Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Nothing Said

I will speak it- leak an open mind.

A seekers approach is steeped in dopeness

and time-

Honored traditions- raise a cup of boiled leaves,

evaporate the elixir and read what your future see's.

Kaleidoscope inspirations, perspective stained like glass,

change the reflection to perfection, the broken mirror marries the trash.

Beautiful outcast, golden egg gift, the goose is missing,

it's mother makes like the sky- clouds are eyes, silence is listening.

©Krishna Volk 2009

Sunday, December 13, 2009

Where I Can Be Lost

When the colors of the morning are only approaching shadows,
I glean praises from my neighbor’s mouths
and spin them in the part of my mind that says hello,
washing the letters of my name before I am called again.
Before I turn to be with them, my complexion is arranged
so that they look at themselves.

My face would have the dew of grass
so that they think I am simple -
no one would know what to say
to a person who walks on the earth -
I would amble to the woods, slung with a bag of rice
and they would claim that I was real.

Above city lights, after I have worked,
I could forget the telling of mirrors -
no speaking would satisfy me
where my hands can be lost
in grasping - I would close my eyes
and not remember how to open them.

Monday, October 5, 2009

Two Draft Poems

To the Empty Air

When I was alone at the farm, I would drill
the wood from last winter and pretend that I knew
how to make a space ship. I would have knobs ready,
made from last year's twllings, and a hammer set
with a stone found at the base of a mountain.
My old shoes fashioned well as a door, with degraded
tunics as the ceiling cover. I would sail off
only when I had the necessary parts.

When the chestnuts had fallen off the trees,
I set my ship upon a large stone. Fog cirlced the top
of the mountain like smoke. It would be wonderful
to fly to the mountain peak. The glistening air
where the rain can be watched by its slow arrival.

On my chair inside the ship, I saw the running lights
alongside the walls, bending as they passed the end of the vessel.
Fire consumed the atmosphere in front, searing all the way to the peak -
it was then, that the stars put out the blaze, and I was suspended
above the claim of the summit - my breaths were counted
and I witnessed my hands swaying out to meet
the empty air, to forget the time
when I was myself.


This month, I pay the bills late,
writing stories of who I used to be.
It could have been different if I took longer walks,
observing the small changes in the street -
if I had my abandon to cover an entire length
of a street name. I bought new shoes today
for work and thought of traveling weightless -
to leave my habitual bag from my shoulder
and see how my body moves. Maybe tomorrow
I'll finally remember to straighten out my back,
to swing my arms loose like I had been walking for hours -
not wanting to know where my steps will take me.

Sunday, October 4, 2009


I haven't forgot

that I really need to wake-

I'm tired of sleep

summer night cottage

atmosphere hammock visions-

the wind must carry me

seeing through eyelids

grants monolithic skin tones -

the cradle sits still

I dream of being

weightless above the crescent -

respite speaks farewell

fan like hands make waves

I ride atop their namesake -

departure bears fruit

ripening on gold

I'm shadow cast in their lumen-

flaxen silhouette

erosion's outline

enfolds my shadow now fair-

approaching daybreak

eyes glint in the sun

window to the soul ajar-

captured by freedom

a dilating draft

to and fro rainbows stain glass-

the window unclasps

and I become that;


© Krishna Volk 2009

Sunday, September 27, 2009

Sometimes We Forget that We Need to Wake Up

Sometimes we forget that we need to wake up
and to speak to our face in the mirror.
Have you looked at the sky this week?
Just weather notes.
What are you going to see?
And I can't watch through the window anymore,
I have to have the air through my skin.
But there is rain. For someone
who has been sitting for days,
an umbrella is not necessary.

