Somewhere In Between

2010-05-07T16:15:00.000-07:00

Final Post - Close of Chap Book
"Somewhere In Between"

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

2010-05-07T12:28:00.000-07:00

Hunger

revolutions occur
when hearts are ripped
and hunger prevails
as we are continually
fed on platitudes and plates
diverted with cut flowers
placed in vases
on spectacular views

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 05/07/2010 3:11 pm est

2010-05-06T14:06:00.000-07:00

Convection

rising out of restrictions
a restricted seed up-roots
breaking through
creeping out
climbing about
a leg up-lifted

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 05/06/2010 5:04 pm est

2010-05-06T11:45:00.000-07:00

Recognition

woke up in sleepy sound
touched by smile
reminding me of laughter
unseen and unheard
felt through words

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell
written in the 9:00 am realm on 05/06/2010

2010-05-05T06:55:00.000-07:00

Adjacent

gently restrained
mixing in a centrifuge
force binds strongly
in longing for the scent
of effervesce
expressed in forests
comforting and covering
a cellular celebration
in singular layers of leaves
where I breathe and sleep
softly seeded in sediment

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 05/05/2010 at 9:45 am

2010-05-04T03:33:00.001-07:00

Alleviation

in my arms deeply rooted
there is a calling
that cannot be explained
I call it beautiful
others call it insane

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 05/04/2010 6:04 am est

2010-05-03T02:41:00.000-07:00

Aortic Ache

sadness swells tight in chest
that still holds the unclenched
reminiscing about a floral abbey
in subconsciousness and hyacinths

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 05/03/2010 at 5:31 am est

2010-05-02T15:29:00.000-07:00

May Daze

in tall ship I ride, side by side
slaying all the monsters
winding through mazes
of bureaucratic bullshit

catching breath in fields of glory
individually we share a story
make love nakedly enjoying
each others outpouring

easily oppressed
hidden beneath niceties
of fancy hats and fountain pens
phony smiles a plenty

I sit and sail in artistic veil
expressing undercurrents
swirled with sensation
while others stand and sweat

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 05/02/2010 2:41 pm est

2010-05-01T08:22:00.000-07:00

Tenderness

woven in soft strands
stitched and snuggled
socks and mittens
are intricately worn
unspun with devotion

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 5/1/2010 at 10:23 am

2010-04-29T07:03:00.000-07:00

Lyrical Embrace

erased by history of ghosts
hiding behind infrastructure
and barbed wire fence
caress permeates fields
mist rises into folds of dawn
aroused by fingers that linger
textured on tip of tongue

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 04/29/2010 9:52 am est

2010-04-27T01:41:00.000-07:00

Embedded

the nightmares only appear
when I wake from embrace
embedded in embodiment
I am gently lulled back

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 04/26 & 04/27 – completed at 4:39 am est

2010-04-26T18:39:00.000-07:00

"and on the 90th something poem - it occurred to me; I must rest, and dream... embraced... embedded..."

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

04/26/2010 at 9:43 pm est

2010-04-25T17:11:00.001-07:00

2010-04-24T16:23:00.000-07:00

Stratus

on gray days as such
trapped in sunless
where rain doesn't pour
and surfaces are wiped clean
there is desolation

highlighted by a spoonful of brownie batter
an interjection from a child's giggle
and a few moments embraced by shadow
of sweet nothingness
in gray rays as such

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 04/24/2010 at 7:23 pm est

2010-04-23T16:45:00.000-07:00

Vignettes

I don't paint masterpieces
I sketch dreams
as dreams sketch me
a seed planted in chaos
blooming in breath
neck upon neck

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 04/23/2010 at 7:39 pm est

2010-04-22T17:24:00.000-07:00

One Line

the best line read this day
was created by genius
in an unstructured manner
words cannot describe
what this line stirred inside

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 04/22/2010 at 8:17 pm est

2010-04-21T15:23:00.000-07:00

Preeminence

without intensity of stress
on the verge of unrest
with pulse and blood
pumping in rhythm
walks turn into skips

children smile in unison
at caterpillars dressed in their finest
and grasshoppers singing silly songs
marching into colorful gardens
befit for a king

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 04/21/2010 in the late afternoon as the rain fell in perfection

2010-04-20T17:36:00.000-07:00

Ligature

with each breath climbing behind shadows
among cobblestones of isolation
there is a lifting of pain and memories
where we ripen as fresh as the first day
and peel one another
with quickness and subtlety
resting against mind and matter
a fairy tale remains in touch
walking away with hands clutched

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 04/20/2010 at 8:24 pm est

2010-04-19T19:30:00.000-07:00

Morpheus Revisited

on a cold morning he came and surrendered a promise to keep a delicate balance between the life within and the life without

with soft words falling into pillows of delight where dreams become the sustenance of a posture to stand upright
and face the sun

bathing one carefully; kissing away all fears and resistance to disorder

his being and his caress are the tides of timelessness that roll in

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 04/19/2010 at 10:18 est

2010-04-18T19:17:00.001-07:00

Japanese Garden

butterflies flutter in circles
of incomprehensible stomach wings
they skip from stone to stone
with no tears shed
a gift from the unknown
lit by the brilliance of a lantern

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 04/18/2010 10:15 pm est

2010-04-17T14:34:00.000-07:00

Concurrence

the whole universe fits into the palm of our hands
when the wind outside tosses about
and a window's mouth is nailed shut
there lies beauty
there lies sync
swimming in a sea of unsettlement

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 04/17/2010 5:29 pm est

2010-04-16T20:30:00.000-07:00

Warmth

arrives unexpectedly tucked tightly
beneath a floral covered blanket
bringing back a huge picture window
threaded in a two room apartment
eating ice cream
momentarily freezing migraine and tummy ache
dreaming in a garden of earthly delight
on a warm spring night

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 04/15/2010 at 11:27 pm est

2010-04-15T17:24:00.000-07:00

Sans

walked in twilight to take pictures
tripped over two purple tulips
so dark they rendered black
and there was no film to fit
in the palm of my small hand
took pictures, uncaptured

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 04/15/2010 8:09 pm est

2010-04-14T20:21:00.001-07:00

Render

in coldness
the dormancy of decay
lies motionless
anxious to be picked
by warmth of fruition
wrapped in cloth
painted or sculpted
enlightened by touch

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 4/14/2010 at 10:34 pm est

2010-04-13T12:01:00.000-07:00

Weeping

coiled around perfection
arms embrace an unattainable matter
materialized in the texture of tree bark

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/13/2010 at 2:51 pm est

2010-04-11T15:53:00.000-07:00

Denmark

from the creator of sound to those who listen above
on or about the first to seventh floor
a young woman re-takes her final sponge bath alone
overlooking sky and playground
sedative in the soaking of a lifetime
all are pouring forth

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/11/2010 at 6:11 pm est

2010-04-10T18:59:00.000-07:00

Perfect expression of the moment ~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

