Movements Moments

by Mark

To travel is a wondrous thing you can do. You are educated by the unknown; people you never encountered before and may never again become a part of you. I try to travel to a new place at least once a year, yet haven’t had a chance to truly just get away in place. I mean living and becoming part of a new city/country or just backpacking for a long period with no guide but your own two feet. Something like that is on my before 30 list. Another aspect of traveling I like is the voyage; the walk, car, train ride or plane ride. They give you time to think and look out windows and see places from different vantage points. I view it as meditating on scenery and people. During outings, I’ll scribble a bunch of stuff into my phone or book I am reading and sometimes they are half way decent.

Look out while riding the Q
right before Canal
gaze.
At colors buzzing past
filtered by beams creating a movie for your eyes
shift your gaze. As we rise up greeted by Ra,
hung over Brooklyn bridge.
tunneling by churches
and skyscrapers cut off
by graffiti tops.
Tripping back down with
child regression
regenerating bright colored
lunch boxes folders
to match. Ignore your
Penney loafers exemplifying
responsible trade, and just smile,
Sing songs with your eyes.
This was once a
treat that made your mouth pucker with
oh yea, and your eye brows
just shift that little way to
the right to make the room required.

By Him

credit to her

credit to her

 

 

Mother Nature

Also known as What the Fuck do I Title This?

I ventured on, my footsteps unfelt,
yet, skimming a powdery carpet unmarked by prints.
Feeling my way with outstretched
hands,
grasping cold rock, nonglimmering,
lustless, ungemed.

A cry breaks the unsounding nonwind
and rattles my mind into full trepidation.
Neither ground nor binding are known to my perception,
and I am whirling in my own veins,
sensing only the necessity of driving towards the siren.

Whaling, shrieking, broken between sustaining breaths,
it bursts with new life and the drumfire of birth.
It calls for a home with a carnal craving
for arms in which to sleep and grow.

The cave illuminates without brilliance,
only revealing enough to expose the maze
of domeshaped
rock tunnels, never ending,
all equally cold and detestable.
And a child, asleep in a crib adorned with lace,
skin just pink enough to imply human life,
no longer crying, but asleep, pacifying itself
with its own bottom lip.

I am bounding now.
The dirt still unknown to my feet,
yet progressing in focussed motion
towards the wonder.

Another cry is unleashed,
yet my mind remains still. I feel the floor and covering
above me, and a drag at my heels, pulling me contrarily.
It is a roar, a bleating through salient teeth, amid a beastly jaw.
The daunting mass of fur looms from the darkness
and shrouds the view of the basket.
Yellow mother eyes block my intended path.

I must continue down another tunnel,
leaving no foot print, without knowledge
of the dust beneath me.

By her

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