Communication

It's so frustrating when you speak to someone and they only listen until they hear what they need, in order to do what they want. It's a ridiculous somnambulist stunt, that I think we have all been guilty of at some point.
 Do you remember when listening was important, listening to others fully and completely, taking in context, verbiage to fully derive meaning before replying, before expounding, before just waiting for your chance to talk. Remember when listening meant life or death?

The soft stalking of a nearly silent padding of a predator's footfall as it tracks you in the dark. The way the air changes and affects you like a barometer, telling you what the weather is up to? The way animals grow silent when danger approaches. Any one of these instances can be considered a lost art of communication. Most specifically listening to others though, that's where the chain is rusted.

With the growth of technological communication and the inundation of mass media marketing, our attention spans have shrunk considerably. We are no longer content to listen and imagine a story, we now want the "quick" version, to skip to the end so that we can concentrate on this innocuous status update, or returning the text message that popped up while typing said update. We sit right next to the people we love, like, or maybe even don't know that well, and we ignore each other to communicate with others who aren't present. Guess what? Neither are we. "Getting to know someone" means something completely different than it used to. I know that we can never truly know every nook and cranny of a person, all we know is our perception of them and they of us, but when you don't even ask the questions to get that much, what then? We bond over T.V., film, and opinions, but after that initial knowledge, where does the effort go? Everyday we are different, beautiful, moving creatures. "Knowing" what?

Poetry Dervish

Roundness unfolds heavy with the light crinkling of life’s bounty.
Belly burns pleasantly, enamored in breath and the humid presentation of fluttering opportunity.
there is a seeker and in that same sinewy vein a destiny found;
a life living out each fiery raging breath
in a syncopated rhythm
of spontaneous choreography.
The twirling dervish of never ending discovery.

Reaping Womb

Red crescents drag with dogged ease,

release of silt,

rich and encumbered flows through valleys,

ripe,

with aging seasonal fruit,

left rotted on the weaving vine. 

Trembling turmoil extracted,

through bountiful whirlpools of creation,

the filtered light at the end of this lengthy way

quakes in hues of red,

caps of darkness.

Hooded vessels reign,

bathing in the primordial essence of female.

Spoken

Waving, weaving,

a gift in the resistance.
The well-played tune,

 all enmeshed in fillings of fire,
soul’s purpose born,
raging,

a confluence of unknown beauty.
Being,

lightning incandescence struck on flesh,
to purpose reactive,

this truth a sustained beast of ingenuity.