“The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.”
~Vladimir Nabokov

2010-04-08T16:05:00.000-07:00

Camera Obscura

a transitive ache petrified in the poverty of a soul
pinned and pining by it's own pink translucent wings
the netting of nature in the necessity to procreate
a misconstrued ache abscessed in the pit of a stomach
nurtured by blue fantasy, a golden apple skips joyfully
nibbled stone to stone on a pleasant walk to the sea

~ Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 04/08/2010 6:35 pm est

2010-04-07T17:19:00.000-07:00

Transitive

a blossom dreams
flowerless and fearless
refined and serene
speckled with occasional snores
graceful feet sticking out
the bottom of a sheet

a blossom dreams
flowerless and fearful
refined and diluted
speckled with tiny gray squares
waiting on transparent warmth
that has yet to arrive

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 04/07/2010 at 8:18 pm est
completed 04/07/2010 at 11:02 pm est

2010-04-07T15:08:00.000-07:00

A favorite, the ending passage from "MICROMÈGAS" ~ par Voltaire

Spoiler Alert:

"L'animal de Sirius sourit: il ne trouva pas celui-là le moins sage; et le nain de Saturne aurait embrassé le sectateur de Locke sans l'extrême disproportion. Mais il y avait là, par malheur, un petit animalcule en bonnet carré qui coupa la parole à tous les animalcules philosophes: il dit qu'il savait tous le secret; que cela se trouvait dans Somme de saint Thomas; il regarda de haut en bas les deux habitants célestes, il leur soutint que leurs personnes, leurs mondes, leurs soleils, leurs étoiles, tout était fait uniquement pour l'homme. A ce discours, nos deux voyageurs se laissérent aller l'un sur l'autre en étouffant de ce rire inextinguible, qui, selon Homère, est le partage des dieux; leurs épaules et leurs ventres allaient et venaient, et dans ces convulsions, le vaisseau que le Sirien avait sur son ongle tomba dans une poche de la culotte du Saturnien. Ces deux bonnes gens le cherchèrent longtemps; enfin ils retrouvérent l'équipage, et le rajustèrent fort proprement. Le Sirien reprit les petites mites; il leur parla encore avec beaucoup de bonté, quoiqu'il fût un peu fâché dans le fond du coeur de voir que les infiniment petits eussent un orgueil infiniment grand. Il leur promit de leur faire un beau livre de philosophie, écrit fort menu pour leur usage, et que, dans ce livre, ils verraient le bout des choses. Effectivement, il leur donna ce volume avant son départ: on le porta à Paris à l'académie des sciences; mais, quand le secrétaire l'eut ouvert, il ne vit qu'un livre tout blanc: "Ah! dit-il, je m'en étais bien douté."

Read and understood (to my best ability) in English, transcribed in French from a French Stories text
(please excuse any errors)
~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

2010-04-06T19:59:00.000-07:00

Dusk

I lay my head gently down upon the lap of the universe
receiving the nurturing of a lifetime under a cloudless ceiling
complacently resting with comprehension and connotation,
wordless and listening, caressed by hands of the unknown,
momentarily entering hearth and home, pre-existence and eternity.

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 04/06/2010 10:23 pm est

2010-04-05T20:39:00.000-07:00

Reminiscence

threaded in pink shards of identical disposition
smearing blue and purple frosting about
dirt freshly stained upon glowing modesty
a lightness of being walks in unison
accumulating a buzzing sound scape
admiring the phenomenon of nothing

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 04/05/2010 11:29 pm est
photo of "my niece" taken the morning of 04/04/2010

2010-04-04T16:03:00.000-07:00

Spring Equinox

a hex climbing on grandma's hammock, turned upside down, a lashing aground, an arm bruising and a twist of wrist

a crawl back up, eyes quickly fading in sunlight and shading, staring up skirts of newly budded trees

a rake standing stiff as if human would, sharp toothy grin, bird house screwed on chest and mailbox glued on torso

a soul that has eviscerated all insides, as eyelids finally close into lost existence and pleasant doze

a jump from purple flower to purple flower, tiny hand holding the other of an unknown lover, we dine and gaze

a worm shouting below in the distance of worm infested worlds, weaving from one dirt pile to another

a woodpecker tapping on deciduous tree, the woodpecker engulfs us, the worms surround us

a fire smoking ribs with frothy beer, children exchange toy swords; and I, in my head, half dead

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 04/04/2010 throughout the evening
photo taken 04/04/2010 in the morning
poem edited 04/04/2010 10:15 est
poem trimmed 04/10/2010 8:54 est

2010-04-02T22:54:00.000-07:00

Stripling

in the flickers of their eyes
and celerity of their movement
hiding seek against the wind
I am ten going on ten
reliving unambiguously
amid monstrosities of trees
dancing in unblemished unison
toes twinkling in moonlight
capturing barefooted beams
an incessant iridescence
innately reborn and adorned in red

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 04/03/2010 1:51 am est

2010-04-02T13:45:00.000-07:00

Lullaby

from the first day of winter birth, a ghastly veil has been in trail, begging to be nurtured into nuptials of another kind

a Korean monk once mentioned in a most discrete manner of the very same unearthly creatures creeping and craving about

be it simple cerebral epilogue with silk cord tracing an inevitable stimuli, scented and sensed

or dreams beyond an incomprehensible universe and delicate existence residing in the petals of a subconscious rainbow

regardless of all, imaginary, actuality, humanity, birth, life, death, pain, joy, sex, love; there is but one single unexplainable driven source

and within, fatigued, unsettled, unstrung; I surrender eternally to a nightly cradle rocking by soothing shadow who gracefully bathes me in the sun

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

started 04/01/2010 8:05 pm est
completed 04/02/2010 4:05 pm est

2010-03-31T18:10:00.000-07:00

A Moment of Silence

not for death or deceptive deity
but for life observed and reserved
for thy moment, internal and intrinsic

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/31/2010 at 8:56 pm est

2010-03-30T17:18:00.000-07:00

Henceforth

one shade glancing down
one shade looking up
one drawn with delicate tea cup
one that swathes another ineffably
stirring her nature intensely
dipped cherry blossoms
soaking in a refined graceful wine
who hides humanity far away
with a never ending sailing
from the end of an edge to eternity
sedative and inseparable
in a tiny painted boat
pushed quietly offshore
composed for only one

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell
written in the afternoon and throughout the evening of 03/30/2010

2010-03-29T17:00:00.001-07:00

Devotion

nothing compares to that
of one's most beloved book
hands on threaded seams
a crinkled spine, curled pages
from being read and carried
a hundred times over
tucked away in sacred enclosure
each new gingerly glimpse
discovers another impression
bookmarked in blueprint
of revered recollection

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/29/2010 7:47 pm est

2010-03-29T00:00:00.000-07:00

Inundation

sitting in a bundle of my own making a loud thunder clap has me shaking, jumping up from bed at 1:30 am listening to the rain trickling again on a dark, moonless night covered by clouds

with throat on fire I am carried up stream into subconsciousness of bewilderment where I desire to swallow a cool, comfort to calm the burning of a yearning, that moves down chest

and swim with guarded wind who guides me gently onward, pushing me past limits never thought possible, of a damaged disposition recovering from the torment of existence

complete redemption may never be restored, but reparation comes in storms and rain and brightly budding trees; tears and joy and sounds that flood me, into other realms and dimensions

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell
written 03/29/2010 3:01 am est

2010-03-28T14:36:00.000-07:00

Through my father's words ~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

The Same Current

Down river further than ever dreamed
Still we clutch the other
In the bottom of the boat
And as mountains yet moan
Over springs half-thrown
Still we are carried clinging
Laughing and singing
And dreaming
Of the souls of our souls
Running by the poles.

