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03-03-2008 01:05 PM
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by ktd222 on 06-28-2007 at 09:25 AM
Fundamentally we do not exist.
Compare Nature in our being:
the light which spirals in
to shape our hands shapes
the motion of Her grace,
and spills dawn, and noon, and evening light
into our bodies shaping, Her radiance,
and whirls our legs in stars, in bright stars, Her elegance;
and our looks, like blocks projecting:
black black black black black

Even the eyes...

by ktd222 on 12-26-2006 at 01:08 AM
Even the eyes transcend a momentary cause…
a haze, as if the vast boundlessness
of fields were her.

(It would seem so)

The way the bedclothes slid away
and left her body bare,
a peach-touched texture,
nonspecific, gaining softer
against the soft lit air,

or how the greenery and sky
uplifts her hair, caressing softly
there and there.

She, like an Atmosphere of Land in part,

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Where from...

by ktd222 on 12-26-2006 at 01:07 AM
Where from did all our distortions form
but from sediment of light that heavens could not quantify
a place with places qualified be controlled.

So dripping down, this light, the scene thats showing
from it's washed out leaf fringes,
to the concrete columns edged and etched, then smeared that way-
and loss with depth - we try and we retrace our way up.

History plays

by ktd222 on 12-26-2006 at 01:05 AM
(I wrote this while in a joking manner.)

History plays the minor role
in poems, as do the page
and words on the page are
not the same.

If than, then I sit and pick
my nose to know that words
did not matter so; but let
my thoughts run wild with
the naked man that doesn't
need clothes for support.