The Realm of Possibility and Has Happened

In the realm of my subconscious mind,
I am standing on
the Crest of Decision,
the Peak of Possibility.
And below, all the forsakers stare up from the Ravine of Impossibility,
up at the lone figure 

posed over the lip of the Crest.

The slope of Has Happened is before me,
folding in towards those shimmering ranges off in the distance, 

and dare I push off, down the slope, towards the ranges-

the future.

Will I and dare I push off. Decide. Is it possible?

Clusters of clouds sail smoothly by the Crest,

undisturbed. And I am-
amidst soundless bliss and limitless

possibility.

And the sun's rays pour dazzlingly down through an opening in the clouds,
onto the Slope
of what is Possible

and Has Happened,
that I can. And I do
simply push off the Crest onto the Slope 

of Has Happened --

It has happened 

and I am on the Slope, 

below the Crest, 

towards the Range
of the Future.

Tonight, I have a Dream

Tonight, 
I have a dream. 
A flickering, fleeting dream, 
that sends me
waltzing atop painted, scarlet clouds
that draft past sunrise,
floating amongst curtains of star dust 
towards an iridescent moon outlined against indigo night, 
gazing at a glazed mountain range, 
dotted with periwinkle crystal peaks, 
laying upon a downy moss bed, 
that deliciously cushions my being,
wandering through gusts of desert wind, 
my eyes asquint from shimmering heat veils, 
peering into a glassy lake, 
adorned with enchanting lily pads, 
which sway gingerly as my finger brushes the water's surface 
into gentle ripples that 
slowly spread towards me as whispering messengers, 
encircling my body until they form a ring,
that suddenly caves in as a surging avalanche. 
The water rushes into this hole, 
dropping away into a steep, seeming blackness 
which wraps me in a warm misty cloud. 
I float down, down, down 
until my bed appears down below, 
and with a swooping rush, 
I am gently released, and I fall delicately onto the bed, 
my mind in wonder. 

--high school exercise 

A Gilded Python's Effect

Imagine
disrobing from the reed loaf of a basket, a gilded python
forked tongue flicking against his charmer 
 a tanned, lanky lad splayed across 
wine colored cushions 
the identical color of his turban.

Imagine
pluming from the depths of the charmer's pipe 
sound waves twist and turn in tune with 
each flit of the python's tongue, 
each coil of the python's body, 
each glint of the python's gold-flecked eyes. 

Imagine
snake and charmer, sequestered on seamless sand 
aside from a caravan, dune-trekking 
silhouettes dark against the black of cloudless night and the white 
block of moon. 

Imagine
atmosphere dark. 
No; light?
Veils of stardust
 hazy, humming orbs 
mold and mesh; unfathomable shapes! 
A gilded python? No.
The Thinker? No.
Ah - a banana 
split.

--high school exercise

The Angel of Progress

The angel of progress, the crown of refuge,

A monument of law pregnant with green

Does trace the dawning weed of wilderness,
From the silencing centre conspiring overseas.
The iridescence of common character that binds
One nation, a republic for the ages, 
Where parents nod from the past, retained,
And children beckon to the future, unchained.
Where liberty mingles in a stream of blood,
Though the hand is hacked off, the teeth still dig.
Monarchs of commerce unite in labour,
Skirts spread afar to sift seed and fatigue.
Just and equal tea fountains spout revolutions
And uncage the righteous from British creed. 

The Tree of Life Necklace

A smooth, glass-blown orb, 
Breathed into life by 
a turbaned woman in her lair
Of chimes, mirrors, and dust, 
Of blue gates which grace Galilean hills. 
"The City of Jewish Mysticism" they call it;
A former fishbowl of sagacious hermits, 
Observed by all, witness to naught
Save the Oral text. 

Epiphanies
Would echo
Off the cobblestone roofs and blue gates
To His blue, 
Like nebulas,
Hazy, humming catharses, 
Of essence, principle, and life. 
Upon their heavenly arrival, 
Those sparks of Proverbial wisdom
Would not to each other,
"A Tree of Life is She."

The smooth, glass-blown orb, 
Encircles a tree, 
off whose trunk burst, 
Blue buds, 
Spores of Torah, 
The smallest unit of life.
And it sings around my neck.

The Galaxy's Tempo

Beneath the humming gaze of Galaxy, 
Cloud shed their summer slumber
Into thunder, twined as sterling spores, 
Albino powder, winged oars,
Which stirs nature's umber bed
Into a woolen terrace, white-wed. 

Moonlit stardust ponders air,

And sheaths silver poplar's bare 

Skeleton in lace veil. 

When gust-chimes through willows wail,

Vines spooled with ice-dripped pearls,

Graze lakes' glazed-swirls, 

En-marbled with crystal fossil, fixed-foam,

Alabaster alchemy, metallic-chrome. 

Frosted fields of ferns unfurl, 

Snowdrops and crocuses uncurl,

Into a pale-draped tableau, 

Beneath the Galaxy's tempo.

Tea Between East and West

I long to drift where East drips into West,

And take my tea between the eyes of G-d,

For my breath brushes shade, wears of this quest.

 

Why does the worm die at its base behest,

While I endure the parting of those loved.

I long to drift where East drips into West.

 

They cry to me, those children of my nest,

To dance my last among flowers and friends.

But my breath brushes shade, wears of this quest.

 

The past whispers my name, locked in Time’s chest,

The kettle hiss pools into bays of sighs, 

It longs to drift where East drips into West.

 

Night seems to smother moon into its guest,

Since my window is cast with withered webs, 

And my breath brushes shade, wears of this quest. 

 

My skin does slump over blood and bone’s crest 

And yet, my tea is not yet warm with G-d. 

But I will drift where East drips into West, 

When my breath brushes shade, worn of life’s quest.