~Richard Wilson Moss
written June 2005

2010-03-27T18:19:00.000-07:00

Suffering

a moment of a contentment turning into a scream
watching mom disintegrate and bleed
internally from drone attack

sweat rolling of the back of shadows
strolling broken Iraq taking children by the hand
leading them across demolished land

a lonely soldier digging a hole
and making a home for weeks on end
with a cig or two in the middle of Afghanistan

genocide of masses in tribal classes
and no one gives a shit because they
could care less about an African mess

and me in my headphones drowning out the sound
pretending to wear a crown
with eyes wide closed and a magic wand

where I roam enchanted, hiding in my wonderland
with magic in tow and a fairy glow
sparkling among the rainbows of destruction

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/27/2010 9:27 pm est

2010-03-26T15:59:00.000-07:00

Intangible

curled up tight in a ball of fur
an unknown soul rests within her
of beautiful eyes and graceful essence
mournfully swimming in absent presence

in collective moments of weakness
she weeps for that which is not possible
to touch her internal core physically
and calmly caress it knowingly

although just beneath the surface
of skin and orchestral matter
there is a binding of both natures
abounding in abstraction

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/26/2010 7:04 pm est

2010-03-25T17:48:00.000-07:00

The Second Greatest Pleasure

eating avocados cut in two
with the round of wood removed
a spoon dug into a silk organic flesh
the very color of teary eyes

strawberries taken by the stem
freshly picked and rinsed
eaten with seeds surrounding them
the very color of a pouting mouth

a slice of rustic tuscan bread
kneaded and baked
smothered with cheese and butter
the very color of wheat ringlets

the Third greatest pleasure is sleeping
which leaves us to the First
in multitudes and minutes
encompassing all the rest

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/25/2010 8:39 pm est
photo taken 3/20/2010 just after lunch
edited photo 6/23/2010 4:15 am est

2010-03-24T17:53:00.000-07:00

Origin

Sitting in folds
shivering and shimmering
a form covered in silent film
collecting the dust of delight

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/24/2010 8:54 pm est

2010-03-24T12:13:00.000-07:00

Resplendence
~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

"Poets utter great and wise things which they do not themselves understand."
~Plato

Photo taken 3/20/2010 approx 11:30 pm est
Gallery5
Richmond, VA
knees for tri-pod

2010-03-24T01:34:00.000-07:00

Essence
~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

"The individual, man as a man, man as a brain, if you like, interests me more than what he makes, because I've noticed that most artists only repeat themselves."
~Marcel Duchamp

Photo taken 3/20/2010 approx 11:30 pm est
Gallery5
Richmond, VA
knees for tri-pod

2010-03-23T04:29:00.000-07:00

Temperate Cataclysm

fell in love just yesterday on a March spring day when the first storm appeared in an obscure thunderhead above

gathered the children under an umbrella that swallowed us whole, led them to the bus with kindly kiss and wave goodbye

took quick cover under shelter that swallowed me whole, composed of pine wood floors and red paint

he roared, he hammered on rooftop at peak, lines of rain fell like vines reaching downward for me to climb

he soaked a self in fresh rainwater and bathed me gingerly in timed rhythm, tapping upon an existence cultivated within a saturated chest

he shook his head once more, tapering off as quietly as he came, tapping from an existence cultivated within a saturated cloud

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/23/2010 6:10 am est
edited 03/23/2010 7:24 am est
photo edited 06/22/2010 4:36 am est

2010-03-21T21:23:00.000-07:00

A Fairy Tale

On rustic planes of desertion
a diminutive self wanders.

Turning bikes into ponies,
asphalt into meadows
and trees into entities.

Climbing cliffs composed
of clay, exposing silt
on ascent.

Only to return back down again
and rinse thoroughly in the
Rappahannock.

A quick walk along the sand,
a hand stand, then for the
grand stage event.

Pink ribbons tied on point,
a dance about, pouting
with parcels in plenitude.

~ Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/22/2010 12:04 am est or there about

2010-03-20T22:03:00.000-07:00

Birth

crouching on my hands and knees
with the consolation of earth beneath me
on a March spring day
I remember nothing, tumbling and turning
from the first moment of observing

inhaling a sweetly scented whispering
the day before it's expected arrival
on a March spring day
I remember everything, tumbling and turning
from the first moment of observing

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/21/2010 at 12:55 am est
photo taken 03/20/2010 walking through Richmond

2010-03-19T18:36:00.000-07:00

Ceremonial Ambience

tasted and tested
unveiled and unspun
naked and glistening
exposed to the sun
an acquiescent dance
fragrantly entranced
with twilight
strung, among trees

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 3/19/2010 9:24 pm est

2010-03-19T01:27:00.000-07:00

Subterranean Tide II

at approximately 4:00 am
eastern standard time
I feel the shore line
it rolls in and washes over
a self sleeping with sand
most days it sails in quietly
waking soft green eyes
and crimson cheeks
and the stars, the moon, the eclipse
are all one force pulling me
into the same existence
residing among a willful cosmos
descending a staircase

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell
written 03/19/2010 at 4:21 am est

2010-03-18T13:55:00.000-07:00

"I confuse reality with unreality, I don't even understand the difference and yes, I live in between both worlds. In a dream-like awake state, that is my realm. Both are one."

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Edgar Allan Poe

2010-03-17T16:43:00.000-07:00

Despondent Illumination

resting in silence
upon wooden floors
mostly indoors
there are no orchids
there is darkness
creeping through
tusks of bamboo

all is tightly shut
upon soft grounds
mostly fictitious
there are orchids
there is light
creeping through
tusks of bamboo

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/17/2010 at 7:33 pm est

2010-03-16T09:48:00.000-07:00

Houdini's Book

there is a bookshelf filled with faded paperbacks covered in spiderwebs, with the exception of one; a single book sits enchanted, it's cover woven with fine threads and lined with a golden edge

with chapters beyond the depths of it's effluence and pressed flowers between tea colored pages... roses, lavender and scented sages

many leafs are soaked and torn in red, especially it's middle; but mostly intact full of birth, immenent death and great compassion

others are soaked in blue, especially it's rising currents; blue for the tears it sheds, blue for it's integral reflection, blue for the skies above, blue for the sake of just being, blue for healing

and through an eternal embrace, a key is passed unbound from one existence to another

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written throughout the morning and into the afternoon on 03/16/2010

