I'm sitting at my desk after a math test
And on my math test, I really tried my best,
But now, thank god, I get to rest
And play with my colored pencils.

I feel like it's been so much time
since I've written in colored pencil rhyme,
But I find, it really is sublime
Writing in something other than monochrome grey.

As I sit and gaze at my pencil collection,
I am realizing that it has turned to obsession,
But there are twelve colored pencils for three stanza perfection,
So, for poetry's sake, I guess it's okay.

Writing is my passion
You're my inspiration

My rock solid foundation
Whom I seek in times of tribulation

Pragmatic precepts did he essay
Not so difficult to follow, I would say

Though departed to a place far away
His memories keep me swing and sway

I yearn for your visitation
Desperately need some consolation

Thoughts like clouds,
storming my mind.
Thunderstorms,
thunderbolts,
lightning and
heavy gushes of the words,
striking against the wall,
of my brain, like blind birds.

Here I stand,
no pen to write with,
no paper to write on.
Words will escape,
by penetrating in my soul.

My fear of losing my words,
stays by the side of my thoughts.
They can come at any time,
will shower like a rain in my mind,
or they can go at any time,
leaving me to think sublime.

This place is amazing
nothing like anything
Ha! This place is gorgeous!
This place is a palace of some sorts
A mothership,
This place is full of delight and adventure and rainbows
I wouldn't give it up for the world this
Honor, this Creed
clambering continually in calamitous Abyss
Who is it there behind the rainbow curtain,
calling upon my name?

No buttressed vaulted ceilings here,
or monkish men in robes of cloth,
a space where things are sold and bought
and yet, there is an atmosphere:

A cloistered hush outside of time,
etched in rows of words, wooden,
the self’s restrained demarcation
seeds this scene for the sublime.

“In the beginning was the word”,
nothing before that differentiation,
in the assemblage of imagination,
a whispered restless breath is heard, as

marks on paper command the motion
of eyes and thoughts across a texture
in which silence is a rapture,
the echo of yearning and union.


Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks

Subconscious vapors of lucidity whisper into the depths of my soul.  Pleading Pleiades, daughters of Atlas, exhale mythical wisps that wander in the constellations of my mind anointing me and by their
decree I am Divine.

If I could, still, I would cry
A well of the tears of my Love for you
And taste the acrid waters
Of a depth great enough to soar
Transcending into the Sublime
The Infinite, The Beauty... off the grime.

But I cannot, anymore.
So I dwell into the Lack, of You
In an emptiness large enough to fill
Each, every and all of the Spaces
Between Here, Now, There, Then
Between You, I, and All...

Between Everywhere, and Everywhen.

-Emelit