by: Christopher Cranch (1813-1892)

THOUGHT is deeper than all speech,
Feeling deeper than all thought;
Souls to souls can never teach
What unto themselves was taught.

We are spirits clad in veils;
Man by man was never seen;
All our deep communing fails
To remove the shadowy screen.

Heart to heart was never known;
Mind with mind did never meet;
We are columns left alone,
Of a temple once complete.

Like the stars that gem the sky,
Far apart, though seeming near,
In our light we scattered lie;
All is thus but starlight here.

What is social company
But a babbling summer stream?
What our wise philosophy
But the glancing of a dream?

Only when the sun of love
Melts the scattered stars of thought;
Only when we live above
What the dim-eyed world hath taught;

Only when our souls are fed
By the Fount which gave them birth,
And by inspiration led,
Which they never drew from earth,

We like parted drops of rain
Swelling till they meet and run,
Shall be all absorbed again,
Melting, flowing into one.


Wolfpen Creek
by: James Still

How it was in that place, how light hung in a bright pool
Of air like water, in an eddy of cloud and sky,
I will long remember. I will long recall
The maples blossoming wings, the oaks proud with rule,

The spiders deep in silk, the squirrels fat on mast,
The fields and draws and coves where quail and peewees call.
Earth loved more than any earth, stand firm, hold fast;
Trees burdened with leaf and bird, root deep, grow tall.

You must get into the habit of feeling. No,
I refuse to tame myself
Enough of the world seeks to do that already
there is not a way, no path, no process, no system, that I do not hold already within me. If something is to be accomplished, allow me to throw myself into the storm, into the pelting pain, sitcking with dust, with rolling tears,
I figure, I’ll figure it out
because I am not a slave
but a god.


I prefer to be out of my mind. Laying here, my head caressing the warm top side of my bed, radiating heat into my cheek, the sounds of cars drifting in the foreground, the smell of my sheet, of my body, the clock ticking, tick, tick, tick. The hum of my computer, gently, my fingers, bouncing around, off and on the keys, my neck twisted, contorted.

There is a stillness in the air. My drunk nostrils whiff it in.
My heavy eyes, the bags, the lids.

And the cramps compress into concatenated pieces of sequenced flesh

There is no rhyme, or mildew.
OR spilt milk. Summer legs.

Doppler ocean, water breathes

crustacean. Bells. Professing their wit. Their hailing white teeth.
Spectacles. sitting.

Nostrils inhaling the smile, the vapors, alcoholic friends poking their eyes into our conversation.

Collegiate jackets, madness, elbow, pads.

Bleeding noses, and cracks.

His eyes are covered with blankets, with covers, with dark textiles, and curtains, to shield the sunlight, from illuminating his eyes, adding color, dousing senses,

Are you crazy? The toenail nods.

Skin scrapes on the periphery. Knees, gentle knees, never mind the wrists.

Such a fine smile, curls lock, so thin, so frail, so bold, so courageous.
The sickness comes on, and off, and on, and parts of me lose and gain sense of who I am, and was, and there is a murky madness, a mess, that swirls like milk, and colors, and dye,

The cloud hovers, but catches
refracting the light
creating rainbows
that never see the night

silly girl
your smiles
so shy
I love you
Too deep, for light

The dress dances, catches the summer breeze, catches my sapphire eye, oh my.

I love you. Because I see you. And you are mine. In my mind. We are together, dancing, the purity you will never possess. Returns to me every night. We find love in these eyes, in this mind. Thank you, smiling eyes.

I feel. In waves. In colors. In chaos. In madness. In crystallized kaleidoscopes, adorned with trinkets I’ve pocketed along the way, spare things, fallen things, special things, trash. Stuffed them together, like laundry. And laid my head down. Down. Down. Into the white. Into the warmth.

The grace of forgiveness. The heaven of poor memory, of absentminded love, that smothers with its travels, poking about, never home, always close.

Bubbles that boil and froth and cling together, to the sides, to the feeling, to the breath that escapes, and baits a new word, to goad, bated breath.

Here we are, these feelings and I, my feelings, my darlings, my children, birthed from the depths of my struggle, from the furnace of my pain, charred and waiting to be lit again, with every peering eye that probes the depths, they look about, these feelings, they roam, they gather together and giggle and lay their arms around each others necks and lift their eyes together and paint majesty in the heavens, on the ceiling, my eyes, the lids, and my smile cracks, and these feelings fall forward, pour out, for a moment, before the crack recedes, and the feelings lay down, together, and smile themselves

In the night, I live. In the depths of darkness I shine. The internal brimstone chokes the air, creates the flow, ignites the fodder thrown into its churning pools.

When you figure it out, the world is yours. When you realizes that your best friend is yourself, the little joys become predictable and fluid and nothing waits to escape.