2010-03-15T00:39:00.001-07:00

Autobiography of a Dream

under an oriental sky a walk is taken through a moss garden peeking with stolen buds freshly blooming across the horizon

there is another who walks within, a tree entangled in a weakened chest that fits to perfection and roots to the lowest depths lighting up lanterns to guide the way

across spherical soundscapes climbing rolling green hillsides sectioned off by cherry groves and delicate rice paper fences

and with bound feet the walk is intoxicating by the jasmine scent of skin and the red oval shape of a mouth that tastes of an endearing universal frailty

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/15/2010 3:30 am est

2010-03-14T05:51:00.000-07:00

Subterranean Tide

at approximately 3:00 pm
eastern standard time
I feel the shore line
it rolls in and washes over
a self playing with sand
some days it rushes in rapidly
flooding soft green eyes
and crimson cheeks
and the sea, the sand, the waves
are all one force pulling me
into the same existence
residing among a willful cosmos
sitting on a bench in an ocean park

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/14/2010 at 8:37 am est

2010-03-13T01:52:00.000-08:00

Abandonment

I understand color and within it I climb into my favorite painting to find a place I can sleep in peace, in between both worlds
because the alternative is painful,
I feel it rushing throughout
I don't know what is required of me, I don't understand

I understand lines and within them I jump in a game of hopscotch to find a place I can play in peace, in between both worlds
because the alternative is painful,
I feel it rushing throughout
I don't know what is required of me, I don't understand

I understand medium and within it I roam in my picture to find a place I can exist, in between both worlds
because the alternative is painful,
I feel it rushing throughout
I don't know what is required of me, I don't understand

And not understanding is an abyss of self-torment until I jump one enchanted early morning into that exotic reflection I so often see mirrored on the ceiling in the purplish blue skies above

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/13/2010 4:48 am est

2010-03-11T10:52:00.000-08:00

Honey and Tea

exhausted by the flirtations with death and desolation
desperate to be reborn again surrounded by a purple hue
with green fire on the inside to keep me alive
and safe from ideas I cannot consciously understand
although I know them so well and they have become
collected petals of contradictions and impaling pain

exhausted by the flirtations with suffering and madness
desperate to be reborn again in a beautiful song
or perhaps within the whisperings of a captivation
that feeds me spoonfuls of honey and warm vanilla tea
and nurses my spirit safely back to the depths of a wonderland
where I roam most peaceful, playful and inquisitive

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

2010-03-10T09:10:00.000-08:00

The Realm of Existence

In the realm of a Kingdom rests a weary essence still scattering dust of tenderness and integrity, still bathing in an ever-binding trust; that all beings write with golden pens, sing in perfect refrains, play in cheerful rains, sailing pink kites, laughing in hidden gardens, resting too with me in the arms of compassion, securely tucked all together under down covered feather beds, with pillows of cotton beneath their heads and Morpheus sending them sweetly to sleep.

Returning all to where they have always felt at home to fields of golden grasses where they may have grown, sailing pink kites, hiding seek, among the foothills of their peers and I'll never comprehend the rest even though I feel the painful reality of such torment in my chest and realize it is all from within one single subconscious blue pool of existence.

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/10/2010 12:05 pm est

2010-03-08T14:00:00.000-08:00

Pain and Joy

In a teasing stream; I arise from a deep sleep
pain climbing up my arms like that of rose vines
entrapping a delicate fence, weaving in and out
of my limbs and enveloping my very existence

What is this pain? It must come from the same source,
where joy is also born. What is this yearning and
turning from both emotions breathing back and forth
into each other as two wrestling winds merge?

And within a few moments of a tormented solitude,
a following occurs of the most tranquil stability
resting sweetly again in the arms of an endurance
of an adored vulnerability lined with silk.

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/08/2010 4:40 pm est

2010-03-07T02:21:00.001-08:00

Movement

from unreality to reality in one movement
a long song, a weeping song, sung in Lyon
followed by a piano interlude of love and emotion
what is there to fear when the past is the past,
and there is only this sublime
moment of dancing on hardwood floors
among a fireplace that doesn't burn in a world that turns
on an axis around the sun with a moon and planets
named after man made gods, there are no monsters
here, just simple humans and contentment composed
and seeded by the perennials of life and sustainment

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/06/2010 approx 8:00 pm est
revised 03/07/2010 5:23 am est

2010-03-05T17:37:00.000-08:00

The Teachings of Eurus

The Greeks had it wrong, Eurus was not ill-fated or terrible; just a tender wind with a teasing temper, mischievous yet refined, winged with satin feathers to tuck one in tightly on many restless and frightful nights.

Bearing gifts of wisdom, enchantment and candied fruits for a fearful, tearful child concealed in an aviary with harlequin birds, colossal gardens, and never-ending blossoms.

With a merciful push and cynical, boisterous laugh, the graceful wind swept her forward and prepared her for re-entry into a world where reality is somewhat sinister, full of suffering, sadness and deception. Yet acquiescent and breathable if she keeps a little bit of the unreality folded on the inside, with playfulness intact and holds the universe lightly upon her hands.

And with great hope and devotion; the wind will continue to push her pleasurably onward.

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/05/2010 8:35 pm est

2010-03-04T12:43:00.000-08:00

Captivation

in solitude I sit watching the shimmering sunlight reflections on the ceiling
the clock ticks, I have been sitting for days, for hours, for weeks, for years
the reflection is like a majestic tree seen so many times on my daily walks

it never sheds it's leaves and in the heart of winter they turn a soft peach
and as I sit I'm waiting to see what it will become swinging on a spring afternoon
and as I sit I'm waiting to see what it will become shading on a summer morning

a tree that only sheds tears when new growth appears;
anxious for it's great flood so I may bathe in barefooted pools
and feel it's colors beneath my toes
what is this tree that permeates my very being
and transforms me measures beyond?

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/04/2010 10:35 am est
edited 03/04/2010 3:34 pm est

2010-03-03T13:39:00.000-08:00

“There is no pain so great as the memory of joy in present grief.”
~ Aeschylus

2010-03-03T06:03:00.000-08:00

One of my my father's masterpieces. ~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

The Sun Torture

Look at him with both arms outstretched and legs tied apart
All his limbs staked to the ground
Though most Indians are gone-
The sun torture extinct.
Then who is he?
What crime has he committed unable to move
Except for the agonizing wrenching of his neck?

As tourists
Remember to obey the rules posted above
And don't touch the red-hot man.
There is no sign to read nor button to push for there isn't any speaker
To listen to
No deep perfect voice to explain
For the story is as of yet untold
I cannot tell it
Don’t ask me to
Just listen to the insects buzzing in his ears
Biting and stinging him
Cup your ear to hear the soft but harsh scraping
Of the leather binding each wrist
As you witness his beautiful convulsions.

Now form a tighter circle around him
Ladies and gents
But careful of his stakes.

Don’t his parched lips make you thirsty?
Don’t fret
I will pass an ocean of cool spring water around in these paper cups.
I know he looks like death warmed over
But notice his eyes slowly rolling and his nostrils flaring
His mouth gaping
Frequently coughing
From breathing the dry desert air.
His lungs rise and fall
A weak testimony of the ridiculous persistence of existence.

