the waiting place.

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We all have our moments

where we can’t think

through the sadness.

 

The moments where

minutes become years

and years swell

with the vacancy of

what was stolen or

left carelessly behind,

 

where we’re lost in

a bitter cycle of

hyper-critical doubt,

 

where the words are

etched into raw flesh

and ink flows fiercely

from bloodless veins,

 

where hopes dissolve

into the breath filling

some other’s lungs

and dreams collapse

into shadows haunting

the recesses hidden

within longing hearts –

 

and these are the

everything moments.

 

This is where you

are the burned forest,

the exploding star,

the dry season,

the decomposing flesh

slowly offering its carbon

back to the land and

into the beating heart

of some newborn thing

whose mother ate the cow

who ate the grass

that fed upon the nutrients

and grew within the carbon

that you left behind.

 

This is where you are rebirth,

where you are possibility,

where you are life proving

its relentless will to live.

 

This is where you

are empty, alone, and

existing without cause

or intellectual use –

an inactive passenger

peering through the

clouded lens of regret,

 

wishing you would’ve

loved your leaves more,

wishing you’d said

goodbye and good luck

to departing photons,

wishing you’d thanked

the water for filling

your barren plains,

wishing you’d been kinder

to your body when it

carried you through life.

 

We all have moments

where we can’t think

through the sadness,

and these are the

moments of beginning.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2015

 

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the fifth stage.

The Surreal House, by Francesca Woodman
The Surreal House, by Francesca Woodman

 One.

 “You are the house,”

she explained

while discussing

the somnambular wanderings,

dreamscape happenings,

inside of the childhood home.

         Home.

I live seven walking minutes away

and never pass it.

         Some say they

miss home.

         I avoid it.

“You are the house,”

said Therapist in

a freezing January room,

magnified white-hot

winter rays

penetrating the lace

curtains veiling

modest sacred pulp.

         (When dreaming

of wandering

through houses,

we wander

through ourselves) –

         and in the house

wallpaper was

thirty layers thick,

dead aunts

sat in familiar

wingback chairs,

parents were lost

like children,

and trash piled

to the ceilings.

         “You are the house”

with the dark curtains

and basement shower.

         “You are the house”

with the onion layers

and fruit cellar.

        “You are the house”

with the yellow bricks

and chalky mortar.

         “You are the house”

with the frantic eyes

and ambiguous borders.

Five.

They always made me uneasy,

but not this one.

This time,

the house

was as it was.

No strange rooms,

no unfamiliar decor,

no temporal trash,

no cerebral symbolism,

no shaking shell of a mother –

the house

was as it was –

plus something

filtered,

something refined,

plus something

pure and peaceful,

and it was mine.

 

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

fruits and nothings.

Kiyo Murakami
Kiyo Murakami

 

What does

it mean to let

come what may?

 

Formless words

dense with

abstraction

 

dripping with

the tart juices

of something

 

less than love

and greater

than reason

 

shock a tongue

expecting

the tickle

 

of sweet

fruits and

nothings

 

tasted and

whispered

after the

 

world was

asleep

and only

 

the stars

were

watching.

 

Bitter fruits

growing from

the soft petals

 

of decadent words

(with vibrant hues

and sweet aromas

 

that trick the bees

into yielding

poisonous honey)

 

are innocent

carriers of the

impolite pain

 

of sacred words

lightly thrown

into the face

 

of a one who

craves them

like breadcrumbs

 

toward the

eager beak of

a starving pigeon.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

a matter of perpetual creation.

Star Child, by Juliette Crane

 

The carbon of my body

recalls the best of it all:

 

the time before

worry and loss,

the time before

hunger and pain,

the time before

good and evil.

 

The time when

atomic collision

was the long

and short of it.

 

When molecules

that would travel

far and wide

before becoming

you and I

and the skies

and the trees

buddied up

in the belly of an

elemental bakery.

 

A super-massive

pulsating, churning,

bubbling womb.

 

A hostile incubator.

 

Our celestial mother

martyred by iron

so that we

might live as

rearrangements

of her labors,

her reflection

eternally trapped

in the eyes of

those who

know her best,

reminding us

to never ignore

that we are

all born

together.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

just enough fight.

The Double Secret, by Rene Magritte
The Double Secret, by Rene Magritte

 

Riding memories

on salted ocean air

thick with loves

and pains of a

preternatural past,

the temporal space

is filled with

monsters and men,

perfumed nights,

sun-kissed cheeks,

and tired red eyes

hidden beneath

borrowed shade

as I move

through it.

 

With aching legs

and a soaring heart,

the prophecy

of pivotal change

moves with me

through humidity

and time,

proving itself right

despite jealous visions

and skeptical longings:

change happened

because I willed it,

accepted it,

embraced it,

nurtured it,

and because

it was time.

