The Philosopher’s Stone.
She journeyed her spirit
She concealed a stone of pink opal
Between every cloud was love
Between every drop of rain was love
Between every pool of water was love
Between every tear was love
Between every smile was love
Between every instant of love was love
Between every torrent of love was a waterfall of love
A river of love flowed away, toward and between
And in the present, she drew from her purse the smooth pink opal
For then to pitch this stone to the great lake
To call out a flow of infinite ripples that attach strings to the universe
Between every pool of water the love
Between every drop of rain the love
Between every cloud the love
She in respite focus
Now lies on lake-bed swell between atom and pink opal
Between every instant of love and love
In present temperate under-stream there dwells no hurting
So be it in this, and every split moment
Copyright © Jevon Antoni-Jay. All rights reserved. 2008
Maggots – It is a maggot’s divided allegiance that should puzzle you.
Maggots always seem to be in hurry to get somewhere – blindly pushing and shoving, scrambling and budging – falling over themselves and others to get ahead.
Defecating pigs and maggots devour, lie, and play in smells
Maggots with obsessive-compulsive disorder tidy up their pristine crib of all deceased before leaving: The cleanest of living to free this site –
To fly away
To take flight
To step to step from one to another
To pollinate, to spread to dread
To bite, to disable with toxins: To be alluring to entice the eye of gentleman with nets; to be alluring to entice the big beaked wing to fodder: To turn to lifeless for a maggots’ obsessive-compulsive disorder –
To spick and span – To spick and span –
Copyright © Jevon Antoni-Jay. All rights reserved. 2010
(Two segments taken from ‘The Outing’)
In definition the wind comes with such a forceful hand that its slap can twist and bend a tree to turn its face away northward. It can shatter a limb and pitch and crack the waters of the mighty with such lather; a fermentation that can brew those waters to hammer their tools into fashioning rocks of any stature; to topple the colossal cliffs into its own crashing intoxicated seas. While in all this writhing touching with titillation and demolition, it relentlessly searches a fingering way through the grasses and hollows. There it is, the blustery air unsympathetically alternates a carefree whistle and whisper while brushing a flaccid body over the fragile velvet bristled hairs of its territories.
In winter wind blows, and hard, with unbreakable intention on exasperated trees, who shake their fists and toss their garments aside in desperation at its muscled breath. The trees nodding disapproval is well tested by this squally man as he rattles his bones through the bleak landscapes clattering, cackling, and screaming amongst this unclothed banshee tempest.
In well dressed summer’s wind, a gentle maiden’s hand fondles prolific blooms; to free the hurting grip of the devil’s sun stenched breath, which now plunders all to char it into wasteland sands. Creatures scuttle from tracks they leave to seek the tender shade and caressing hand of cool compassion.
The sea looked to the heavens with bursting eyes of salt tears. Her cheeks pitted with tiny dark circles radiate her frenzied torment to the torpid shallows, who shirk in respite amidships ragged cliffs. “Let me lift you up, wrap around, and move you; mould you all my ways. If not, it will be the end of you and those whose lives are beating in your heart. You will fall from blacked skies to be sucked into the blotting sod or run as rivers to quench the thirst of land and man. You will no longer be my plaything. Stay still now as I run my lips through your corporeal waters. Remain composed for me,” so intoned the wind.
Copyright © Jevon Antoni-Jay. All rights reserved. 2009