Clean

Indiscriminate language
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.

Good Morning Life

In dawn's first light I sit on my balcony to watch the fire fight.
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.

Yawn.

©Krishna Volk 2010

Before It was Said

Listening to clicks
of the water heater settling

after a morning of introspection

on the white side of cedar leaves.

I never blink when I want to become.

There is no noise to emulate

when you sit in a still puddle

and wait for a lotus to sprout from the top

of your head. If I stay where I am,

I am at the end of a destination.

It would be desert without shrubs

or sand: motion of leaving

and returning to the time when my name

was about to be spoken by my mother –

her existence wanting nothing but an utterance.

Knife in The Road

First and foremost,
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

Time Delayed a Hundred Lifetimes

In my heart there is a love that speaks to me from the silence of night,
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

Perfect

I don’t need sirens
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
unspeakable blank.
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.

Concept in Escape

And by the way, i let my mind wander and it flew away.

It"ll rue the day when it makes a re-appearance,

as i've become accustom to it's absence, it only lives on in my spirit-

but nothing more, as its thoughts were not me,

I'm no longer facing my opposite like a pair of knock knees.

I walk straight now like one sails the seven seas,

when it's surface immitates glass with a view that's streak free.

What's in you is in me, and its the same vice versa,

so why not ascend heights together and guide each other like sherpas-

until we reach the peak, which posses views like a machete-

in reference to clarity, by this journey we we slay the yeti.

And dont think of this as something obscurity holds dear,

its as normal- as days past when we all respected our morals-

like a guild of theives would die by a code of concealed keys,

that were usually unseen and caught sheen when unsleeved.

Essential credo, active like working ventricles,

work out many miracles, wide spead like spraying aresols

which render living art like watching the human play,

imbibing the joy expressed- un-like that thought that got away.

©Krishna Volk 2010

The Dark Inside the Frame

The dark inside the frame
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.

Soul Sentiments

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

Lineage

The lines on paper
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.

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

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.

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.

----------------
Walking

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.

Waken

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;

Wakened.

© Krishna Volk 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.

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

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.

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

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.

Patience.....

©Krishna Volk 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......

IN SEARCH OF BIRTH

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
allegiance/

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

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
laid/

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

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

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
breathlessness/

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

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
metaphor/

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

-Inside myself.

©Krishna Volk 2007