the weak cog.

Fleeting, Shayne of the Dead
Fleeting, Shayne of the Dead


So we’ve got

these things

that are just

the best at

what they do –


fruits and fireflies,

trees and tigers,

demons and dogs,

each commanding

a unique

genetic purpose

without question

or doubt.


Countless creatures

of leaf and fur,

of scale and skin,

of life and breath

working and resting,

foraging and nesting,

attacking and defending,

keeping this

clockwork ticking,


while we struggle

with our big brains

and fancy thumbs

to get at

the meaning

of life.


You’ll never

see a bear

slumped over

on the forest floor

wallowing in

the despair of



an ant paralyzed

by fear of change,


a fern listless

in the wake of

unrequited love.


Human beings are


the most effective

and defective


on the planet.



Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014


the quiet push and pull.



Your weight descends

upon the top of my head,

reaching into mind and brain

with luminous tendrils

of motherly love

and celestial command

in dizzying

orbital pirouettes,


a balloon riding

waves of solar wind

barely tethered to

a body or identity,

you push and pull

on our oceans

and minds high

in this early

summer heat,


quietly promising

to keep life churning,

keeping us company

without saying or

doing anything

but simply

being yourself,


teaching us all

a thing or two

about love.



Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

manifest destiny

'Betrayal' by Mario Sanchez Nevado
‘Betrayal’ by Mario Sanchez Nevado


The river muddy and deep

is somewhat welcoming

and even warm looking

as I ponder the farther distance

of walking the bridge

over swimming the waters.


Just an angry current or two,

a shorter distance

for the price of

a few hundred calories

and a swift gray undertow.


(Just my clothes and phone

to sacrifice to

the trash and filth.

Just me and the river.)


The sun shines hot

on my back

for the first time

in always and never

as the striking

primitive valley

reminds me

with it’s velvety hills

and garish billboards

that we’ve squandered

genuine beauty

for the sake of

hideous vanity.



Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

when the weather wants to talk.



The storm nudged me

through the window,

through the world

as I sat on the couch

just waiting

for something

to happen.


Through the window.

Through the woods.

Over the hill

strange lights

made crazy

in the clouds,

drawing me out

toward the park

on the mount,


through the woods

and toward the light

the hill crested

revealing the sky’s

silent inferno,

a hellish orange

miles away,


slow bolts of

skeletal lightning

cut through the

cream soup air

toward dehydrated ground,


reading it like braille

and drawing me into

the heart of the storm,

an alive thing

with a secret to share:


“Don’t be afraid of complexity:

I am a ghost of change.

You smelled me coming,

am I not welcoming?”



Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

journey home



Sitting here on this

brisk spring morning,

feet snuggly in fluffy boots,

sipping rich creamy coffee and

heavy sweater hugging tightly,

I’m as warm as I’ve ever been


while the grasshopper hosta,

pine cone lily,

hearty iris,


delicate succulent,

and dancing Japanese maple

uncoil their leaves

for the welcoming day

in a breezy

synchronized sway,

beckoning me back

to this daylight

from a Neptune night,


(sentinel on the

edge of light,

frozen azure orb of wind

and unforgiving darkness

makes an eternity

of spinning

six thousand miles per hour

through emptiness,

keeping me

just beyond reach

of return home

or permanent escape

into interstellar space,

forcing feeding

the easy answer to a

taunting question:

for every winter

there truly is a spring.)


Sometimes we survive by

remaining dormant

in frozen soil,

awaiting the

beckoning warmth

and tickling rays

of sunlight

to remind

our slumbering roots that

there’s more life to live,


(at least for now),


so come out and live it.



Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

Moveable ocean.



Wet and warm

like a first real kiss,

her raindrops fall

in a heavy, steady, rhythmic

symphony of drum beats

on the canvas awning

above our mountaintop window,


rolling green hills

become a veiled dragon

sleepily watching

the rooftop patchwork

lazily bathing

as I sit quietly reveling

in this dousing

downfall of a

movable ocean,


April rain quenches

chartreuse shoots

and mud-born buds

as she soothes our

winter-weathered souls

with restorative moisture

carried far and long

over glacial scars

and endless plains,


wafting through

open windows

a welcome friend

with open arms

and cerebral ambiance,

generously lending us

her ancient sedation

while passing through

on her journey

to reunite

with the sky.



Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

From the upstairs window.



A drifting blanket

certainly thick enough

to stand on,

this pale heavy fog

completely envelops

just one lonely town

in one lonely world

where we survive


pretending that we’re

all so different

from one another,


Loving, struggling,

longing, working,

doing and feeling

the same things

regardless of shape, scent,

or sound surrounding

our entirely meaningful

but undeniably

minute routine,


we share this one place in existence.