Well may I have your attention?
At this point in time we will take our break
So sit down and relax enjoy the picnic that has been provided
And remember to obey the rules posted above

Remember!
Don’t touch the exhibit!

I know he stinks
But he doesn't sweat his skin baked the sweat glands destroyed
He’s boiling
Ever see water boil over and left to boil
Until it is completely gone?
Much of his water has boiled away.
The sun of course has done it continues doing it.
And you know I bet each and every one of you who don't have
hats
Sure wish you had one now!
So grab a cloud and together let us try to imagine this man's
agony.

Excuse me?
Did someone remark that he must be dead?
No he is not dead nor ever will be
As the sun lives the life of the lifeless
So shall he

And I suppose when the sun’s dead the burning will stop
And the leather ropes binding his limbs will break away
I suppose he will freeze into solid ice
But this man will still flourish
In clean clear ice etched agony
No he is not dead nor ever will be.
But I have begun to notice everyone seems mesmerized
Admire his handsome face, will you?

Why ladies! Don’t blush!
In the middle of day you cause the desert sky to redden
Well I'll just remove his loincloth
And you shall see what is not there
See
Here is Prometheus uncocked
Oh the shaking of incredulous heads
The upheaval of nauseated stomachs

Now don't pity the poor bastard
Castrated by the heathens he gave his all
And don't dare ask for the story
I cannot tell it.

Now sit back down, sit down and quieter please
Otherwise it will be impossible to hear his wriggling
For that is the most joyous noise of creation
As you all certainly know (stupid of me to remind you)
A simple demonstration of unadulterated pain
Is his plight as well as his purpose?
And the Indians could have told you about purpose
Why they knew the purpose of their stars of their wind
They were the proud parents of infantile purpose
They gave birth all by themselves
To the wild notion of suffering for a purpose
Why from the loins of their brains
The sun torture.
They knew their Apollo
Created to nourish life or to burn it up

Yes such concepts are impossible for us to straddle worlds with
What are the finite amounts of suns to us?
As common as plankton in the sea
And around them countless exhibits swing.
Stars are our own desperate eyes
Some open-eyed some shut forever
Wearily looking at eternity for eternity is bitter
A thousand mirrors reflecting a thousand mirrors
Eternity is a crowd of god-awful tourists
Gawking like sublime assholes
At these exhibitions of beginnings and endings.

Excuse me if I have truly disturbed anyone
We think we talk of truths making the sounds of words.
Forgive me my rambling on like this
I am no more than a poor curator
A poor curator assigned to nothing
And for want of nothing
I picked this
The sun torture
Boring isn't it
Death.

But this sad soul before us defies this boredom
The last moments of his life having been extended indefinitely
These last precious seconds of life
Are like fireworks suddenly exploding
On a dark quiet night stinging the astonished eyes
Of the open-mouthed crowd
Eventually fading back into the nothingness
From which the rockets seemed to have sprung.

But did someone complain of hunger?
Again?
So soon?
Is it dinnertime already?
By god does time fly waiting for someone to die
That will never die of course
So we will break for dinner immediately.

Dinner was delicious!
What appetites tourists have!
We’ll have to order more of that delicious nebula!
Now follow me into the lobby to obtain
Your very own miniature of our exhibit,
And look
We also sell various figures
Sculpted out of their own time
For example here is retarded Jesus pinned to his hand-made cross
Bleeding like a son of a bitch he never met a person he didn't love
But what the hell is love?
Don’t ask me I can’t explain it
But I think it is part of the story
As of yet untold
I cannot tell it
And don't ask me again
Now here you go
Don’t complain now
Here you go take one home our compliments
And by the way did you know everyone
That he was the son of a god?
Don’t snicker his father was a good god so he has said
No matter for that god has moved and his son is dead
So why not take one of these figures home to the kids
Why
Their very own son of a god!

And my! It seems our crowd has swelled
So those of you joining our group for the first time
Remember to obey the rules posted above
When you hear the purpose of existence recited
Kindly ignore it

And if I may
I'd like to make one more announcement
We’re offering a midnight program
Also cheese with wine

So please if you can stay for the all night show
As an extra bonus you'll receive a ticket on a chance to win
An obedient universe.

Now form a tight circle around the exhibit
And see if you notice the sun tortured fellow’s
Pathetic attempt to break his bonds

His eyes bend back into his skull
To look at the carcass of innocence
In other words
His brain in its eternal stupor
He sends pictures to it but the pulp of the head
Stores them ass-backwards
So that when he dreams of his life
The events are scrambled.
There was either a birth and then this
The sun torture
Or a death and then again this
The sun torture
And all this would be fine and proper but for the fact
That he feels that he has never been born
He feels that he has lived at all times
And all this would be fine and proper
Except that he feels he must patiently wait for oblivion

And of course you all know the ins and outs of oblivion
But isn't it strange
I cannot help but be fascinated
By a fool waiting for oblivion

It’s like visiting the circus in the middle of night
When most animals fitfully sleep in their cages
And the circus performers whimper in their beds
It’s like waiting for a midnight show that will never start
Shivering enough to have to hug you
To keep warm while sitting on the cold plastic benches

But all enter oblivion all enter it screaming
And the screaming cut short
Like the lunatic howling as he is pulled into the padded cell
The door slammed shut when his hands are finally pried
From the sides of the doorframe
Suddenly abruptly the screaming cut short.

Sun is setting
The scene darkens
So let’s all sit back and study this poor fool
Gazing at the starry sky twinkling
With the sticky honeyed enlightenment of our after dinner drool

Our pretty exhibit doesn't sleep
Can’t sleep
Could you sleep knowing there's no relief awaiting you in the
morning?
Only another clear sunny day?
The sun-baked body is stiff and unyielding
His teeth chipped and broken
Breath whistling
Long stringy hair infested with the lice
The worms and ticks and the fleas
All burrowing according to individual jaws
Into his scalp seeking the precious fluids of the boiled brain
Burrowing on regardless of their own little deaths
Suffocating in the midst of his brittle skull
The hunger to retain life causing the loss of it
How he wriggles!
The demonstration of eternal pain
The joyous dancing of the suffering spirit!

Give him a hand ladies and gents
I always congratulate him myself
With yet another few moments of life as I have done for since
who knows when?

He itches but can never hope to scratch
His head that lies so close to this hands
He itches
Screaming about the dirty non-existent redskins long gone
He cries for their blood
He mutters to himself the wishes of the dying
Never dying
The wishes of the murderer
Never murdering
He anoints himself with his own hair-curling words
And baptized
Speaks peacefully of hatred
Thoughtfully and politely of others annihilation.

Before the morning light comes the stinging frost
And the poor son of a bitch screams to die
But if he died I would lose my job
He pleads to die not realizing the dire consequences

I am very understanding
But I must interrupt his prayers
To bless him with a little more life
Another day of scorching heat
I don't thing he knows

That life's no different from death both revealing nothing

But hey! You! Yes you! Come back here!
I see you!
Behind that moon you think you can hide
You little brat you ocean less oceanide
Put down that knife!
Why I am surprised at you
You must learn to have better control
Over your god-suckled child
Do you realize he faces eternity uncontrolled?

