Verse

 

Do you ever try,

To capture the deeps

The rhythms of the heart, the rhymes of the soul

Armed with the paraphernalia.,.donning the explorer hat.

I have a feeling that this’ll be a treasure hunt.

A camera dangles from the neck, eagerly waiting to arrest that moment

When what you mean seems to present itself a visual

You are a page in this spirit book, wait may be a chapter..

Or perhaps you are the whole entire book case with a sliding ladder..

Tucked into you, my many emotions, in illustrations, 

You seem to expand into the neighborhood, the hometown 

The country, the continent…

Then I see you as a globe, spinning on the axis of my love

Spreading into a luminous light…white! Iridescent..

I sit and jot down an entire word pile

Rested on one single sentiment- the expression of the unspoken 

But the smile I let out when you top it and topple it..

This massive word heap, with your silence, your presence, your essence 

I sprinkle these lines at you, like confetti

Conceding defeat at your feet!

reVerse

 Fabrics can be friends

The ones sewn into flattering forms

Wrapping my flesh in a cuddle, puddles of frills warming my skin

That Tee for example - I swear what I say is true

Conforms to my heart dousing those flutters and jitters in a secure swaddle 

Almost making me feel like a newborn receiving skin to skin from the mother.

The color it bled takes an ombré effect, adding to its coze

Much like a parent’s warm smile.

The weft and warp softened to accommodate my rough edges

Sanding them.

I feel polished  like a pebble in the way of a stream, in the garb of that Tee - like a bestie’s assuring smile, accompanied by a tight hug.

Sometimes the seams of that fabric blur and I see your skin

Where the Tee had been.

And you swaddle, cuddle and secure me in that embrace.

You could be my old, comfy tee - my old comfy tee could be you.

What amalgam of being loved!

Ooem

 

Then I write, when I write

I feel a lack of words like a lack of breath!

Panting, I ponder 

I call a Verse, 'Reverse'.

I call a Poem an Ooem - Lisping my way through names.

When I watch through the looking glass

Of this perspective window

I capture things so minute, miniscule, invisible

That spotting them morphs me into thin air

And I become a ghost of the Ooem - I mean the Poem.

"The Visible is a hoax" - wisdom from the Ghost I had become

Whispers in my ears.

"It is" I tend to agree. 

And bend to see the hoaxes through the perceptive.

I touch the non palpable

It feels like a simulation

Like an emotional masturbation.

There's a fulfillment that flows in my being

Beyond the blood and flesh

And I drown in that bliss.

I experience that which cannot be

Captured by the eye, the taste, the sniff, the ear, the epidermis

Oh that's because I become a Ghost.

I do not know if it is the damned one or Holier than thou.

I don't seem to care to sort it into this or that.

I emote, in the abstract

Vacuum flowing through the keypad.

Next time around I might call it a Syric instead of a Lyric.

Does it matter what I call it?

Or even how I shape it?

It is a void for Heaven's sake - or for the sake of Timbuktu.

It cannot confirm to the container

Or a spelling rule.

It is there but it isn't.

So what's in a name.

An Ooem it is, not a Poem. Spilling through the abyss.