Where is the ground when my feet
touch wet grass and rain falls like a screen?
After being soaked, I forget the name of water.
The view is unscathed
by those who want to compress.
I try to identify the sides of the round wall,
glimmering in inconstancy.
What can you understand from shapes
and the length of what you see?
I want to walk to the other side.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

The Singing Sword ( A war for our times)

The journey to self is a silent war, so it's now or never no more,

Better settle the score before the ravens can soar;

-Decomposing discords, a Wes Craven like score,

That can perpetually color life light shades of Iron ore.

So be one with the sword and sharpen it sheathless,

swing with it frequent, 'til Death reaps what it's sewn up in pieces.

This poem at it's weakest can't be grasped through a thesis,

Because experience is laryngitic in nature- leaving you speechless.

Now where was I? Ah yes, the aforementioned-

Hindsight is 20/20 when in a state of retention;

Like a string of pearls unfurled- the wisdoms within it's lessons,

Shedding light upon it's own darkness like a moon when it crescents.

The Learning curve is hilted.

©Krishna Volk 2009

Friday, September 18, 2009

In the Watch of your Feet

In the Watch of your Feet

I read the life of a monk and wanted to walk
on a market road with lanterns
and speak to the awnings about where I could rest
my voice. I sang above the reach of my eyes
and forgot the street, that people stared with twitched mouth,
pressing their ideas to almost speak. I would rather have a conversation
with a tree, laying against its trunk with my voice
given away to the one who can carry it. I could travel until my self
was forgotten like a child first seeing flowers -
I have been with my self for as long as I am
and I have tired my eyes in my sight -
now I can only travel in the watch of your feet.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

A Thousand Journeys Inward

1) One thousand petals . One Flower on one branch brings the appearance of life to one tree;
Separation is an illusion of the optics,

as you can witness the play but can't see the real me/

2) Nor can I, cause the physical eyes are sensory,
and can't see the truth of these vibratory entities/

3) Known as man, referred to as humans in long hand,
the extended description still sheds no light on the plan/

4) You must experience truth, which is impossible to explain,
You must puncture a hole in the roof of your skull and watch your ego drain/

5) You must feel the rain as if it has caught fire and is raining flames;
 it doesn't consume but sustains, and in death it remains as the bliss which splits the chains/

6)- That bind, like past conditionings and pride,
which is why we feel much more alive after we've died/

7)-And taken second birth, from the egg to the sky,
on the wings of the goddess, as the father watches hovering near by/

8)Up to this point I've avoided that fountain trying to stay dry,
though I thirsted insatiably, throat parched like the paper ancients use to inscribe/

9)I had to choose- either drink or cease to survive,
so I decided to quench my thirst and not constantly bite the hand the provides/

10)-But hold it, trust it, and surrender to the path which it guides,
leading me out of the forest of illusion- where many have laid down to die/

11)I must go home now, as I can longer wait;
Mother has been calling for me, and im already late/

©Krishna Volk 2007

The Serpentine Effect

A coiled snake, gracefully placed in woven basket(s),
when it passess it awakens the dead from laquered caskets//

It just a fact its, light rewrites the blackness,
like fresh water gently caressing a pile of ashes//

It's classic, that meaning ancient,
lodged inside your self, turn inwards and behold your greatness//

Beyond contemplation, achieved only through silent observation,
on occasion ideas of the self cease all type of operation//

And you stop speaking when crossed legged position creeps in, thoughts frequent stop on the spot when in the deep end//

Of consciousness, bliss ocean beyond your common sense,
cool breeze with shatter the leaves- behold her omniscience//

Mother divine, casts illumination,
as she sits on her throne since the dawn of creation//

Commonly placed in-side your self and adjacent,
to Shri Shiva who displays the calmest of faces//

Known to man, peace eternal, God within man,
part of the plan unknown to most living a sham///

That is modern times, where truth is no different from lies,
only those gifted with eyes read the script through the lines//

©Krishna Volk 2007

Monday, August 17, 2009

Soular Eclipse

My eyes are different.

They reflect my mind to the world and

take in the world with it's colors alive and bubbbling.