 

Here and now

the ghosts

of these nights

remain mournfully

hopeful sentinels

as I return

to remember,

and shall return

until the day

they are no longer

shadows of lives lost,

rather visions

of life gained –

 

the champions

of here and now

fighting for meaning

and honor

in a place filled

with senseless pain

and profound beauty,

eternally armed

with just enough fight

and more than

enough love

to get by.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

 

 

 

abstracts.

Faceless Composition, Lara Jade
Faceless Composition, Lara Jade

I.

 

Alone,

mourning pale yellow light

as velvet plum wine reflects

a vacuum sea of stars

struggling to penetrate

the city’s glare.

 

Without rational passion,

without positive prostitution,

without damaged ears to hear

or bloodshot eyes to read,

 

alone with my

reckless creation,

all around,

all stillness,

all movement

is without.

 

Hands compelled to

write with open honesty

are stunted by caution,

my remora

fattened upon the

volatile words

of a weary brain

as they drip

down through

to fingertips

in a parade

of ink beasts,

vowels and consonants

shaping a strained reality

determined to undermine

the foundation

of these precious

fleeting moments

where there’s still

life to live.

 

This thing on my mind

leaves me stranded

without option,

without power,

without a plausible solution,

giving birth

to coded abstracts,

disguising the truth and

feeding from within,

replacing the me

with the nothing.

 

II.

 

Were I to know unmitigated satisfaction,

I might die in its arms.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

 

Demolition.

Leonora Carrington
Leonora Carrington

 

How often

I wrote your name

in invisible ink

on blind paper

to a deaf audience

in an empty theater

while imagining my skin

with your skin,

my mouth

with your mouth,

my body

with your body

within the walls

of our modest home.

 

Grassy yard,

happy dog,

sweet child,

wily garden

each blooming with life,

 

our patch of passion

and contentment,

secluded seduction,

calming condition

where we share

wine and wishes,

philosophies and prayers,

secrets and dreams,

where we sleep deeply

in each other’s company –

 

and here we are.

 

Close enough to

feel your breath

and all I can smell

are hot lies

and bitter delusions

pouring from

that precious mouth.

 

Far enough to

see your disembodied

hands tearing down

our fragile house

while your mouth

claims to mend it.

 

Piece by crumbling piece

the foundation breaks away

in arid clumps

within your tightening grip,

turning to dust

in unorganized winds

blowing into my

eyes and mouth.

 

Blinded,

suffocating,

stumbling,

reaching out

for your shadow,

you turn

away and

do what’s best

for us all.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

journey home

news-neptune01-tight_24622_600x450

 

Sitting here on this

brisk spring morning,

feet snuggly in fluffy boots,

sipping rich creamy coffee and

heavy sweater hugging tightly,

I’m as warm as I’ve ever been

 

while the grasshopper hosta,

pine cone lily,

hearty iris,

 

delicate succulent,

and dancing Japanese maple

uncoil their leaves

for the welcoming day

in a breezy

synchronized sway,

beckoning me back

to this daylight

from a Neptune night,

 

(sentinel on the

edge of light,

frozen azure orb of wind

and unforgiving darkness

makes an eternity

of spinning

six thousand miles per hour

through emptiness,

keeping me

just beyond reach

of return home

or permanent escape

into interstellar space,

forcing feeding

the easy answer to a

taunting question:

for every winter

there truly is a spring.)

 

Sometimes we survive by

remaining dormant

in frozen soil,

awaiting the

beckoning warmth

and tickling rays

of sunlight

to remind

our slumbering roots that

there’s more life to live,

 

(at least for now),

 

so come out and live it.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

temporal contiguity.

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This old perfume

in the creamy curvaceous bottle

looks and smells

like a bride

filled with hope

lust, wonder

and security,

its blanketing grace

cloaking chilled shoulders

with protective serenity.

 

Cinnamon, clove,

crimson red rose,

sage and sensuality

provides transport

to the misty day when

dense clouds loomed

smokey and thick

in fifty degree

late September skies,

parting only

for that abracadabra moment

when relentless rains stop

and the bride floats out

upon a lungful of

At Last,

filling the air

with sunshine

and bullshit.

 

Bitterness can’t help

bleeding through to memories,

 

doing them injustice

 

because I deserve them-

pure, and beautiful memories-

unscathed by future seepage

through time’s layers,

whispering bitter words

into the bride’s ears,

 

whispering things

she already knew

deeply and painfully,

but chose to ignore

for the sake of happiness,

maybe. Just this once.

Happiness,

unadulterated and entirely lovely.

 

(Trembling hands

transfer shivers

to the giggly bouquet,

ferns wiggling,

autumn berries bobbing,

lilies sprinkling

a dusting

of orange pollen

into the wind,

exaggerated nerves

filling the air with “Amour”

and damned if this

isn’t exactly what love

smells like)

 

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Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014