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

the secrets butterflies keep.

Butterflies by Igor Morski
Butterflies by Igor Morski

 

Universes woven

with the fabric of

what could have been

shuffle through the

air in between thoughts

as colorful reminders

of the faces and places

known and unknown,

seen and unseen,

 

while bubbles of possibility

floating in the periphery

reflect visible and audible imprints

of potential energy

found within a crossroads.

 

This vernal equinox,

resurrecting a phoenix

from the flames

of solar eclipse

and the ashes of

unjust departure,

 

reveals a myriad

of alternate options

dancing by in graceful

dimensional waves,

unveiling themselves

fold by fold

and turn by turn.

 

Born in the decisive moments

where distinct possibilities collide

and alter the serpentine bends

in a fluid timeline,

 

these butterfly realities,

each more real than the next,

flutter through reeling thoughts

while digging for

the realities lost

in a cavernous mind:

 

the forgotten,

the abandoned,

the regretted,

 

each is alive

somewhere

with a story

both something like

and nothing like

your own.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2015

existential arctic.

frozen heart, By Sephirothsdx
frozen heart, by Sephirothsdx

 

As days
grow longer
soft hearts
grow colder,

weary of
winter games
forced upon the
fair weather souls

proclaiming
arctic tolerance

for pleasing
the audience

while shivering alone
within the silence.

Minds yearn
for the order of
sprouting thoughts
while hearts

burn to comfort
the dying parts, as
both birth and death
are alive with spirit.

 

 

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

winter isn’t the enemy.

Frozen Brain, by Iivio Ansaldi
Frozen Brain, by Iivio Ansaldi

 

Forced to the warmth

found between folds
of halfhearted
dreams suspended
beneath animated skies

frozen in unwelcome moments

of silent disposition –

the winter is surely to blame.

It must be the cold
misguiding our
mammalian hearts.

It must be

the antiquated threat
of starvation,
the genetic predisposition
for acquiring adipose,
the indiscriminate urge
for securing shelter

that a lengthy
winter brings
causing ants
in the pants
of logical motivation.

No amount of
artificial ultraviolet
can cure the
frostbitten psyche
of an incessant Everest.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights 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

rehearsal.

Flower of Life, by Frida Kahlo
Flower of Life, by Frida Kahlo

 

I.

 

When I looked

at her

how often

I saw the coffin,

how often

she lay

with a stillness

so lovely

I knew her fate

as clearly as

the sun and moon’s.

 

With a stillness

so lovely as

she lay in satin,

her youth

suspended the

time all around us.

 

How often

I’d rehearsed

her funeral

when flowers

willfully planted

and sweetly tended

were ripped

from young roots,

 

left to wither on

hardening ground

in the place

where mirrors

see out

and rain boils

to steam in

blue-hot starlight

before reaching

a thirsty earth.

 

Her flowers withered

and grew,

withered and grew,

comforting lies

convinced the

dedicated that

she’d always

grow back.

 

She’d always be there

somewhere,

withering and growing,

smiling a kind of smile

that gives you

something to

believe in,

 

dancing a dance

that makes you

feel free

just watching,

 

singing a song

without words

in perfect harmony

with the universal

cerebral hum,

 

always a step ahead,

just outwitting

the death

of that place.

 

(Infinite rehearsals

don’t numb the

cutting buzz

of a phone

in the quiet night

heralding the ache

of expectation

and emptiness

of a barren garden.)

 

II.

 

Hot stars

burn brightly

and die young,

showering

their beloved

neighbors

with gifts

more precious

than time –

 

igniting new

stars into being,

seeding their

worlds with

silver and gold,

seeding their

worlds with the

stuff of gardens.

 

 

“Pain is a flower. Pain is flowers

blooming all the time.” – Bukowski

 

 

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