posted November 10, 2005 11:08 PM         

Walking through
the poppy universe,
My fingers rattle
the hourglass isles
Where the time sings
in the crossroads of hope
I am a brush
painting for miles

Every letter
of the names I sit on
Just hangs
on the family space tree
Which knowledge lock
should I pick,
As providence chisels
a galaxy key?

Balancing myself
on just one finger,
At first I think
that everything is white
From universe to universe
I jump alone
Just to find out
that I am still a child

By Akiane, age 11.
http://www.artakiane.com/akiane_art.htm#

This is my favourite poem of hers.

posted November 11, 2005 07:31 AM         

This part has been swirling around my head tonight:

"Which knowledge lock
should I pick,
As providence chisels
a galaxy key?
"

posted November 11, 2005 02:18 PM         

Mistaken Truth

With the pure sunshine heartbeat
the fantasy
in the hundreds of dreams
swings on mirth
welding sour silence.
My confession cries out
to ask the light
of my vision
for a moment in the universe
to still the feet of excuses.

Focusing on the first broken earth field
in space,
the Absolute hand points to a year
that is still ahead,
yet has already passed.
Listening to the beam of eternity realism
my perspective gets short of breath...
Like an old tree,
skin of the stars thicken
and I sense cosmic thirst.

Limited impressions start reaching out
like incarnations of echo,
posing for the heart.
Firmly embracing and limiting adaptation
creates an unceasing road,
from where perfect questions
find stoned paths
and from where eruptions of self volcano
like an illusion
masquerade as the true light.

posted November 11, 2005 11:43 PM         

Thanks for finding that one Charlotte.

posted November 12, 2005 12:06 AM         

I cannot find any reason
to be in the snow
where only bitten echoes are heard

Shadows of enriched colors
hold me
like ten-dimentional hands

Hopping on top
of each grasshopper
I drill the hills

While kissing universes shed
a pearl nobly swells up
out of the borders of a shell

When trumpet eyes blow
breath of desire
is so still

With sealed up dust fading the prime
the handmade cast is molded
for eclipsed love

Looking for summer
in the falls of the spring
again I find the winter

posted November 12, 2005 12:17 AM         

Love was created to create...

Children enter a meadow
and play hide and seek.
They run so fast that sunlight cannot catch them.
It looks as if they are hunting themselves.
Life seems longer when you jump in the grass.
Without the reins.

My mother plants me on her favorite flower, the clematis.
The vines of clematis seem to be planted in the air.
Should we grow up like that?
The petals are closing and wrinkling from my breath.
Every petal or stamen I try to hold on to just falls out.

My brother is on the edge of a flower.
He slips and falls down on the dirt.
It is so foggy noone sees him.
Every time he moves, it becomes more foggy.
His muddy shoes in the fog
do not look so muddy after all.
His raincoat is full of hail. The hailcoat.

I gather the fallen petals to celebrate

and planting a seed bigger than the whole garden
I water for two.

Everytime I walk, the strings fall out of my pockets
and I find my grandfather's letter
beside his grave on a meadow.
On top there is a can,
so every time I run over it, he would wake up.
My grandfather's white ring is on my finger.
It is always with me like a cast.

When I run, my eyes are closed,
and I bump into the childhood tree with a hammock
full of the clematis polen.
The hummingbirds land.
They are to become the future.

That is all I remember from my dream.
I am only a child, but I remember everything I need.
Everything I know is someone.
Everything I think is someone.

Love was created to create.

posted November 12, 2005 12:30 AM         

The Anthill Ashes

When life lies down
on the song of a bird
The resurrection
returns my name
And I break
the brakes of senses
To taste
the steady pain

My cross is nailed
into me
I pity the fingers
that scourge my face
The minutes
hurry the hours
The hours
hurry the days

The loyal faces
approach
And run along
with every summer
Beside the flooded feet
of love
The hardened lives
are turning numb

Between my feet
against the wind
My words will cascade
through the strife
But if inside my eyes
you see the flying geese
The ropes will pause
the next worn life

The seasoned time
has buried signs
And swings like a branch
above a lost sandal
I step inside
the ant hill ashes
Becoming new
and larger ant hill

posted November 12, 2005 01:01 AM         

The eternal road is the narrow road
where you wait for others to pass you.
As soon as the lungs of time
breathe camouflage that irritates truth
the centuries like dry branches fall
one after another
breaking the masks, sphinxes
and artificial hearts of the empires.