All must forgo the wrath of pity
Bearing in mind this exhibit is my baby
My merchandise my deliverance

Look at my exhibit
At this skull adorned with burnt flesh
Forever lying on the brink of death
Look at the circular screaming mouth
Tongue less thus noiseless
Pried open by the courage of the jaw
And locked in that position
By a single cowardly muscle

This
Ladies and gents
Is the largest hole ever ripped open?
Among all the head wounds of humanity
This
Ladies and gentlemen
Is the ever-spiraling deep dark hole
Every single unspoken word falls into
This
I suppose after all
Is simply the harbor
Of every empty breeze scented with a thought
Everyone look!
Take off your hats and your coats
And expose yourself to the sun that peaks
Through the creaks of the dark mountains
Behold the morning
The birth of true agony
And how our honored and lively exhibition
Will soon begin to howl!

I rejoice!
I rejoice!
Another day of heat!
Another day of restarting the broiled heart of this warrior never
warring
Another day to salt the sincerity of this brave unslaughtered beast
With the secret of life

And he weeps and I weep
And it is okay for all you tourists to weep
But please not too long
For your water wounds the desert

And he laughs
And I laugh
And again it’s all right for all you tourists to laugh
But briefly for when you chuckle
The sand sinks from the weight of merriment and misery

But of course without much pause he is silent
And this goes on and on and on and on and
And this concludes our all night program
I sincerely hoped one and all have enjoyed it
Please return and visit again
And as you causally stroll toward your nearest exit

Listen
Just listen
To my song

Here are the words
So all can sing along:

His is horrible horrible life
Death avoided
Death evaded
His is the joy of the coming of the end.

His is tortured life
Death avoided
Death evaded
His is the promise of the coming of the end.

~Richard Wilson Moss

2010-03-01T15:25:00.000-08:00

The Desert

with painted blue toenails I dip my tiny feet into a subconsciousness pool flirting back and forth questioning my own existence of beauty and truth in an even smaller overwhelmed brain mapped with incomprehension...

what is beauty but the fluff we cushion our tormented souls with in order to pretend that self-worth gives purpose while wondering aimlessly

self-worth as fluffed as the beauty found in the pillows of an ancient sky thinly dressing the blue curtains guarding the milky way and beyond

what is truth but the fluff we cushion our tormented souls with in order to pretend that self-worth gives purpose while wondering aimlessly

self-worth as concrete as the truth found in the pillars of an ancient wood heavily dressed in green fir standing firmly guarding the landscapes below

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/01/2010 6:26 pm est

2010-02-28T14:26:00.000-08:00

Fear

riding on a motorcycle tightly together dressed in full garb
one little male bear barefooted with sand colored toes ready to be tickled
another little pear with head wrapped in shimmering pink scarves
dad is in black, thin, eager, hungry, with defense penciled across his face
ready to combat the injustice of an unjust world...
with thick skinned feet and hallow eyes, deep and dark like two rotting gourds
mom of course, rides in back, tucked tightly beneath gray, faceless...
revealing only teal covered heels with delicate straps and jeweled knots
perhaps they are on the same mindless trip as the rest of us
feeling the breeze against their bodies and moving from one moment to the next
as they glide through a city of doors broken by the dominance of the universe
fearing a similar muted emotion that cracks the ceiling above my own encasing
and peels the paint and tears apart the orchid covered wall papers
I depend on to protect that of my own soul and free will

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 02/28/2010 somewhere around 5:00 pm est

2010-02-25T17:13:00.000-08:00

Untitled

cut like a fresh rose
bled into an oblivion
of madness and chaos
nurtured by a warm
cup of tea freshly
brewed within me
I am undone
gave to everyone
there is nothing left
but internal hope is
rekindled in the
kindness of steam

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

2010-02-25T00:41:00.000-08:00

West Wind

still whispers, a gentle wind, a gentle calling, a gentle cry
without understanding it's offering or reasoning,
it sways her stomach forcing down spoonfuls of ginger ale
to ease ailment and mend a mind

with an early spring comes rain, hoping it will ease the pain
where she will dance inside a primavera painting
as the fervid and whimsical child once known not so long ago

when the west wind first picked her up and wrapped her delicately
and shielded her from the jaded weapons of cruelty and reality
where she can crawl again under a pile of cherry blossoms
and tremble securely

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

Written 02/25/2010 3:41 am est
poem revised 02/25/2010 7:38 am est

2010-02-24T08:26:00.000-08:00

Through my father's words ... ~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

To Humanity

I saw the stars reflected in your eyes.
And the cold spaces between.

Perpetual winter surrounding perpetual flame.

I saw our love was the same.

~Richard Wilson Moss
Written many many years and moons ago...

2010-02-23T13:55:00.001-08:00

Simplicity

somewhere cornered against a confused cosmos and identification you will find fear, suffering, and a delicate ego sitting aside; one that wants to hide beneath the covers and close her eyes tightly to the fists of human crafted creatures, gods and monstrosities

but most of all you will find the most simplest kind of a mind; one that sees most matters with a glass heart, composed of love, laughter, intellectual strength and emotional grace trying to obtain a better view of human crafted creatures, gods and monstrosities

the story is really not so complex, no more complex than that of other stories; with a beginning, swimming in both red and blue seas; with a middle, growing and flowing in all directions;
and with an end, as inevitable as all ends

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 02/23/2010 4:39 pm est
edited poem 02/23/2010 6:44 pm est
photo 02/21/2010 approx 6:30 am est

2010-02-22T07:24:00.000-08:00

Insanity

with a pink crayon there is a fine line drawn somewhere in between existence
curving and carving at fixed points; but mostly an ever flowing non-segmented ray
running both parallel and perpendicular with other lines of the same motion

with tiny silks there is a fine line drawn by a beautiful spider in angular dimensions
weaving and waxing of webs; twisting and turning a foiled wrap of creatures
slowly dropping from the ceiling down to the floor in perfect strength and grace

with green stalks there is a fine line drawn from the ground moving upward to the sun
swaying and swinging of stems; depending on which way the wind will push them
growing in scattered pockets all over the earth in an abundance of life and longing

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 02/22/2010 3:50 am est
photo 02/20/2010 aprox 11:30 am est

2010-02-18T08:19:00.000-08:00

Loss

there is an endless ocean crashing upon an immense shoreline
upon this line, there is no sand, no rocks, no land masses, only silent crashes
and with no sand... castles with wooden sticks for windows can no longer be built
and with no castles... great balconies of stones can no longer exist
and with no balconies... there are no passages to travel in between crafted crevices

there are plenty of empty buckets and shovels laying about here and there
all in an abundance of colors, bright yellows, brilliant blues, some with red sifters
they all feel the sunlight warming their bodies as they relax upon the unknown
they all feel the wind playing against their plastic rims and mildly rounded edges
they all feel the stars reflections when nightime closes it's eyes upon them

but most of all...
the buckets, the shovels, the sand sifters all know there is something amiss
even with an inconceivable consciousness of what exactly is missing

