Poets see into images,
and show them in words.

‘Raindrops dapple mountain shadows,
dry-thin aspen leaves
rattle and shiver
forlornly,
greeting winds breath
with yellow memories
cooled by seasons.’

Poets see into patterns,
and show them with forms.

'I stand, amazed, in my awarenesses,
seeking the reason behind the strangeness,
decomposition, before its time, I conclude, a
metamorphosis, undefined by alignment of yardsticks
egotistical human-framed mime, negating rigidness of mind,
showing all properties of Time, and regulated by Life
and its forever renewing mysteries, sublimed into
nuances of rhyme, runnels of the divine medium
of combined experiences, shrived of lessening,
gaining apocalyptic reasoning into
humanistic leavening as I reach
my hand to touch and gather
the twisted gifts of my
planet, unlimited by
expectations of

a new-birthed cry
of Being.'

Poets see into rhythms,
and show them in songs.

‘I need a ride, yeah,
gotta get a real ride,
bike-between-my-legs ride,
yeah, outta my blind side,
yeah, I gotta get a ride…'

Poets see into metaphysics,
and show them in visions.

‘What if…

every planet, sun
and moon
of all the galaxies
in all the universes
were each
a single cell
of GOD?’

Poets see into colors,
and show them in vibrancy.

‘Passage to new worlds of platinum design,
undulate with two girls of silver divine,
looping new orbits with magenta fluoresce,
covering day’s thread in rainbow’s fancy dress.’

Poets see into angers,
and show them with outrage.

‘As I Sit upon my Regal throne,
suddenly my Thoughts do Roam,
Why is my Ass on the Line,
Usually my voice, Sublimed.’

Poets see into emotions,
and show them with compassion.

‘She touches the pain in her window,
sharply jagged, fracture-patterned,
feels glass-shard winds blow,
unloosed, crippling years,
gusty, and vanishing.'

Poets see into guilts,
and show them with veracity.

'She agonizes, in thousands of ways,
on raising a child. She sees
how she should be, as a parent,
no warranty was given at her birth,
no guarantee of character building,
by absent father, no money back…’

Poets see into comedies,
and show them with wit.

‘(“Do they make sherry from beans?”
I giggle…to myself
and the kitten, who watches
with wise, predatory eyes,
oh, right, wise, shmise…)’

Poets see into passions,
and show them with excitement.

‘Finally she finds her mind’s desire,
rabid and clean, she’s filled with fire,
no soul-less toil, factories death,
it’s clear to source of first full breath,
the gift of sight, her world’s delight,
is linking words of daily plight.’

Poets see into possibilities,
and show them with questions.

‘Should she set it aside?
Where comes this pain?
Immutable thud, last refrain.
Do apples fly? Is she insane?
Oh, bitter mind…’

Poets see into loves,
and show them with sighs.

‘Simple Justice marriage,
simple silver band,
is all I’ll ever need
as we walk
hand in hand.’

Poets see into Time,
and show the inevitable.

‘Did you see that moment of time?
It seemed in such a hurry
to be on its appointed way.
Laughing and weeping combine
to send it off in a flurry,
but I’d like it to stay.’

Poets see into sorrows,
and show them with humanity.

‘A mother smiles, through her tears,
her child is starving, cold and dying,
watches her with beggared eyes,
sees veils of darkness lowering…
she continues, lip carving,
to send her love to her child.’

Poets see into Life,
and show the beauty of Being.

'I see…

each tiny spark of Life,
as an entity of Being,
every grain of desert sand,
every sea and weed,
a feather on a bird
or a broken-down old tree,
has a fundamental nature,
a presence, an actuality,
has a unique quiddity,
its endurance or duration,
its abstract deviations,
the fact that it was there
is part of the Continuation.

I see…

the largeness of a God,
as an entity of Essence,
each cell it contains,
its crux of vitalnesses,
the volumes it portrays
releases its extractions,
its identifying element
persists in permanence,
a cornerstone quintessence,
thoroughly presented,
it’s perfectly complete,
the fact that it is here
is part of the Distillation.’

Erin Moen
9/12/03

This poem and related concepts are copyright © Erin Moen 2003, and may not be reproduced in part or in whole without the author's express permission.

V2-“Inner Holiday”
V4-"Decomposing Crystal Ridge"
V6-“I Gotta Get a Ride, Yeah”
V8-“GOD…?”
V10-“String of Life”
V12-“Fleeting Throne”
V14-“Pain of Glass”
V16-“She Means It”
V18-“Oh, Well, I Guess Its Peas”
V20-“First Breath”
V22-“Do Apples Fly?”
V24-“My Diamond”
V26-“Moments of Time”
V28-“Being”