Echo Muses, Mental Health

The platform of eternal verities

my mind is a stage,
racing and sluggish
falling blades of droplets,
with fire in my belly.
I’m dancing with chimera.
Encapsulated, in the shambles of
a castle in the air.
Where the dark ate the moon.
There must be a way out of here?
I’ve lost the ground,
seeking a tone of verity.
Frahm, how do you stage it?
As the cobalt sky flowing through your veins, to your yenning fingertips,
with passion never diminishing.
Only unyielding instinctual energies, gracefully unfolding the composition,
of the soothing piano winter masterpiece.

“When you realize everything is staged, then nothing is staged.” Nils Frahm

Nils Frahm: Music Video:Baláz Simon Words:NaRa

Jay Poem 15.

In December, I felt a cooling doom

15, 16, stops at 17,
that icebox presence
came through the threshold,
in that corner room
Wednesday night, empty stomach,
was nothing new
at my feet that must of been you
hovering cold and vibrating
in tones of blues
I sobbed in my pillow, but had no excuse
as the blankets of snow, drifted outside,
in ambient whiteout
my heart grew empty,
abandoned it before,
I felt the wounds bloom

In June, my emotional circumference,
the regression rest at 15
in kitchen nightmares
the trash full of squirming opalescence
paint a peeling, chrome pegasus
I felt the specter, go in and out of my head

Urgently, trying to grasp at the middle, 16
my hands with silky knots,
smiling back at you,
with silver rings,
building an anchor for you

Emulsion scratched,
at the age of 22, in fact
Who were you? Who was I?
like flashes in the camera eye
use to drive all the way up top
of parking garages
to see how far gravity would reach me
aching joy
shoe gazing

Jason, your phantom steps,
move me down a spiral timeline
to the depths of one echoing point, and
bends back to what was aching

Mine Na Poems

Snowflake Obsidian

Overwhelmed with the prints
Of yesterday’s ideas
Light as a feather, soon to be, no more
Your heavy anchor sunk my vision
And yet, that ship came in
As the oval window has closed in my ear
And the whirlwind has left my lungs
For swirling lovers of the skies,
In the wind, dance to a uniquely pattern,
And eventually fall, to rest on the earth
To melt and seep, into its glowing core
And spring back up, from a geyser
As I drip upon your obsidian floor

Mine Na 13.

A blanket of camouflage

Don’t you wanna touch?
Her soul’s intricate web of lace.
Her crushed velvet skin.
She’s been on fire for centuries.
Every birth, born with cinder eyes.
Past deaths so violent;
Left violet raised marks
In the next skin,
Every sin a tender shame.
Provoked to pinch and pull at her flesh.
A pattern maimed.
A timid frame.
Before, behind closed doors,
Leaped in camera’s eye.
Until out the window,
She layed in crimson snow.
Now in this life, her 22nd urgency,
Has faded in a winter’s remorse.
And she floats on into the age of 34.
In zenith, no more.

Poem & Art: Naomi Ruth Waldschmidt

Echo Muses 9.

Rattle of Tongues

I know these words are somewhere
down inside me.
Some I held as a child.
Sisters spoke in endless streams
to flood a river.
No room to pour out, no echo to rattle in their ears.
Locked up for years.
My mouth felt like the arroya split.
Until we met near the December pines.
You pushed me out into that frozen lake.
My mouth filled up in frost.
When I spoke, my words emerged slowly, like icy swirling ghosts.
You were the miracles in those days.
The founder of my blue heart.
The day you left Vincent,
was the day I lost my voice again.
I long for my rattle,
To speak endlessly, while you smile back at me.

Photograph: Talking to Vince, Francesca Woodman

Poem: Nara


Kryptonite, Uncategorized

The Ache of February

In the days of February,                      A walk on muddy ground.                By the drowned trees.           Feelings of estrangement,                  A white fog….                                        A dismissal on the lips.                     In consequence, arced collarbone’s of males,                                     Always shaped in lust.

For Moonskittles’s cruelest month challenge.                                         Why February is the cruelest month? First of all, the month of February in the Midwest is ugly. The trees have been dead all winter, you’re over the snow by then, and when it melts over and over…the ground is soggy and nasty. Everything is brown and muddy. *Sigh*  Secondly, you’re coming down from the high of a new year…just want to sleep. And lastly, love is not in the air personally for me.  Valentines Day a trick holiday. February has been a curse for me, but don’t get me started on Doom December. That’s a different poem and more hellish.

Poem: Naomi Ruth S. W.         Image: appropriated- Pinterest