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Meeting of the Minds JournalWerner Reyneke

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Poetry Series

Art
 

There is no art without the observer
And no observer without art -
Mind is Art
And Art is Mind


 


To think or not

  To think or not -
  That is the burning question that haunts all desperate minds.
  And through the spheres of our temporal fantasies,
  We will long suspended in such infinity as a dreaming thought -

that far off,
  Misty breathing of our soft, thin flight of truth
  Will stretch in a single flux of lightest, soaring being!


 



The One Not

In all half-blown and conceptions - grand attributes of our being,
There is the incompleteness of wholeness and an infinite shrinking of
any fast fullness.
It directs as no meaning in a static nature where all is the same in
marked happening.
There is more and that in definitive continuity devoid of ends   - 
We are not those things or souls in divine description of finality,
But a pulp passing and passed through flowing in no own or any
possession
 
It's an eternal flight not towards . . . and not ever in a timely
dimension . . .
                 

 


Sonnet

Was it too great in scale to my poor thoughts
Bound for the maze of all the worthless rows,
That have my grown dreams in a mind inhaled,
Breaking their womb the tomb where they can rest?
Was it my folly, by others wrought through might
below the finite itch that wakes the dead?
Yes, either that, or an eternal plight
Living its rage, my words astounded.
Me, and that jovial invisible sense
Which mightily fills me with stupidity,
As dark horses of my cries may gallop;
I twisted the sinews of guts in chains:
But as my stomach danced on its verge,
The luck I rallied had weakened itself.

 




I am smoking the sun at last



I am smoking the sun at last -
It reeks like the burning orange I have always flamed
 Inside the infernal love and craving mind, so dense with the softness
of hard longing

Oh, I am dragging the immense, but dying energy into loosened form
And with the craving of ashes to become one again with the blind,
scattered nothingness of all origins and ends - the eternal moment of
mind

I am smoking the sun at last - the core of a pleasure -
The cure for sucking as it lights the way to the filtering fantasy
Stained with a hellish deposit of sickened yellow - and the clouds are
satisfied.

Ah, I'm breathing Sun as she absorbs the moistened flesh.
And as the warm ashes of being cycles cold and into heat once more,
And as the breathing rhythmically nears its repose
It reeks incessantly of glorious revolt!



Longing

Longing for warm presence while there's cold absence
Is longing for absence of the present cold,
For in the absence of our love and meaning
Our own essence feels absent
And that wells from Being itself endeavoring to escape itself

 



War

The clouds are blackened to the end
And the soil's reeking of a hellish burn.
All awhile the human sense endeavors to surface.


 

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