the waiting place.

3947375463_81f833bc08_o

 

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 plentitude of tomorrow.

Photograph by Jerry Uelsmann
Photograph by Jerry Uelsmann

 

Through a forest

and over mountains,

 

across desert canyons

and beyond the curve

of cerulean horizon,

 

lives a home –

a secluded grove

nestled between the

pages of reality,

alive with

secretive dreams

and abandoned things –

 

lives a pocket landscape

of infinite potential

and branches open wide

to the sun/moon/stars,

to their rhythm of life

and song of death.

 

Here, there is room

for us both and

room for us all.

 

Every version of you,

every version of me,

every before and after,

 

every seasonal shift and

metaphysical connection

lives through the forest

and over the hills,

 

across an ocean

and beyond a desert.

 

There live goats

standing on stumps

eating humorous things.

There lives a garden growing.

There live the cheeses aging.

There live the bees buzzing.

 

There lives the

stillness of sunrise,

high noon’s majesty,

a sleepy afternoon,

the mournful sunset’s

spiritual wonder,

and the solitude of

a midnight room.

 

There lives the mirror lake,

still as glass and

quiet as time,

reflecting the best

ideas whispered through

an emerald forest

reflecting on its

matters of loss

and love.

 

There live the winding walks

on enchanted paths of

soft decaying pine,

fragrant as Christmas memory.

 

There lives the poetry unborn,

the words unfulfilled

and desires unnamed.

 

There lives breath without lungs,

gasp without voice,

shock without fear.

 

There live the muted moments

hidden between

rolling mountains

and peace of mind,

promising that

although today

is nearly over,

tomorrow is

practically forever.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2015

the reluctant thaw.

Reborn by Tomasz Alen Kopera
Reborn by Tomasz Alen Kopera

 

A hesitancy exists within

the forward momentum

from winter to spring –

 

within the stubborn

iron grip of frigid

fingers wrapped

around tender

tendrils of

vernal birth

preventing the

air from warming,

 

from melting the

deceptive layer of

glittering snow masking

last year’s decay,

winter stagnation,

lack of motivation.

 

Its five to ten pounds

of lazy denial are easily hidden

beneath the woven bulk

of an oversized sweater and

within the concealing shadows

of a disorganized mind,

but are shamefully obvious

within the honest light

of seasonal shift.

 

Heaping masses of rotting

leaves and thoughts

gradually reveal themselves

beneath the melting white

in slowly warming sunlight,

 

suffocating delicate sprouts

of chartreuse life itching

for breakthrough below,

 

exposing the patient truth

of a ground covered

in cold wet shit

 

that’s waited in frozen silence

for spring’s thawing rays to

release the stench of

winter’s soggy remains –

 

an odorous mess requiring

laborious attention

before new life

might fully live.

 

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2015

carefully chosen notes.

Surreal Birds, by Alexandria Baker
Surreal Birds, by Alexandria Baker

 

As day rolls into night

and night into day,

the shaman sparrow

sings his lilting song

of secret, sacred notes

performed for a

slumbering Spring.

 

Slicing through the

bitter silence of

frozen twilight skies,

each note is a

brilliant reminder

of what once was

and again will be,

 

inspiring a breathy answer

for the beating hearts

of everyone awake to hear:

 

“Soon, sweet sparrow. Soon.”

 

Would the sparrow travel

to warmer skies

if he knew how closely

they existed?

 

Just through the fabric

of here and now,

a short trip to

Somewhere Spring,

 

does the sparrow

seek this eternal paradise

of chartreuse rebirth,

 

or does he patiently sing

his hopeful song

to icicles decorating

barren trees,

 

appreciating each

arctic moment

for its glittering beauty,

 

mindfully aware

of rewards revealed

to those who wait?

 

As the sun rises

in numbing cold,

so does it set

in humid haze,

blanketing each realm

and all in between

with a conscious reminder

that love is patience.

 

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Right Reserved

Copyright 2015

cosmic run on.

