Poetry: Shallow End

Shallow End

Our Community Illusion

has built primitive houses for homeless egos.

Random consciousness insists on using all the wrong tools.

Obligation to dreams

only exists

to remain stubbornly objective.

See, this underlying structure

barely supports our ideas.

Whole dirt lots wait in precious reality.

Information is collected in tiny envelopes.

Envelopes that are mailed out in mass to those who wait -

hands open,swaying to music.

Far away, our distinction has no relevance.

Unapproachable elite intuition

wastes ink on personal perception.

Individual feelings become variation,and cannot be argued away.

Preference has preformed a tricky joke on the evidence collectors.

The shallow end is forever envious of shadows.

Poetry: Thin The Silence

Thin The Silence

Copy my heartbeat.

Sway easily in this moment,

your unconfined faith is necessary.

Today I am quiet inside, unmoved by physical translation.

Underneath somewhere, in the far away, silent speech tickles tired wings.

Outside, perception goes beyond performance,and will bend to my will.

Unruly,and uninhibited, progression wakes to consistent denial.

Costume changes unravel restraint -

slowly it slips into unconsciousness.

I AM suffocating slowly between panes of glass.

Emotion destroyed – shy memory pleads convergence.

Pleads...oh Please...

Inside gestures shock contrived obligation.

Allowed deeper, pulled by ancient currents.

Whirlpool proof of power.

This is where time stops:

Right above my left breast -

beneath my collarbone.

The only place.

Resistance underplayed in electromagnetic expression.

Violent echoes breathe reflex impatience,

as meditative lies – thin the silence.

Twisting in midair, permission shifts illumination.

Intent is whispered hard,as sharp blades carve promises in souls.

Secrets are slowly buried in skin.

This is where lust hides – in the curve of teardrops.

Elusive, and slippery this feeling.

Never to be trusted.

-Heather Smith-Gearns

Poetry: Heather Smith-Gearns

Anchored to Three

There is nothing left to see.

Only stillness with shadow to define provocative white monochrome duality.

My fearful misconceptions contained within, are packed up in boxes,and placed in the corner.

Overlooked, refused,and admired, my devotions neglect – a backlash hangover.

I will never be able to let go – you made sure of it.

Elusive immediate periphery chained to residual space, highlights the fragility keeping your memory alive.

No transcendence, no assumption, only illusion.

Your line a mere index of process.

Disappearing variation in the speed of inscription.

Conceptual gesture become a rupture in my psyche.

I cannot frame you, or place you on the wall.

Your ghost is insistent.

Dominating figure, and ground, yet tragically uncertain.

Our transformed hierarchical structure, important lessons in spatial ambiguity.

In each hesitation, vibrant chroma causes hallucination.

The inevitable process of enclosing, protecting,and enabling.

Anchored to three , upside down, your form in grid.

All the necessary tension creating possibility.

Surrounded by blue field, brushstroke blind, in a fog of gray.

I can hear your voice in the semiotic shift, elusive as usual.

Visible only in the dark.

Dangerous sad for me, this recognition that there is still

ALL TOO MUCH to see.

Vanquished dimension goes on forever, it's painful evolution immediate.

Apparent longing packaged, protected from collective trauma.

The veil becomes thin.

Perpetual sequence moves forward.

I am propelled through normalcy.

I miss you.

I will always miss you.

Today tomorrow, and forever there will be no difference.

This conjured sameness.

I will never reach it's limit.

-Heather Smith-Gearns