In the where we are world
intangible and tangled
a space of movies in holy time
there is no waiting to rewrite the script.
It is happening as the popcorn crunches
in our mouths
as gunshots and diplomats talk
pulverizing the seeds of the living.
I am the seed they are trying to kill
created from an inner space of infinity
from musical strings a universe Einstein
could not imagine but longed for.
The Theory of Everything is in the oscillating ringing
the waves of unified motion
the tender inquisitiveness of time.
Vibration is all there is and time knows this.
Chords of sounds sunbathing on legs, arms,
lips, eyes, and inward in to ecstacy
grandiose and microscopic.
Wide open sounds that tenderize sunburns
and dance as the black holes pop open
when the journey is over
and we are sucked back into the beginning of time
where we see ourselves
The seed they try to kill
waving undulating holding an infinite space
where fear is not found is the dream maker
of this dream time.
It will never be destroyed
Earth light beams into waters
that are in touch with feeling.
Waters that rush still
with a happiness our human minds
would dance on the head of a pin to find.
Minted green foliage grows
light bound untangled
with all, lives in peace birthing choruses
with the bark of its neighbor.
Earth light is the director of sprouting seed souls
creator of the trunk and the roots.
It digs down
humming to earth.
In this where we are world change
sits in each quark of non linear time
rejoicing in the
of a creative mind.
Whirlpools of possibilities swim
as seed in little husks and kernels that
go dance or slide or ride
in the earth's decay, in it rise
in the soul's ability to multiple
with help from the chorus master who lives
sleeps and breaths
in each of us.
harmonizing all in creative reverie.
A glaring building without windows
surrounded by concrete walks
where children jumped rope
and clotheslines were thick and twisted.
I was not to visit him in this affliction
in his monastic doom.
His lawyer said, "Don't talk to her."
The encounter was closed locked away.
I went urgently and stood by his bloodless door.
It became warm charged from his breathing.
His words became puffs of smoke
peace offerings to the paling glass.
"You are too good to be free of me," he said.
And I strained to find him in the prisms
that blazed in my eyes transparent as ice on a pond
that drags children to places that bounce them
like ice cube trays.
I was a crow black and veiled
with only myself to mourn.
Doubt surrounded me
a thawing circle of wonder erasing lesser dreams.
This feeling came from the agitated air
I inhaled like a puff on a cigarette
it blackened my lungs.
The succulent touch of his lips dried my thirst
his buoyant leg paused against my shin.
"You are too good to be free of me," he repeated
I pulled away.
Lips remained alone.
Calves were cold.
My body the blue color of water
searched for escape.
The cold glass door
wrapped around me
in the drying wind.
The building was gone
that devoured me in a multiplicity
of sleeping disguises
that sat in my heart
and made me sing.
Florid is your style.
I've seen you in shoes that top the ceiling,
scrape the eaves.
Silver spangled sweaters clap
stretch pull into wild whirls.
Piercing symphonies blaring in the night.
A dark eyed clown whose palette is gilded.
Hair demure now and darling
a monk settled in the countryside
seeing holy words in the petal of a flower.
Quietude holds its shape in the retiring
blush of your prayers.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Elizabeth P. Glixman writes poetry, essays, and short stories from her home in the USA. Her recent work can be seen online in The Painted Moon Review, In Posse, The American Journal of Print and offline in the upcoming print issue of Snow Monkey. Elizabeth has a Masters Degree in Education and a Bachelors Degree in Fine Arts. She used to work with children in arts and educational programs.