Not to focus. Must not focus. The cavern. Predictable.

The legs pick up and toe the earth, moving in shifting patterns, my heart tugs, longs to shift with the patterns, of music, of heart, blue hue, moon shine, diamond of my eye, apple of the sea, floating about, until I find thee.

The lines, the dark, rigid, folded, crevassed, lines. The birds, lifting their small voices, like wind instruments, for gnomes, perk into the air, cold hands, cold. Floating, like a dream, like the feelings, like the memories, suspended, how can I return? Each night I open myself up, and there you are, but I cannot be, and you beckon me to feel, to transport, to reach out.


No matter which way you go, the gorgeous chaos compels me to wander close, in step, behind the trailing aroma, the scent of desire.

I have never thought about what I must write, only felt

It comes from the twilight hours, on the horizon, above the rising moon, distant worlds, marbling spheres, gaseous years.

There is nothing but deadness when feelings cannot pierce the exterior that hangs on this soul.

Feeling is what I thrive on, without it I am dead, lifeless, meaning cannot be caught, feeling grasped, the long grass hides my eyes, my peering death, that transfixes its stare onto the porch, across the street, bustling leaves, where we use to meet, nevermore, inthat spot, under the curtain high, that simmering sky, the forest of bue, shining down on you, the velvet lips moisten my desire, you sit thinking, into the air, ruminating, spectres of long lost care, the blonde locks fall, curl up on your shoulder, unfurl down your back, wisp across your face, staring out, into open space, and I reach for a pulse, for a sign that this moment is mine, spanning the universe, within my mind, nothing but the humid glaze, melting, fades.

feeling, chaotic, imagery, feelings, deep down, prickly, sticky, good feelings, tight laces, black shoes, sneaks, tufts of blonde hair, sneaking out from under the brim, frayed jeans, stepping in the rain, soaking up the clue, the pathways leading into you.


But I am lost is a sea of noise, a cacophony of sinking sadness. The vapors penetrate the air and enter my nostrils, infect my brain, paralyze what thoughts might germinate the blossom. I am fearful, only of myself. My audience greets me with silence. There is a brutal battle blowing among the fickle mass that leads meek men to bleak impasse.

I feel the tentacles of life grow meaty. They stretch out and suffocate the last of my breathing, the last bit of life I harbor within me. The powers that be dictate from the heaven above like thunderous claps on fair morning dove. And I stand in awe, nay in shame, of what I did not do to save the day. What I could have been if I had willed it, a hero of men, a lord among many: a man who does not shake when his time is called but rises when challenges meet, never a place where young boys find themselves weak. It is not a time to think or pry, but a time to act and say whats on my heart, not my mind, let gruesome death take those reasons of mine, so that I may pour out the fragrance of a soul run deep, unfurl a glorious ray upon heavens red cheek.

What is honest anymore? Where can I be when I don’t know the mine that is me?


ad astra

But I am a star,
burning in a sea of space;
I have no arms,
no hands
to reach that destined place.

Gravity keeps
my spin aligned,
crushes my being
to burst forth
in shine.

There is no destination
when I revolve
around myself,
no lost and found
by which to mark
my health.

I am not a man
but a glow that beams
across the hearts
and minds,
(those heavenly oceans)
of imagining.

I am a star,
in a sea of space;
not an ideal,
a hope,
that consumes no space.

I am my own star
among the desert sky,
with my own weight
and gravity
to aid me by.

fall tonight

Automated. Routine. My heart beats. I put one foot in front of the other. I inhale cold dry sharp air. I slowly breath out steam that drifts just in front of my face. I idle. Partially in fear, partially in favor of the rewards for being patient.I lean a little to far in one direction and over commit. I reach for something to grab onto, anything to save me, but I’m already falling. It’s too late.

streets and houses made of stone

rolling hills. streets like hardened lava cascading between houses into intersections and into the city where they seem to spawn skyscrapers. Where the grass is fleeting and retreating where it can hide and the trees try growing as far up as they can to escape the grips of the inorganic claws of cold strangulation and meek design. but you cannot parade over the whole landscape and never for long. tufts of courageous life pry their way between the cracks. their roots dig deep into the brittle rock where soil crying out to be tapped waits patiently for sometimes hundreds of years. They pump nutrients intravenously into the green stalks and thier broad leaves above where the sun shines and energizes.

a stone was hurled into the hillside. we carved it with our hands into a dwelling place. the earth took us in and we sank comfortably and securely into her arms. mothernature wrapped her vegetation around our waist and insulated us from the elements. vines like fingers inch up the walls to hold us tight and remind us we’ve been here to long to go anywhere. we commemorated the dwelling place by erecting a steeple and marking the chapel archway with roman numerals from the year of our conception. we ring church bells to syncronize our minds with time. we sleep cooly in our dwelling knowing there is tradition. and we are established.