The Here. The Now.

Our island home is

just a speck of blue

where some swim

and others drown

while fighting

the powerful currents

carrying us through

this homogenous

ocean of being,


(because it’s easier choking

on a lungful

of unwarranted conviction

and the unsubstantiated certainty

that there is no ocean

and there are no tides,

than it is embracing

that we’re all along

for the same ride.)


In the faces of both

god and reason

we give up on that which

is worth anything

and make idols of that

which is worth nothing.


But some of us feel the tides,

and you who feel them

feel me,

and we are in it together.


We’re strangers.

We’re neighborhood acquaintances.

We’re chance encounters.

We’re dear friends.

We’re mothers and fathers,

son and daughters,

sisters and brothers,

aunts and uncles.

We’re lifelong lovers,

and we all feel each other.


Energetic ley lines extend

in a sticky web

across the miles,

glueing us together

beneath the fog,


assuring us

of the tide’s wild ride,

and reminding us of

the one truth we know,

that we’ve always known:


that we are never truly alone.



Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014





Walking through familiar woods

I find my slumbering self

alone with a cricket song –

a quiet soundtrack adding

to the crunch of twigs

beneath my feet,

to the rhythmic thoughts

thumping through my head

and racing heart.


(What am I supposed to do with a life like this?)


Bare feet break through

the topmost layer of crisp decay

sinking into molding rot that

squishes through pale toes and

filthy fire red lacquer.


(The future as I know it is gone.)


Only the past remains the same

eternally haunting memory

lingering behind my shoulder,

whispering in my ear

as I’m left wandering a

slumbering twilight path,

wondering if a clearing is near enough

to reach before night falls,

before silence falls,

before all that’s left

is me and the

low hum of photons

drifting through a starless universe.



Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

chilly feet. pink beasts.




no one looked up that morning



as the thick round underbellies

of cloud beasts

drifting along

in their ancient migration

were lit the kind of pink

that made you wonder whether

the sunrise stole it from the flowers

or the flowers stole it from the sunrise-


the powdered magenta drifts

seemed unaware

of eyes down below

gazing in awe of up above,

in awe of what’s happened

daily since the Earth

had eyes with which to see-


even though dozens of eyes,

block after city block

stayed lowered

to the ground

with chilly feet

washed in pink,


not noticing-


seeing only

the gray of a world as ugly

they chose it to be.


Alone with my own

chilly pink feet

and drifting sky beasts,

keeping my eyes upward and outward,

I searched for the warmth of meaning

beyond the gray.



Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014


Notes on Eternity



It was a summer sunrise years ago when I felt the earth spinning beneath my feet. Too early for intense heat, the air traveled comfortably in and out of my lungs as I ran through the dew and fog. No dog, no stroller and baby, no cars, no passers-by: only me and the gentle arc of cerulean blue peeking out ever more from behind lush rolling hills were present to hear the rhythmic footfalls. Compelled by solitude with a gentle dare, I took the earphones out, turned the music off, and listened only to my footfalls. Listened only to my breath as I floated down the ancient mountain, gradually becoming aware of the spinning beneath my feet. The velocity of earth flying through space and whirling on its axis was one with my own as the downward slope of asphalt melted away into the eternal soup of space and time. There was nothing but the spinning earth and the amplified arc of horizon as my body disappeared. Just the earth and I, spinning, revolving, and moving with one another while the past, present, and future dissolved into atomic memories. Melting and fading away into the soup.

(It’s times like these that you have all the answers to every question ever asked. You know exactly who you are and what to do and where to go and how to be to make a valuable impact upon the world around you. You melt away into the soup, looking upon then, now, and forever from the outside, inside, and middle of everything and nothing, seeing your petty problems in their true light, and realizing your power of release.)

… Until a jogger passed. A dog walker. A pair of headlights disrupting the salmon sunrise. I slowly came back to myself, to my increasingly heavy footfalls and labored breathing, remembering my place in the stillness and the silliness of my stresses yet unable to avoid the surge of stomach ache thoughts as I neared the end of my run and inevitable return to my dark marital home. I envy the definition of purpose given inherently to each grain of sand, to the gradual sunrise, to the spinning earth beneath our feet. If only that velvety thick understanding of eternal purpose would consume me into itself and offer permanent release to these constant states of doubt and uncertainty. If only I could disappear into the spinning of the earth, into time and space, into the ocean of consciousness filling the void around us for long enough to bring something back to this side of reality, I might yet serve a purpose in this life.



Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014