Uroboros Meditations

The thing is this:
We are all vessels
for the previously unexpressed,
an open window to enlightenment,
to the deeper truths that lay untranscribed
under ruins and abandoned books.

And yet,
there is no harnessing
Pure Intent,
no lasso to swing and imprison
The Muse,

There is only willingness to transmit,
Retiring the red pen that tirelessly looms,
Waiting in the thickets of your thoughts
amongst tender buds and blooms.

Yet there it lies.
Waiting to strike,
to dissect body, punctuation, word placement,
similie and each
metaphoric equivalent.

To gut the foundling
from brain to navel,
navel to knee.

To expose the mistakes,
the naivete.

And yet when you think
the essence is already lost,
that the Red-Penned Editor
stifled all life
and primitive innocence,

When you hang your head,
curse yourself beneath your breath,
shake your fists at your own intellect,

You can follow the entrails
like a breadcrumb path,
read the story from the inside
of the unfolding of itself

The rattlesnake swallowing her tail
in endless homage to self-reference



Whew! And thus began the poem a day for thirty days.

That was messy. And dare I say…I kinda liked getting messy. Yeehaw. Hang onto your hats, y’all. This is gonna be a bumpy ride.

Despite the fact that what I post here is going to be very unpolished…I’d completely appreciate your feedback anyway. I’m already excited to spend some time with this poem and let it unravel itself.

Link me to your poems in the comments below 🙂


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s