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell
02/16/2010 7:15 pm est

2010-02-17T10:07:00.000-08:00

Awaken

every dawning has a distinct texture
sometimes stenciled in botanical hues
sometimes etched in dark and white toile
sometimes intensely orange shaded as the sun

every dawning has a distinct fold
sometimes planted into pots of lavender
sometimes twisted into elusive glass
sometimes turned into ponds of goldfish

and on the darkest days
it is torn into pieces of paper
shredded and discarded by hands
only to be woven into new horizons

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

2010-02-16T07:57:00.000-08:00

Overtunes

harmonizing in heart and rhythm, all is forgiven
and there was nothing ever to forgive
humans are strange and yet... all the same
composed of love, sadness, grief, misunderstanding
and so many unexplainable possibilities

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

2010-02-15T06:53:00.000-08:00

Tyranny

sitting on my shoulder day after day
morning upon morning, pecking still before the sunrise
the clock chimes three, four, sometimes five
ready to pounce upon a daily consciousness
and scratch a twice broken record of resilience

yet I realize we all wake up with the same tyrant
I may be yours, we are each others, I am mine
the oppressor is inevitable, just as the oppressed
and to escape such an intrinsic dance is as hollow
as sitting frozen against a curtain of celestial fields

and convincingly; I sit in a somber silence and remind myself...
to pet the tyrant with devotion, for it too is a pure captivating silk
gracefully black, magnificently rare and as precious as all fabrics
tied in exquisite packages unveiling enchantments of existence
adored and serene, like a rare rose rising from the underworld

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

Written 09/14/2010 03:00 am est
Photo 09/15/2010 09:10 am est

2010-02-12T11:10:00.000-08:00

Somewhere In Between II

somewhere in between
the sparkling pink bones
of our delicate existence
there is a connective, collective,
clear pool of subconsciousness
and in that space...
simplicity sits complacently
in silence and dust
that is the secret

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

Written 02/12/2010 2:28 pm est
Photo taken approx 4 years ago this spring

2010-02-11T08:37:00.000-08:00

Re-Birth

born onto a stomach
ardent by touch
perfumed with sweat
suckling, singing, clinging
to all that has been known
climbing the struggle of existence
and for the lucky ones
the initial ascent is supplemented

colors beyond the pavement of known rainbows
crawling on soft grasses
rolling delicately beneath our little feet
stories told of great adventures
of princesses, kings and puppies
poking out wet noses beneath fences
squealing and squiggling

bustling with breath as fresh as spring hyacinths
our faces rolled in dirt after just digesting perfect mud pies
wet from swimming in rowboats filled with muddy April rains
fresh as the first day
we dry ourselves off
soaked once again

and with a towel, seashell pink, I dry my own tears
and wipe my mind clear of all those insignificant fears
and harrowing angers amongst an infiltrated humiliation
and bathe again in sea salts composed of humanity
and to the whole universe
I plant an eternal kiss upon it's ripe brow

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell
written 02/10/2010 7:15 pm
photo 02/11/2010 approx 10:45 am

A very special dedication of this poem goes to Paul Hawgood
founder of www.archwayfoundation.org.uk

2010-02-10T10:17:00.000-08:00

Non-Existence

every word, every sound, every image is abstract
out of abstractions, a personal understanding is extracted
and a reality created, which is nothing more than an unreality
invented by minds that think an identity has been formed

how can we even begin to understand what does or doesn't exist?

one is painted blue, one painted red, among the colors of others
all the same, all non-concrete, all deluded by in-significance
yet from the confines of minds, both yours and mine
abstractions arise from the whispering of blood and nature

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

2/10/2010 Originally written 05:18 am
2/10/2010 Revised at 2:40 pm

2010-02-09T05:55:00.000-08:00

Somewhere In Between

the rising and the setting sun
the setting and the rising sun
precious gifts were lost
a soul lined with feathers
a soul lined with flowers
a soul lined with gentle folds
and here I sit, under an umbrella lined with illusions
situations I cannot begin to comprehend
situations made ever more complex
by souls of other sorts and most of all
by the soul of myself that I once knew
but I know her barely not
for she too has become a stranger
suffering somewhere in between
the madness of those spokes
turning amidst the wheels of man made horrors
still wanting to hide with her under soft blankets
wearing pajamas, tied with satin bows
taking refuge in her warm heart lined with such beliefs
that most others are just as innocent as her sacred self
that was once...
un-raped, un-touched and un-handled by human constraints
and with her I cannot detach from an ever binding bond
regardless of the cruelties inflicted by fear of gods and monsters
and faith that most of mankind is lined under umbrellas still
with feathers, with flowers, with gentle folds
especially those of both friends and strangers

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

Exhaustion of a Pawn

2010-02-07T11:45:00.000-08:00

I am completely exhausted from being lost in translation, a year of suffering from fears generated by past illusions, from modern society and from machines. So instead of my own poem... here are words of my dear father... for today.
~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

BLUE HERON

The river does not surge
And the shore swings like a cracked pendulum
Against a sun frozen on the horizon.
On one leg the blue heron keeps his balance.
I cannot keep mine.

The river is motionless
Its fish paralyzed
And far down the shore toward the point
A small woman covered in an orange afghan
Sits dozing by an eternal pond
Her daughter in her arms speaking nonsense.

Meanwhile the infinite snores.

I must bear the fate of my favorite coat
My father wore again and again
To walk on these cold shores
The small woman sits happily with her child
As a gnat soars
Far above the marsh
To be swallowed by a wren.

Am I wrong again and again
To make wide circles around that place
So afraid of them?

I know that I must learn
That ponds dry and rivers turn
And a gnat may swallow the sun

I must bear the fate of mother and child the blue heron ignores.

Staving but never slow
Like a rabbit in deep snow
I know the thing hated most I will become

Meanwhile the infinite snores.

~Richard Wilson Moss

2010-02-06T09:44:00.000-08:00

Valediction

born among a forest, raised on rain water, fed on sweet nectar's
daffodils in the spring, orange poppies, evergreens
swam naked with red bellied salamanders
watched the creek trickle over rocks of all shapes and sizes
conversed with ferns and mingled with rattlesnakes
climbed the hillside of a mountain made of pine
resided in a house built of the purest redwood
cut and chopped and milled by hands of pioneers and love
listened carefully to the summer sounds of birds, buzzing flies
drank the sunsets, skipped with the bluest skies
walked to a mailbox on an unpaved road barely touched
in a home coinciding with transcendentalism
where something greater than god infiltrates the inside
with principles unchanged, unaltered and unsold
yet such innocence doesn't make a better person
just a being un-prepared for the mechanisms of machines
and there is no coming back stronger, no external wars to win
all wars are within, the walls of our own confinement

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

2010-02-06T09:35:00.000-08:00

Human Devotion

Let us pretend we are not insecure,
that what we disclose doesn't matter,
that we are not fascinated by one another,
and that we are not raised through identities
presented on platters of princesses and beasts.

