Monday, July 16, 2012
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Skipping stones on the oceans surface,
Answers don't come in the ink blots as they used to,
Patience is a virtue best served in solitude-
watching a flower become a fruit from within earshot of hunger can drive a person happy with madness;
I prick my finger when my palm becomes hot with molten minerals,
with blood and passion I attempt to paint a rosy future without ripples, but the parchment turns wet.
Not a dry eye in the room,
a room in which my thoughts bounce off walls in crooked jackets attempting to straighten out.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Ideas lost to the ages again walk straight against the lines in phases
rhythmical even, oddly creating a rhythmical evening,
a breath of fresh air like breathing, new life mixes with ones perceiving
it's been a long moment like watching minutes pass,
through a vintage hour glass since I've know that feeling last.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Friday, April 22, 2011
Monday, April 18, 2011
between deep breathing and exhaling screams of silence spoke by the divine//
Hope lies on its side in wait for the seeker,
to find his destiny in wait like sound escaping from speakers//
Does this get any deeper? Hold your breath and find out,
if you find yourself on the middle path then lay waste to your doubt//
Wait for the south, downward pull of the gravity,
that feels like the weight of 8 elephants under which ones succumbs to a tragedy//
That's the power of innocence allowing your Mother to rise,
out of the deepest slumber to loosen the ties that bind.//
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Sun covered expanse is like a walkway of golden proportions, "reflect my beauty" it says, "as you follow my lead".
Owing my existence to a life I have glimpsed from the safety of my branching out but a handful of times, instills what confidence would term its juxtaposition in the vertical reaches of an upward destination.
"Let go" I say to myself; heart pumping that which can melt fields of icicles. Break away cold chills liquify a spring song, serenading the wind that lightly shakes me loose.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
drifts slow as air from a tender mouth.
His hair as fickle as straw.
Eyes as constant as emotions of a mother.
He dances like his body was disposed of years ago
on the banks of a river away from visibility
of monetary hands that sought to give pity as staple
amount of nourishment.
I cannot decide whether to touch his feet in respect
or run to speak to a stranger about his delirious character.
I stand - my sweat, the only bodily function that complies
to the man's coming. My thoughts clamor in an unorganized choir
like I hosted wall street on the strands of memory
that relates to uncertainty. But when his taut cheeks
and eyes moving on their own existence
reach the space of conditioned greeting,
I want myself to come back
but I have separated my sight from my body
and I am stiff as a sagebrush waiting for rain.
His hand slid through air like a freight ship crossing ice.
The scent of a sickle having cut a peony garden
rose into approaching night wind.
I shut my eyes to demoralize my senses
from his enveloping sight.
When I open my eyes as natural
as having my first view of pale hospital lights,
a garden that an even a demon or god on a throne
could not create was at my feet.
I heard my name as if it was not mine -
just another strain of grass
lifted from indifferent soil
where its substance is as clean
as the mother who conceived meaning.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Gleaming red spills historic battle scenes on a page of ether
washing previous ink blots away for new visuals.
I'm up to it.
Waking sleep from it's slumber to be cast in mosaics
mouth squabbling with gravity, lungs grasping for a glimpse of the living, fresh and unbridled.
©Krishna Volk 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
of the water heater settling
Sunday, August 29, 2010
this musing is like scratching the surface off of burn toast,
beneath is verbose- expressions of self until I turn ghost/
Become the spirit in other words, the best is yet come,
a path is unravelling before my feet and my vision is like the sun/
Viewed without protective measures, patience awaits a focus,
who's clarity grants nourishment like Egyptian crops do swarming locusts/
So the fork becomes a knife in the road directing quotients,
the sum total of each step makes a merger of drops and oceans/
It's murder like flocks of crows, of the person with a proverbial stock in woes, allowing unity of all that's known to bring light into my chromosomes/
And not just I, we all share that common thread,
which extends throughout our spine, tethering to living above the head/
That's beyond the mind, living what's all been said,
when we're born a second time, meaning falls from within the dead.
©Krishna Volk 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
sleep deprived I indulge in a taste just as ripe//
Much like a light is to eyes finding the way,
yet to walk straight on the path until one is met by the day//
The same feelings erupts, the bubbling is heartfelt,
expression in effervescence can make ones heart melt//
Feel the streams of comfort as the flow from the hands,
each moment expands in it's passing, lifetimes in grains of sand//
©Krishna Volk 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
to be heard. I have spoken
enough. I have entertained listeners
until they can’t hear my words.
I have locked the multitude
of made-up history in its own vision.
I would rather sit here and listen like a page
would for its identity to form
as symbols blotted the vast
As soon as a phrase
was almost written,
I would tell myself
how I will never stand
still – how I can never be
and perfect in the same body.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
is a print of a memory
remaining on the pull
of our attention.
It could reach outside
if it wasn't concerned
about its shape.
It curls, believing in its self -
moving through what it was
moments before. Sleep is a dream
that it will never remember.
Its form has no patience
for stillness. Waiting
would give it breath, but becoming
alive would allow sight.
As soon as you see yourself,
you are not there.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Picture this, a scene from an epic,
beamed with a light so intense that it triggers epileptics-
into the modern day, fine art with a modern sway,
reaches out and touches the dead speaking to them inaudibly.
Whispering winds animate atrophied limbs,
when the sublties of all that is lovely begin settling in-
and taking root, the root cause of joy speaking in mute,
spoke quietly of itself like air passes through flutes.
Beautiful; pictures worth a thousands of words living on easels,
spring to life like soil life when light lays waste to the evil-
that being the darkness, colors of grey give a shade it's carcass,
in the wake of it's destruction divinity choirs a string of notes like a harp is;
That's what the heart is.
©Krishna Volk 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
tell the fiction of words.
I can not restrict the shadows
of their symbols no more than I
can take away my birth.
There are colors that deepen
with syllables, and shades
that fade with tense -
I could take away their lineaments,
but even empty branches wait
for a cipher to name its home.
I will hold them
that they may slip away -
press them to a sheet
that they may disappear.