beyond the walls.

Kevin German / LUCEO For the New York Times

 

Paralyzing fear closes tightly in

as yesterday’s wasted opportunities

seep through its prison walls,

 

collecting in the night’s mind

as infinitely heavy clouds of regret,

gathering behind powerful eyes

that weep morning dew

upon the ground beneath our feet,

upon the waking world all around —

 

quenching thirsty grasses, flowers, and trees

whose breathy sighs of relief

fill our lungs with second, third, and thirtieth chances,

giving us daily the gift of life,

giving us daily the gift of choice —

 

the gift of choosing bravery and honesty

over quietly hiding,

the gift of choosing nurturing kindness

over narrow selfishness,

the gift of choosing

more and more every day

mindful purpose and gratitude

over succumbing to

the walls closing in around us.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2017

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the fabric.

 

Blame it on the neural pathways,

(blame it on our tumultuous youths,)

blame it on the dysfunction

making us do it —

seeking out wayward souls,

(the lost amongst the loners,

the outcasts hiding

behind smiling faces,)

 

assuming a host

of burdens willingly

because love

makes us do it.

 

(Perhaps we’ve

no option but to

save the loneliest souls

from drowning

before drowning

ourselves,

 

becoming clarity

within the chaos

only because it’s a chaos

belonging to another.)

 

However abstract,

however dangerous,

however powerful,

chaos is alive

within us all —

 

it’s the weird spirit

of the powerless, the homesick,

the longing, the loving,

the haunted mirrors

of our souls.

 

Painful chaos

drives us to survive,

 

daring the fabric

of reality to push beyond

its boundaries and grow,

 

making the symmetry of beauty

inarguably beautiful,

 

keeping us on our toes,

(whether they be

running or dancing,)

 

keeping life

acutely alive

despite the

frigid grip of

organized complacency.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2017

memorable remains.

 

Santa Teresa en la Concina by Leonora Carrington
Santa Teresa en la Concina by Leonora Carrington

 

Life bleeds through

fragile fingertips,

too powerless

and too late

to inspire a change

in the caustic rhythm

of love and loss,

 

oozing between the layers

of conflicted dreams,

fermenting within

the cauldron

of weary minds

too stubborn to quit

yet too exhausted to persevere,

hovering between collapse and success,

between rapture and distress,

 

as I wait for them to come back to me.

 

I wait for the tide to recede,

for the wind to blow,

for the Earth to transform

these tumbling moments

into something unconditional.

 

I wait for climbing souls

to turn around and

look at the view

brewing between

certainty and doubt.

 

I wait for a time

when restless spirits

come home to sleep, to work,

to love, to lose,

 

to tend to the past

like a wounded warrior

while embracing the present

with the nourishing attention

of someone who chooses

to fight for life over

succumbing to death.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2016

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

 

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 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

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

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