what the birds know.

 

There is no greater purpose than

this right here,

this right now,

 

existing within a pocket

of warm air and birdsong,

so many little voices

singing their praises of life.

 

This moment when

the sun’s rosy kisses

make the horizon blush

contains within it

the answers that

men die for —

that men kill for.

 

If only we would

silence the madness

for a brief moment

and listen with our hearts

to the meaning of bird’s songs,

 

perhaps we might sense the

humbling magnitude

of life itself —

the gift that is every sunrise,

the gift that is every spring,

the gift that is this opportunity

to exist within such boundless beauty.

 

If only for a moment

we would choose

to set aside

our convictions,

our trauma,

our tragedy,

 

we might begin feeling

what inspires birds to sing,

 

we might comprehend

life without condition,

 

we might truly know

what it is to love.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2017

 

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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

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

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

fruits and nothings.

Kiyo Murakami
Kiyo Murakami

 

What does

it mean to let

come what may?

 

Formless words

dense with

abstraction

 

dripping with

the tart juices

of something

 

less than love

and greater

than reason

 

shock a tongue

expecting

the tickle

 

of sweet

fruits and

nothings

 

tasted and

whispered

after the

 

world was

asleep

and only

 

the stars

were

watching.

 

Bitter fruits

growing from

the soft petals

 

of decadent words

(with vibrant hues

and sweet aromas

 

that trick the bees

into yielding

poisonous honey)

 

are innocent

carriers of the

impolite pain

 

of sacred words

lightly thrown

into the face

 

of a one who

craves them

like breadcrumbs

 

toward the

eager beak of

a starving pigeon.

 

 

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