poetry and the creative mind

This is not a love poem
this is an I love you do you love me like
I love you poem
do you know me like
you think you do poem
this is a would you be disappointed
if you did poem
an I have been feeling the chilling of the air
and I cant tell if it is just the fault of the season
or if you, too, are cooling
whatever heat you had for me
browning and falling and
crumbling between my fingers
like the leaves of these oak trees
in november poem
a what would I need to do to keep us warm poem
and this is also
an I may be completely mistaken poem
an it was seventy degrees today poem
this is a show me I am completely mistaken poem
—  A.O.A.M. || This Is Not Love Poem Poem

Forevermore, she is
never apart
flows through veins
liveth in the artists chamber
the fourth corner of the heart

Holds his gaze while she dances
breathes life into eyes
lays in his art
cradles the mind
journeys through the abyss of creation
in the depths of the genius
his well of inspiration
she giveth the spark
melodious whispers
caresses thy ears
ethereal hymns in its chime
soothing his musical sphere

Her tongue, speaketh in thy rhymes
he translates her
poetry into songs
verses metamorphosize
in musical notes

Her Apollo, his Calliope
King of sound
Muse of poetry

-Hanna Adams I.
Musings of a muse

“Every good poem begins in language awake to its own connections–language that hears itself and what is around it, sees itself and what is around it, looks back at those who look into its gaze and knows more perhaps even than we do about who and what we are. It begins, that is, in the body and mind of concentration.

By concentration, I mean a particular state of awareness: penetrating, unified, and focused, yet also permeable and open. This quality of consciousness, though not easily put into words, is instantly recognizable, Aldous Huxley described it as the moment the doors of perception open; James Joyce called it epiphany. The experience of concentration may be quietly physical–a simple, unexpected sense of deep accord between yourself and everything it may come as the harvest of long looking and leave us, as it did Wordsworth, amid thought ‘too deep for tears.’ Within action, it is felt as a grace state: time slows and extends, and a person’s every movement and decision seem to partake of perfection. Concentration can be also placed into things–it radiates undimmed from Vermeer’s paintings, from the small marble figure of a lyre player from prehistoric Greece, from a Chinese three-footed bowl–and into musical notes, words, ideas. In the wholeheartedness of concentration, world and self begin to cohere. With that state comes an enlarging: of what may be known, what may be felt, what may be done.”

Jane Hirshfield, from “Poetry and the Mind of Concentration,” Nine Gates: Entering the MInd of Poetry (Harper, 1997)

I want teeth
longer than my fingers
and claws longer than those
and I want stars on my cheeks
and sunbeams tangled in my hair

I want to smile at strangers on the street
with a bounce in my step
and I want to intimidate
to freeze hearts
I want to awe

I want the guts
to be capable of filleting an idea
as it flips and squirms in my hands
while maintaining a mind
as open as the ocean

I want to burn
and destroy
and I want to build
and create worlds

I want to finish this poem
and I never want it to end
—  A.O.A.M. || Am I a Mess of Contradictions or Am I Just Closed Minded

A bath, a massage, a coffee, a scarf, a message. Loved. Where on earth would such a word come from. But it came.

Make your own warmth. Let everything come to a standstill. Watch the water move when you move your toes watch the standstill of warmth warm the standstill. And stopping is hard and stillness is hard. But pour them in soften edges to a silent-singing pause.

You can trail your fingers through watch water ripple and lap and that’s all.

Here there are a thousand minds
a thousand lights
a thousand worlds lining walls
like tiles
or stained glass windows
and your mind moves through them
like a fish through a reef
shiny and graceful and quick
and at the same time it is in the center
it is the center
and I want nothing
other than to explore it
and it alone
—  A.O.A.M. || Library Love Poem
I feel like you are here sometimes, and I’m overcome with a mixture of confusion and relief. How could a night so perfect end with your continued neglect? My heart sang fervent songs of deep, longing love for you. Crying, twisting, in its sad addiction for you. I missed your magnetic touch, those moments where I felt our souls meld, but maybe that intensity - that flame engulfing, mind consuming desire - is too much: not two planets orbiting one another, but instead they collide. 

That intensity, where your being counts every moment it’s apart from you, watching the clock tick by like nails in the coffin for you, where one moment passes, but inside a year of screaming agony in a perpetual purgatory - not of flames as people may think but ice at its core because unrequited love couldn't be more cold - passes by.