Cosmic Love, by Phillip Schumacher
Cosmic Love, by Phillip Schumacher

 

Inner and outer
manifestations (of
rage and tender touch,

of ego pulled
over the head
inside-out,
of space and the
absence of matter,
of ions forgetting charges
and mass not knowing
its how and why,

leaving cracks in
the surface of
what once was,
what is,
what could be,
what could have been
before cosmic collision
exiled its possibilities
into the netherworld
of parallel options,)

become the
stuff of dreams.

The fabric of poetry.
The liquid sunrise
calling us back
to a life we
don’t understand
while painting
its ambiguous canvas
with the language
of purpose.

 

Inspired by “If A Sunsets Behind Buildings and No One Can See It, Is it Still Beautiful?” By Vagabond at https://writtenmad.wordpress.com

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2015

a designer flock.

Woods at Night 1 by Chris Friel
Woods at Night 1 by Chris Friel

 

Sheep blindly pursuing

the vacant salvation of

wealth and conformity

 

who sacrifice intuition

for the sake of

synthetic dreams

 

don’t make it far

in the darkness

of natural night

 

with nothing more

than polymer dogs

for protection.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2015

life as an onion.

"White Onion" by Justin Clayton
“White Onion” by Justin Clayton

 

Brittle paper skin

crackles beneath

shaking fingers,

exposing the

glossy globe

of ivory white

with its longitudinal

striations of

spring bud green.

 

It is beautiful

and you are young,

unaware of what

lies beneath.

 

Smooth in

your palms

and heavy

for its size,

fair onion

has gravity

hiding beneath

this elastic layer.

 

Then comes

the knife.

Then comes

the truth.

 

Life is an onion,

each delicious layer

promising the

painful sting of tears.

 

 

Renee Novosel

Copyright 2015

All Rights Reserved

 

when the walls collapse

Andromeda_Collides_Milky_Way

 

Maybe I was there.

Maybe you were there.

Maybe you and I

looked up at the stars

as the eyes

of infinite gods,

or the infinite eyes

of one god –

and we imagined

the possibilities.

 

Maybe we stood

at the feet of

rhythmic waves

as their rumbling

voices hinted

of secrets beneath

the arc of deep blue,

and we imagined

the possibilities.

 

Maybe there was

a time between lives,

before and after

everything was named,

when we witnessed

the ground beneath

our feet

and skies above

our eyes

without condition.

 

This meaning

without name,

value

without cost,

reverence

without judgement

is lost

when human eyes

are closed

and the blind

pursuit begins.

 

As if life’s beauty

itself isn’t enough

to satisfy

the reason

for being,

we shamefully define

that which

defies definition,

 

breeding foolish pride

with each steadfast

proclamation,

widening the rift

between man and nature.

 

Greed and power

construct the

revolving doors

of perceived reality,

keeping our

eyes on what

everyone else has

and our minds on

how badly we

want it,

 

but the universe

with its endless eyes

doesn’t blink

a single one

when we’ve

earned or

lost a million.

 

Our tiny order

doesn’t mean

a thing

when galaxies

collide.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Right Reserved

Copyright 2014

on avian matters.

Each morning

neighborhood crows

fly toward

a gently

rising sun,

 

hundreds landing

softly on the

highest hilltop

as our golden orb

slides into

watercolor skies.

 

Chattering of

breaking avian

news beneath

trees undressing,

they welcome together

daylight in

funeral attire and

with shrill songs,

doing a thing

that the human

in me can’t

help but join

in doing –

 

we marvel

in the sunrise

together.

 

Never minding

my presence

or admiration,

never minding

their bad reputation

for doing

dirty jobs,

never minding

their tenuous

flightpath

between

death and life,

 

they do their

crow thing

each day

and fly each

evening back

toward the sun

as it slips

into a fiery

goodnight.

 

Inhabiting the boundary

between heightened

existence and

ambivalence,

they’ve little

concern for where

November winds

blow decaying things

during the cold night,

 

rather they

sleep soundly

amongst the dead

before gathering

for tomorrow’s sun,

rising once again

upon a world alive

with morbid

avian purpose.

 

 

 

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