Listening

September 26, 2016

forest

Uncertain

Cricket points to space

Trees sway sleep

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Secrince’s light

September 8, 2016

 

 

 

copyrighted_image_reuse_prohibited_975413

 

 

 

Was true in moonlight, set in space

absence of time, blue, red and black

fountains violent, desire-less sight

touching, yet separate; similar paths

Rage does slow, abound and kneeling

with page in hand, soaked with feeling

perfected sight, foot steps go slowly

come back full circle, season dwelling

Sane willows sway and hold dear secrets

sworn once more on final night

known and forgotten just to see

merged again to absorb light

 

July 28, 2014

Freed Fireflies final

 

 

Illusory veils

Blankets upon the mind

Capturing up moments

imprisoned fireflies

Heed the warmth of flicker-flame

As awareness becomes fire

Fuel for the journey

Coals of desire

 

 

The artwork at above was inspired by this writing. If you’d like to view more of my art just copy and paste the link below;

 

fineartamerica.com/profiles/dennis-welch.html

 

 

In the depths

February 12, 2014

night

Telling a story made of lies

to bring about awe and surprise

Does the three seconds of laughter justify

the ingrained solicitation?

Now that the crowd has lulled

what next will be revealed

to fulfill ones’ empty need?

Or is it just the opposite?

Is it a covering over of the uncertain and the unknown?

For true death comes from surrendering the cyclic process of thought.

Pushing away all discomfort and uncertainty; aggression

Pulling and grasping that which makes a sense of security; passion

Endlessly oscillating, thinking it will bring about happiness; ignorance

Is it not below the current where stillness brings about clarity?

In the darkness; the disorientation; the fear…

In the depths where stainless love has always been.

Entrance

February 6, 2014

Are these grooved things not fit for better things?
They that tell a lifetime
Speak of evolution
Are they to be employed by illusion?

Twisting and turning
Bending and burning
Forging and fusing particles of the past
This dust cannot take form once more

And if this Vegas show would once more perform
surely its sights and sounds would betray

These distant images arise not from depths of clarity
But  are summoned by the minions of longing

How true the air is striking the skin, now, at this perfect hour
Waste no more and wash these gifts at last
Let dust be dead as it is

Are these hands meant for disabled clutching?
For enduring the ritualistic death that fear brings about?
Let joints breath again and open to the world
Sounding pulsing instruments of awakened life

These beautiful extensions of love and gentleness;
To reach out
To touch
To pull oneself and also another upright into liberating posture

How true they move when the heart pulsates through these veins
How true the air is striking skin, now, at this perfect hour

Still places

January 30, 2014

Fix the light bulb at night

sampling midnight air just right

fur-covered explorers striding elegantly about

while skin speaks with eloquence

 

Red, red embers attract the wind

the end of death, breathing begins

bright blue lover with a beautiful caress

emptiness granting romance

 

Altering to remain the same

counting cracks on the ceiling again

flow of heat showing all the lost places

flow of love, perfected spaces

 

Flowers bend a knee

notes made of dreams

a time without memory

a place made to feel

 

 

 

Sisyphus

May 25, 2011

Half-self.

Striving to multiply

the brilliance of the sun

while our energy binds

the beauty of the night.

Submitted to One Shot Wednesday: http://onestoppoetry.com/

Scentless eyes

February 3, 2011

What do you know of death

In the moments that are crushed beneath your feet

When have you ever felt its breathe

Too busy ignoring, juggling your social feats

          Life is the stale of the dead break

          Time without options and endless wake

          Burnt timbers sting within the nostrils

          But yet you never wake

What do you know beyond death

The space that quivers and shrills for no requested audience

When have you let every last drop fall

Feeling true sadness from the depths of our mothers’ chest

        In low light, there is ember

        Tow baskets of hell and pleasure

What do I know of never being born

Dancing in a place that cannot be denied nor grasped

When have I stepped blindly into the void of concept

Simply, being human

the Tide

August 23, 2010

Friend in pain from heart stretched thin
The ties that pull at the organ within
Across a plane that blurs from sight
This very pain that is the path of rite

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