skies

Cascading into meaningless remnants of broken love