a compass

~

not a novelty hat or a painted picture
I give you a compass

a directional pocket watch
it gives you hope
when in solitary confinement
battling the elements
directing you home

hear
it will take you on adventures
over rolling hills
and treacherous peaks
essential to your survival

take it
it will never fail you
no matter how warm
or cold
dry or wet
it will point you wherever you want to go

consistent
whatever journey you take
this compass will be there
a slice of me guiding you home

Rory Devlin (age 12)

Ψ

The Winter Blue

The winter blue stands unaware among the blades
stretching out like a thousand points of light
Shattered shards bearing souls
of wind chimes and promises,
hang like mirrors
from the walls of the sacred heart
They sing to the tune of the Siren
some long-forgotten sonnet
All those beautiful ideas
dripping desire like jasmine honey
They make shapes
on the ceiling of the mind
and vanish like the morning dew.

V

Ψ

In The Stars

The smallest part of me
watches the clouds,
smells the grass,
listens to your heartbeat
The rest of me is in the stars
where my heart is,
where it always has been,
where it always will be.

V

∞

Ψ

Better Place

The Sun’s evening light benevolent to all,
distances diminished as if in space
Senses ring with elation,
seaweed crunching,
a shimmer in the sand
A thousand feathered souls soar hypnotic thermals
Promises from the sea call out
Time stilled to it’s rightful place
I cry in the presence of the moment
Perfection floods me with joy
Forever aware of this magical place

Now I belong, committed to share.

Abner

The Window

A thousand faces
Lives in a second
Wonder what unfolds?
Birth, death,
joy, despair?
How funny to peek
Not really looking.

Abner

ψ

Heart Furies

Heart’s plantations we traverse
We meet in the shadows
in a rain of kisses

So much sleep broken
Dissipated chimes like explosions
of black ivy perfume
fall in fireworks of flowers, keys and coins

Charred rose-bushes
in some location of summer
We are together possessed by thirst

Eyes of fireflies behind sky
holding back the dawn
Divine the bodies
that pierce through silk
and staccato air

Hands touch hands
that point toward untouchable complexion,
light and air
in which an open river drowns,
like rebellious waters
A saturation of celestial river,
breathing lapsed as far as death

Truly, truly exiled,
a river burning in the shadows
Your statue devours the clover in my heart
Shadowy owls and necklaces
made of tears drop by drop
in the violent light of wheat,
running along night’s shores

You don’t see the moon nor the jasmine
nor the sapphire of lunar roses
from your lovely navel
tremble

I persist as if in a ruined tunnel,
flesh and kisses I must unjustly forget
Mirrors harrow the sordid clocks
of suburban hotels

The painted flower falls
and everything tells me a day has died
Building a house that neither stands nor dies
You and I, a single river

A man put there by chance
by some vague arrangement
which, who knows, was never destined for me
As if to die or swim or grow old

The sound that wounded me,
a bell set on its own vibration
Has love fallen to dust,
and will nothing do
save flesh furiously adored

I want for myself lightenings,
the heart of the cherry tree in June.
That’s life.

There is one hour alone,
within the patience of crumpled time
we voyage through,
parting the syllables of fear and tenderness
done to death.

•

Poetic Abstraction from the original Furies and Sufferings, by Pablo Neruda.

•

Editor: go to art Vlog>Duality to discover the inspiration behind this poetry blog. If you’re an art purist and abhor messing with an original, then avert your eyes! This poem has been constructed as a collage, a play on form from those words, phrases and sentences that leave lasting personal impressions from Neruda’s original.

The Journey Starts Here

Don’t go off sightseeing.
The real journey is right here.
The great excursion starts
from exactly where you are.
You are the world.
You have everything you need.
You are the secret.
You are the wide opened.

Don’t look for the remedy for your troubles
outside yourself.
You are the medicine.
You are the cure for your own sorrow.

Rumi

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