Speaking to me the earth communicates it's inner most;

I wrap myself in it and my skin soothes under it's mossy touch.

People come and go. Relationships are forged like hand crafted steel, some breaking under the pressure of life's battles.

The blood spatter forms artwork of the past.

Mirror like, I see myself in those compositions as armour changing like the seasons; walking the milestones of experience and never falling at change, though crimson has colored my bloom often.

Creativity muses it's foundation and sets it's roots in my spine, running life to my heart.

It seems that bringing a sense of distortion to the regular scheduled program brought an understanding of vibrancy that shot out in all directions, like a street light vying for attention against the moon.

On that the foundation for who I am began to immurge and express the many qualities of my person, like an old patchwork quilt- warm, comforting, soft.

However; it's rough edges and un-finsihed depictions still lead to a slight irritation, capturing anticipation in a fish bowl in order to clearly realize it's purpose.


©Krishna Volk 2009

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Sometimes I wonder who I really am. In light of enlightenment who I am and who I am not, who I was and who I was not crawl into sharp focus. Which parts of me were really me, and which parts of me were nothing more then an illusion made up of experiences and ideas, which I hold onto for a sense of self?

The process of unravelling continues to dance passionately with my soul in the cooling radiance of innocence, blossoming in the moons light.

Some thoughts from the time these questions first arose in my awareness some short years ago......


From the point of no return i have finally returned,
unscathed yet clothes tattered create a cause for concern/

In minds of loved ones, which love has now forgotton,
tongues speak sweetness like ripe peaches, though their
sentiment has grown rotton/

Sediment has grown solid, whatever could not escape,
the ice like rock like natural glacial lakes/

Was solidfied and now stands eternally,
as a sculpute to rep humanity which now uncannily/

Resembles death- Anubis in ancient egypt,
has been made mans best friend, we trade our bones for his

And since the fetus was constructed in laboratories,
we've been the creative force behind modern science's horror

And the products of that screen play thats on endless replay,
are always days away from their souls being sold on ebay/

To finance their great escape, destination- the altered state,
where brain waves automate the urge to altercate/

And conciously, common sence can no longer operate,
nor compensate for the stoned weight placed where the thoughts once

So obviously, this trip is a one way departure,
a fireball spinning out of control like the arrows of unskilled

Which unfortuantly have hit me repeatedly ,
like snake bites in Adam's garden, the eve bled shadows onto the

Astonishingly , i have not yet ceased to be,
or have become a corpse, which trees refer to as fallen leaves/

But as i was falling screamed, for it to just leave me be,
like a broken family who only communicate once annually/

And as you can see it did, swept up by a gale force wind,
impaled straight through my skin, with a branch like a broken shin/

i was reattached to the limb like regeneration set in,
yet my life was still hanging in, the balance like a pendulum/

And to this day it still is, and will be until i realize,
that these skies are just the canopy of this tree of lives/

Which we all derive our essence, and in essence are all connected,
and only those who connect with this, source can escape

And live forever in bliss and be conscious of it,
a constant reminder of the destiny in which we have all been

But which few listen for, and ignore for things that glisten more,
but this simple door-way to destiny can't be opened simply by

So with that in mind, i digress and leave the rest,
up to your own self discovery, as i learn to open this treasure

-Inside myself.

©Krishna Volk 2007

Thursday, July 30, 2009

Where can we go where we are not our self? Why do we seek outside pleasure when the self is the greatest joy? Veil after veil, truth deepens.

Here is Where

As fire in fire rests,
I want to create a desert
and hold nothing.
The morsels I carry
dug in the ground
where they remember
their home placed outside
of quietness.

The sky rains with seeds
and I seek to grow
into the barren action
of completeness inside.

I can not revel in my skin
when my mind aches in separation -
how can I grow toward you
when I do not sing?

There is only persistence:
to follow the sounds
that keep my eyes,
or to watch my steps
into the garden.