Simple words carry all the weight.
Not fragile,
Nor vulnerable,
Not teetering,
Nor doomed,
Not hopeless,
Myopic,
Oblivious,
Or shallow,
Just
Life.
Us.
Home.
Truth.
Safe.
Happy.
and Love.
Seven words.
For seven years.
For ever.
Bryson Thomas
Tag: poet
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Night is when the words visit.
Taunting my mind
In diaphanous cloth.
As cool, heavy sheets
Sing lullabies of safety
To slow my nervous heart.
And coyotes wail their carrion tales
To everyone, in particular.Night is when leaves grow
And dreams flow
And gods file past
With skies in tow
And dew hoards starlight
For the near-dawn show
Night is when scars heal
And lovers reveal
And the world is,
In a word,
Reset.
There is hope here on this earth as yet.Bryson Thomas
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Humanity is an eternal battle between the creativity that forges our future and the predictability that secures our present. Change frightens us, but our drive to keep things stable will likely lead to extinction.
Imagination is life. Go wild.Bryson Thomas
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This morning,
Like every morning,
I surrender stiff knees to an east-facing mat,
Closed eyes still propolised with sleep,
Bare arms goose-bump quilted
Against the night-touched air,
I still my body,
And notice my breath.Breath.
Just one word for an eternal battle with gravity,
Life forced into cells
From whence it will plot its escape.
But not today.
And not now.
Now is abiding by my stream of consciousness
Without wading in.
Neither war
Nor worry
Nor warming
Nor waste
Now is simple.
Now is breath.Bryson Thomas
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I can still hear your voice, my friend,
Rising easily over the din,
You’re cooking too much food,
And saying something rude,
And welcoming someone else in.I know you’re away, my friend,
But it can’t really be all that far,
You’ve gone out for a dance,
Put a split in your pants,
Or made seven new friends at the bar.You’re probably busy, my friend,
Not a second of your time is wasted,
You’re laughing at jokes,
Making strong rum and cokes,
And the best meals that anyone’s tasted.So thanks for it all, my friend,
Even if I forget some small bits,
I will always still hear you,
Even though I’m not near you,
Shouting “Oy! This’ll rip off your tits!”
I miss you so fiercely, my friend,
All the way down to my core,
But you sure let it rip
And then took that last ship
And left us all wanting for more.And wherever you are, my dear friend,
Even if that’s somewhere above,
Thanks for showing us living,
Is for laughing and giving,
And that everything comes down to love.Bryson Thomas
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Today, Winter sits on our shoulders
As our boots munch on the path,
And I love you.
Today, Spring casts off its jacket
And skips ahead of our bikes,
And I love you.
Today, Summer spreads its feast on a blanket
As we wiggle our toes,
And I love you.
Today, Autumn steeps tired leaves in honey-tea light
And calls us home,
And I love you.
Four days of love.
Forever.Bryson Thomas
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My mind is a multiverse of parallel thoughts.
I see the forests and every single tree,
And the leaves, grass, needles and buds,
Chlorophylled chaos pressed into newsprint,
Where all the stories lead.
A book of unnumbered pages,
Shuffled ’til they flutter with,
Pigeons in the street,
Shooed by a doorman,
Stood sentry at a revolving doorway,
A carousel of shifting rooms,
Sirens of possibility pulling at my soul.
But now the carousel acts centrifuge.
Concentrating all my focus.
On to one, brilliant slide.
Universes retract.
Galaxies collapse.
A wondrous
Singularity
.
Let
There be
Bright creation!
To split the rumination,
Nascent worlds and systems,
And comets and stars and
Oops! There’s a galaxy,
Oops! There’s some gravity,
Pulling me down to earth,
Circling the sun,
Spinning around a viscous core,
And I take back the mantel,
Of divided attention,
And once again,
Let my mind refract the world,
So I might dance among colourful thoughts.Bryson Thomas
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Frankly, I could do less of more,
So many things,
And what are they for?
Something else I must confess;
I could surely do more,
With more of less.
But doing less of more,
Means less more with less.
You see the source of my distress?
The less I do, the more I stress, but
I’ll figure it out…
More or less.Bryson Thomas
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Some nights, we wade into our comfy couch,
To soak, in front of the box.
You nestle a pillow into my lap,
My fingers twirling your locks.
There’s not much to say,
It’s been a long day,
Filled with computers, and phones,
So there’s no higher brew,
Than sitting with you,
As your warmth gets into my bones.
Bryson Thomas
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Fall to the floor,
Let loose your breath,
Drop tears to drown,
That curséd guest, death.
Pull children closer,
And quell their squirms,
Settle your gripes,
On generous terms.
Snuff all the candles,
Draw all the blinds,
Table your reading,
And focus your minds.
The muse has departed,
And taken the words,
She’s gone to Nirvana,
To live with the birds.
Without a good-bye,
Neither note, nor warning,
Just passed in the night,
And left us in mourning.
She’s frozen all hearts,
And dampened all meaning,
The act of creation,
Now purposeless gleaning.
The art has no reason,
So cannot be art,
The muse, in her leaving,
Has torn it apart.
So wear the black vestments,
Sit vigil and wake,
For art without muse,
Is art without sake.Bryson Thomas
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