And you expect me, after what feels an eternity in this hell that makes even the devil hide, feel more than fine when you return - sing praise of you when you return - as you try to lure me into a false sense of reality, where hearts are devoured to nourish your soul, where your treatment of me is more than cold.
It is so bittersweet to say, with an ironic twist of course, that I don’t want you back here anymore, for the person I thought you were, never really existed at all.
—  You Never Really Existed, At All// Musings By Moonlight 
Blue Rose

All the gardens are gone

I’ve pressed them onto your tongue

And the roses, the blue roses

They’re safe in plain sight

Adorning the pupils of your eyes

The silk and the velvet

I’ve stolen them as well and

I’ve wrapped them like ribbons

Around your body, my religion

And when you do decide to go

Know I’ve hidden the stems in your bones

When you decide to walk away 

I hope you think back on the girl

who gave you all the flowers 

in the world 

- Skela 

I just wrote a song about this poem I wrote yesterday 

1. To exhale all of the choking, sickening fumes that have gathered in the vacuoles of my lungs as I’ve watched others live loves

2.To put my hands where my mind is and to keep my mind where my hands are 

3. To close my eyes when I feel sunlight kiss my cheeks and to smile at the way it’s lips dance and to fold the memories of these moments into the lining of my heart until it glows

4. To trust the winds that guide me and not to always go where I am urged

5. To no longer fear burning too hot, or running out of light and love and wonder to pour into the world, to no longer fear having none left for my own heart

6. To love stars without counting them and to love myself  the same way

7. To exhale love with every breath of life I take

8. To push and pull on my own bones until they stretch and grow and reach out long enough to grab each idea floating past me

9. To grow my soul past what I can imagine tonight

—  A.O.A.M. || A Cliche Poem Made of Hope and Light and Borderline Realistic Fantasy / Desperate Dreams For This Beginning/ Happy 2017, Loves

In the blue of it in the cloth of it in the fight of it in the tilt. Do you listen do I listen do we listen do we hear. Eyelashes and lips collarbone and hands. All here. All here gathering here in the gap of it here in the lull. Quiet of you cooking and rising of bread.

It is for the voice of the rifts it is for the tense of the shoulders it is for the flickering on for the image to be.

At home in the dream of you at home in the find. At home in the strange of the find of the found.

So you think you own me with that stare, those eyes so supercilious and bare. So you think you’re superior - is that your truth? Thinking everything I say and do is simply not good enough for you?

Oh, how could one argue with a brick wall, at times likes these I may as well say nothing at all. And why waste my breath, so precious and fine, on someone like you who’s truly not worth my time.
—  Get Over Yourself// Musings By Moonlight
196.9 million square miles
7 continents
5 oceans
every bit already touched
fought over
blood spilled and families split
nothing left to see that another person has not already
also witnessed
there is no more exploration
no more discovery
no more new worlds
the only pioneering on behalf of humankind
left to be done
is between the stars
and I wonder
if on the planet of the mind
of the poetic
I am an explorer
equipped with a hot hair balloon
instead of a spaceship
—  A.O.A.M. || Explorer

cascade cradle of vision my mind
now a Coriolis Effect of light like
‘motion’s night-sky to the southern

ecliptic of summer’s eve - this
vast landscape of image now
flows over me as it falls to you

where on its verge, you emerge
forest Enchantress-
huntress of Life
holding untold prowess of heart
possessor of deepest love

you engulf me with the privilege
of your presence and I am witness to
a millennia of warmth washing over me

you raise your gaze towards my way
-and I see you-
between us there is nothing
but the stars.

© K. James Ribble

i don’t see myself as a body,
it’s the mind that matters

and then, i wonder if i see other people in the same way,
as minds and not bodies

maybe so, maybe it’s better that way
maybe it’s not but it’s my way to look at things

and i, i can’t undo that way of thinking
it’s a part of who i am

a mind, a soul - if that easier to picture, with a vessel

I Used to Think Forever Was Longer by Skela

I used to want natural hair that was blonde
And working eyes that were blue
I used to think forever was longer
I used to think about who was loving you
But shallow desires pass
Just like time that moves too fast
And I swear I hope you’re happy
and I hope that you know that