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Axilea MU

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Featured Book
Cemetery Island
by Mr. Ed

Sometimes, vacations just don't turn out the way you hoped they would. An idyllic wilderness house boating get-a-way soon turns into a hellish nightmare.....  
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by Axilea MU
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Rated "G" by the Author.
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Recent poems by Axilea MU
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           >> View all 273

The rain has stopped and the sudden pale light through leaves and feathers reminds me of music that reaches the senses, the movement of invisible fingers on catgut strings.

With each breath, each wink, rays, zebras, stripes, rhythms, density, void: motifs appear through all that we avoid, colorful patterns. The past goes over the lines and I remember visiting a sacred space with you: vivid hues on votive tablets, and in the distance between the shrine and my questioning eyes, the indispensable vacuity that stills the anxious mind.

How voluptuous and meaningful reality becomes as I hold its emptiness!
But I can feel that the immaterial, endless sunny day drives you crazy. Strange, all I have to do is hold out my arms and, in the middle of  your vain efforts, I sense the texture that fulfills me. The bright yellow oil paint of life, in my cupped hands.


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Reviewed by Alan Abrams 4/27/2012
fulfillment in a handful of sunshine...ahhhh!
Reviewed by Patrick Granfors 4/18/2012
You are a master story teller who makes me stretch. Beautiful. Patrick
Reviewed by Amor Sabor 4/17/2012
All the lines in your magnificent piece hold value to me but I especially loved this line..."How voluptuous and meaningful reality becomes as I hold its emptiness!"
Always beautiful work from you Axilea
Reviewed by Douglas Bentley 4/16/2012
Texture - what a structure!
Of rain that comes and sings a lament
One drop or a million billion could be sent.
A drought or a deluge - who knows what is meant
Still bringing it
Still singing it
Till your soiled hands are washed clean
Till you look in the beholder's eyes of green
Emptiness - what does it mean?
I too see it - every night in my dream.
Reviewed by Kate Burnside 4/16/2012
motifs appear through all that we avoid and we can be (ful)filled by the sands that trickle through our fingers. Like here, Axilea, it's life's yellows that stick and adhere with me - sometimes the more so by their absence. Virginia Woolf would love this. xx
Reviewed by Charlie 4/14/2012
Inspiring little thing. I could dip my life-toast into that golden yolk of light and be filled. I like how you cup it in your hands and hold the whole (hole?) of life painted in your hands-- a great visual of mellowed light. But my favorite line was: "How voluptuous and meaningful reality becomes as I hold its emptiness!" That, for me, is precisely what I used to call "poetic depression"--a "waxing wane".

In this reverie, there is musicality in the sounds as well as the impressions of color you give-- harmony. I love the juxtaposition of different textures throughout: rain, sun rays; leaves and feathers; music and movement, fingers and catgut strings; breaths, winks; zebras striped with light (finches?) as well as black; density and void

That last pair (density and void) are repetitive textures throughout: invisible fingers and catgut strings; vacuity and voluptuousness; reality and emptiness; immaterial and endless abundance; vain efforts and fulfillment; intangible life cupped in tangible hands.

You handle these textures with a light hand, understating, which makes the mood all the more penetrating-- reverie, reverent and beautiful, infused with truth and light. --Charlie
Reviewed by Mary Ann Biddinger 4/14/2012
Beautiful pristine essence of life.
Lady Mary Ann
Reviewed by Ronald Hull 4/14/2012
The true poet can see the essence of a poem in almost anything.

Reviewed by RWE SAYS BYE 4/13/2012
...the elixir of redolent flow permeates this exquisite piece... leaving me with the tingly feeling of being rubbed raw and radiant for more motive under the maw of a malleable massage...
Reviewed by E T Waldron 4/13/2012
A marvelous stimulating poem,beautifully written!

Reviewed by Diana Legun (Reader) 4/13/2012
Bountiful enlightenment language in this writing for me. "The past goes over the lines..." brings to me the vision of a reverse dot-to-dot, a fresh way to depict revisiting past. It is right close understanding I have of "But I can feel that the immaterial, endless sunny day drives you crazy." I savor the truth of that sentence; The Magic Toll Booth's Digitopolis vs. Dictionopolis . . . . 'do-ers' vs. 'be-ers.' You write with a "be-er's" hand. ~~ Diana
Reviewed by Christine Tsen 4/13/2012
Such a blossom of a poem! I love the intimate voice in this, the less is more, the magic that remains hidden but somehow finds the heart.
Reviewed by jude forese 4/13/2012
your poem has all the properties that inspire the textures of the mind ... vivid imagery with an intensive motif provokes as well as stimulates ...
Reviewed by Jon Willey 4/13/2012
leafing through the tomes of personal emotive experiences catalogued in the fringes of our existence until we locate just the texture that enraptures us in the moment - there is a wonderful stream of mind and sensuality that blends throughout this beautiful rendering Axilea - it brings this reader much enjoyment - I wish you love and peace my dear friend -- Jon Michael
Reviewed by John Flanagan 4/13/2012
not all are as lucky or as gifted
in the senses this poem enshrines;
your vision of the world, Axilea,
is special and unique. Beautiful.

Reviewed by Morgan Merriweather 4/12/2012
buttercup yellow! like the prose, poem just flows. ~ Morgan
Reviewed by Jerry Bolton 4/12/2012
This is such a wonderful bit of exquisite wordplay, but I have to admit, it would have sounded better to me if written in free verse instead of the prose. That's just me and my prejudice against most prose.
Reviewed by Chip Bergeron 4/12/2012
Wonderful, beautiful word pictures......Thanks for sharing.
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