Buried Water

Buried water

meditating
in a burning room

true light
escapes belief

Fond Remembrances

Blank pages dance with the wind under the pale moon's gazes,
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.

©Krishna Volk

Response to T

Let me breathe
for you

write your fable-life
until true

reconstruct your body
without rule


be your mirror
and statue


grandeur in living your life 
without you


------------------------------
* This poem is a response to the song T by Glasser: 

Inner Sense

Cafes have novels in their walls.

More than a place. Encyclopedia staved

in bed cushions, speaking from the plush

the one-line miracles you exhaled

falling down your backyard hill

or almost crashing your deadened car.

It's split where you dive for inner sense

that doesn't pale in the absence of make up

on a story you wanted to tell by loud sign language.

More red than traffic lights, a sustained latch

when the night illumination heard you wrong,

reciting your name as somebody else. 

The Meeting

Creativity boggles the mind when you toggle the sighs,
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.//

©Krishna Volk

A-Musing

I fight with the sun,
swing amber shards that catch light like the moon's cycle runs/

Two opposites opposing has rainbows exploding from,
the gathering with colors splattering, my God, what have I begun?

©Krishna Volk

What I Think

What I think

crawls under the city bed.

Sweepers can't touch my dust.

It stays stuck to the wind's flitting.

But it has to rain.

Thoughts like plummeting cups

containing water still enough to be a mirror

spin at the soil to reveal themselves.

I never had to use an umbrella.

Thoughts soak up in my scalp –

but soon, they float above my fingers

like unorganized ghosts

searching for their wasteland.

No mask works to keep them out.

You got to be still as a dead-wind pond

and thoughts will shake their walls of mist

seeing that you reflect their weather.

When their brief dance disperses to gather

enough pestilence to wipe now from a broken watch,

you can stand with your ancestors

as a tower that carries tired flowers with names

too old to remember how they are free.  

Release

I sit facing my fate atop a tree covered cliff face, like fruits waiting to fall I go out on a limb of faith.

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.

I'm free.

©Krishna Volk