Constant Swirl in Flux

Constant Swirl in Flux

by Michael Warren Grant

We, like swirls in a stream

appear fixed, yet are a series

of molecules in constant flux.

We often cling to the water

as it passes through our form;

our assumptions, our possessions

take up much space in the room

of our being.

Such restless grasping at rocks

in the infinite sea of sky

we inhabit!

we are never complete,

and this is a great gift of life;

the opportunity to discard

and insatiably seek, the spirit

of evolution, the renewing

of the swirl.

Now to form a living mandala

by repositioning the stones

on the river's bed. A swirl

to manifest our inner charge.

Your electric fur is on end

as the tie that binds

slips out and then in again.

Nocturnus

Nocturnal Screeches

and the yips of coyotes

on the blood trail;

purgatory, toward

a threshold of eden.

The night is alive;

buzzing and humming

with evening's cacophany.

There is infinity left to go

in this palor of nightshade.

There is no completion, only striving

towards creation, deletion.

This night reminds me

that a moths life

is no less brilliant

for its brevity.

The flames we chase are all

we stand for. And on this eve

every flame

eats us alive.

Swing from your ropes of thought,

perform you mental acrobatics,

and exit exhausted, brimming

with your new book's revelations.

A Fall into Night

A Fall into Night

by Michael Warren Grant

A Fall into night, as

The frogs and crickets sing

in orchestral harmony,

accented by the beating

of a moth's wings,

all heralds of the eve.

A Fall into night

ushered by the slipping sun,

rosy hues overtaken

by sullen blues,

purple and cyan

bleeding into black,

the color of unfettered mind.

A Fall into Night

Smoothed over, the horizon,

like a soft hand over felt.

With patient sips of wine,

gentle murmers of silence,

and each soft remembrance

allowed to take fully form,

then fade from conscious mind.

Now to bloom,

like a crackling firework

in the aphotic skies

of subconscious.

While She is There (I Cannot be Here)

While She is There (I Cannot be Here)

by Michael Warren Grant

She has taken residence

of my mind;

a lavish suite

of Persian rugs

and tasseled pillows.

Animal desires, 

dispelled,

have given way

to appetite for life;

a single white rose

blooming in its bed.

Now, to nourish this tender

creature with gracious offerings

of word, of song,

and honesty of speech.

Fragrant Bloom

presented when next

tender skin meets

and full lips intertwine.

When next her smile

peers into mine.

When next her soft voice,

patterned after breeze,

echoes sweetly in my ear?

For while she is there

I cannot be fully here.

The Solace of Storm

The Solace of Storm

by Michael Warren Grant

Mesmerizing, raindrops

falling upon a pool.

Ripples akin to psychedelic

incantations.

Arousing, lightning

rubbing and grinding,

release akin to celestial

orgasm.

The solace of a storm,

womb-like, the blanketing

rain. An excuse to be shuttered?

Nay, an opportunity to retreat.

The sky, he thrusts sporadically.

I see a flash across her face,

then hear the thunder

of her moans. I bathe

in their diluvian outpourings.

Their chalice emptied,

to be renewed by hot

and cold fronts combining;

the migration of birds.

A volley of hail covers the sky

as ten thousand English arrows

rend her landscape.

A lovers spat, his tears made hard

by cold shoulder.

The roaring of the rain

is turned up to ten -

there is no formula

for predicting what climax

will be reached next.

I gaze like stunned spectator

for each fresh revelation.

Masterful play-writes, the sky

and ground; commercially

inviable, and so forgotten.

Though the show has gone on

too long - the audience, exhausted

by this heart-holding display,

wish only a return to mundane,

yet we cannot turn away.

Another flash!

Another drumroll!

Another flutter,

Within my heart-hold!