The eternal road is the narrow road
where you wait for others to pass you.
The volcano crumbles
the hideout of the last stage
and as the past applauds the future
the first century waves
roll over and over.
Is the dormant light still white
when the heaven gives birth
to another earth
and the dew of the pangs drips all over you?

The eternal road is the narrow road
where you wait for others to pass you.
Why does a trillion-word dream exist
if it cannot be opened?
Calling for the asking knots
in the warm-blooded ropes
I lose my seamless robe
and the claws of rolling nightmares
slowly fade through the ripened dream
in me.

The eternal road is the narrow road
where you wait for others to pass you.
On the worn
but still young crossroad of the wishes
I leave love.
The resurrection of consciousness is faith!
Through the same faith you still
find yourself
in a far future.

Akiane, 10

--I am looking forward to the day she publishes her first book.

posted November 14, 2005 06:24 PM         

With an oak mask
the conscience hears
the acorns fall,
and all the hues of the rose
break down.
Do you exist
in the inanimate world,
if every raindrop shows no color,
not even white or clear?

You are the breathing survivor
of spiritual perfection
in the sevenfold universe,
where the center of the wonder orb
is shaken,
and I frame myself live,
sculpting out of myself
the spiritual fabric
to dress up all of you.

At first
the universe progress
feels like as statue
of melancholic fog,
and only your breath can know,
how sore my throat is,
as it spits out a heart bubble,
where my clear eyes
and woolen hair are seen.

Retiming your resurrected gaze,
I pass
the future earth
to you,
so you could write
my name on it
and pass it on
to everyone
around this slippery world.

When clouds turn
into puddles
for the children to walk on,
this is your chance
to help the innocent…
Now you comprehend,
why the unstable sandals
are also
on your hands…

posted November 14, 2005 10:08 PM         

The war in the soil.
The seeds are too young to fight.
While the eyes breathe
the guilty still feel no remorse.
The cobwebs with knots.

Across the blades of harvest
improper dreams wrinkle the childhood.
Without any cries
and without any touch
the cradles are left behind.

Bleeding
through hopeless unconsciousness
it seems that a rainbow gushes through
me.
And rainbow-colored
I leak out onto the hope.

A silhouette of the eyes
follow me
to the warmth of times.
Only the innocence
grows the conception.

Held in dust
the pain of wisdom.
The trust is through hope.
Inside each fragrant branch
the colors of love…

posted November 15, 2005 02:31 AM         

Stunning!

posted November 15, 2005 02:34 AM         

Hearts of pleasure
filled with dances
The noise again
controlled the answers

The words were gone
to change the smells
God dropped into my life
the bells

posted November 15, 2005 02:37 AM         

The Mask

The
only
time
you
hear
the
crow
sing
is
when
it
is
silent

Florescent Lives

When I am young, I never see myself.
When I am old, I always see myself young.
Only leather eyes visualize
how I pick bent carnations
for the inspection of my thoughts.

When a caterpiller climbs
through my pointy hair,
the morning absolute
finding a shelter in spilled sleep
chases the horizons.

On a warm windowsill an old harmonica with sealed cracks
looks like a beach bridge,
and inside the memory of canvas
a single hair brush stroke,
like an overslept answer, visits the florescent lives.

posted November 15, 2005 03:54 AM         

Thank you again, sweet Sunchild for sharing.

posted November 19, 2005 12:25 AM         

The Message
You begin to heal only when you hurt
God sent me to wash myself
for me to see the end...
I saw His smile
grow His love
for the future of the beginning...

Is God's road
more narrow
than our footprints?..

-Akiane

"I teach, they run away.
I listen and they come.
My strength is my silence"