Clarity is obtainable from unknown realms;
through the blind leading the blind,
dependent upon each other's sensory perceptions,
carressing one another with exchange and emotion...
imagine a universe built upon the shoulder's of human devotion.

~ Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

2010-02-04T05:40:00.000-08:00

Diagrams and Diaphragm

lost in the Sea of Marmara...
labeling along the edge of deep rhythms
mimicked on the inside, in trails and intestines
kidneys, liver, stomach aches, erasing heart breaks
re-aligning with new diagrams, details, directions
nibbling fingers, banging on drums, other percussions
not quite there, stuck in the unknown
swimming with bass and base in Bosporus Straits
finally arrive on a stream of contradictions
trickling into the black sea
with two elegant shades of blue beside me

~Emily Loren Moss

2010-02-03T07:52:00.000-08:00

Situation II

in the muddled puddles of swirled stars
I saw other wings
not of mars or venus or alienation
but of earth and men and nature
and within it's precious grasp, I sing
unchained and unhindered

~Emily Loren Moss

Emilylrn: "Ode to Fakeboo" via Richard Wilson Moss (originally written 1979)

2010-02-02T12:43:00.000-08:00

Farewell Speech

Don't give a goddamn about the whole wide awful world
Once a world now something wordly

Kiss it off as I have
You delightfully stupid grippers
With a grip unrivaled
By every other's animal handhold

Let go for god's sake you bastards
Let go before I give a damn
And hold on like you hold on
You stupid pitiful but wonderful bastards

And let's not hear any shit
About leaving something behind
Nor any bull about living in harmony

Harmony is something god gave to god
Something that you would snatch away
If ever a fist unclenches

~Richard Wilson Moss
Written in 1979

2010-02-01T10:17:00.000-08:00

Resignation in a Hopeless Game of Chess

We shall never know another's perceptions or intentions;
it only remains within the mystery of one's self.

~Emily Loren Moss

2010-01-28T07:10:00.000-08:00

Recognition

the package arrived early one sunny morning
not by the hands of false god nor vain divinity
quite the contrary, landed the...
cupped with compassion, kindled by kindness
handed over creatively by curiosity & genius

days past, arrived again, in form of canine chaos
revealed in muted black
with brown ears, cut tail and broken chained trail
four furry feet padding, painting up the track
tongue hanging out loosely, yet quite intact
investigating spirit, scent and score
unsure of intelligence, intention, intensity
briefly brushed, just enough, to see a similarity
among a sea full of differential matters

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

2010-01-27T10:24:00.000-08:00

Scratch poem; insert sleep.
Soft mind... warm heart.

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

2010-01-26T07:42:00.000-08:00

Situation

the play… it still lingers
from innermost moments
down finger
tips

and up into lips
the lines still ring
replaying softly
down throat
again

parallels dance
in between
reality and script
identification disclosed
deep within it’s
grasp

~Emily Loren Moss
11/27/2009 originally written
01/26/2010 retitled & revised (yes, re-touched words, a contradiction :)
01/27/2010 kept retitle, returned to original script

2010-01-24T12:15:00.000-08:00

Sensation

I understand warmth, the way it fills up pink shells and minds
I understand water, fluidity outstretched in dancer's arms
I understand color, transformed blue hues folded in paintings
I understand fibers, woven and knitted, tied in satin bows
I understand earth, pleasantly padded under disgruntled toes
I understand space, easing and grieving with comforting stars
I understand life, found in the most minuscule form of a pip
All the rest is second best in the spokes of mankind's making

~Emily Loren Moss

2010-01-22T11:21:00.001-08:00

Cultivation

there isn't really much to remember
nothing solid nor concrete
yet, it's remembered and it was only yesterday
branching at interludes, flooded with tears
tickles up spine, blossoms through elbows
rooted in the pit of an empty stomach
but most of all, it whispers through a soft silence
that has been there long beyond yesterday
tended slowly, subtley, sweetly taken over

~Emily Loren Moss

2010-01-22T06:34:00.000-08:00

A kind of jolly... literary fellow

Harrington was a hell of a man
creatively fucked, commercially programed
corporately cut like a fat dough boy cookie

he cleaned carpets, de-contaminated smoked wood
declared proudly he was the best among his underpaid crew
not only did his machines roll, they steamed, they boiled

with head nicely shined and teeth nicely whitened
he would sit in his stiff collar complacently smiling
behind a polished desk organized neatly with desolation

he and his wife attended church admiring inscribed pews
they square danced in perfect tri-angular symmetrics
ate bbq with silverware polished to a pristine gleam

pleasantly poised and determined he roamed through town
with all the latest conveniences, all the latest swatches
a “Babbitt” incarnate, so often met in previous chapters

~Emily Loren Moss

2010-01-21T07:53:00.000-08:00

Impermanence

Another year buried
Impoverished
gently mirrored
in a mule doe’s brown eyes

Reflections of struggle
demonstrated in the pit
she dug herself
during her final breath

Inside her full bellied corpse
and hair covered flesh
lies ephemeral beauty
of a life unknown

But no matter
A life, no less
A gift, most lovely
decays in her remains

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

2010-01-19T10:47:00.000-08:00

Fertile Crescent

the pecking order started from day one
and even before, fixed ancestors preyed and pranced
entranced with bones, stones, metals
eating, competing, sleeping, fornicating together
placing one civilized foot print heavily in front of the other
clinging onward and upward towards their own collapse
obsessed with recycled fears, with gods and monsters
carefully mapped, order remains;
some still pampered, others restrained

~Emily Loren Moss

2010-01-19T07:25:00.000-08:00

emilk

not quite asleep, not quite awake
stuck in a bizarrely lit zone
not quite alone
grabbing a warm cup
scented with flowers
scented with benevolence
scented with gesture
scented with sound
graciously received to restore hibernation

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

2010-01-18T11:20:00.001-08:00

Inherent Sun

You have quenched an unequivocal thirst
with beautiful insanity and spring water
bottled at the source of a purified soul

You have warmed a chilled heart
with soft presence and utmost heat
lit at the source of an inherent sun

~Emily Loren Moss

2010-01-16T10:16:00.000-08:00

Unhindered

I asked the universe and gods for the moon
bittersweet I swung from tears to joy and back again
questioning thunder clouds heavily writ with rage
quickly transformed to delft blue and undiluted skies

I curved and carved dense paths through substratum
collided with inquisitive worms, both thick and sticky
followed slugs across smooth slated stepping stones
emptying into unbelievable gardens, fresh from growth
and with full luminous eyes, captured my demise

~Emily Loren Moss

2010-01-15T07:16:00.000-08:00

#6 Disinfected

I am
A post Vietnam born American
A product of no suffering
From a generation of nothing
Raised on sheets of rolled out green grasses
Soft voices, unbroken glasses

I take
Refuge in the ramblings of a whiny Yorke
Dwell in the sand of a Morris sea
Just to comprehend a basic human need
To suffer
To bleed

~Emily Loren Moss

2010-01-14T07:27:00.000-08:00

In the Arms of Morpheus

waking up entangled between wings, sheets, pajamas
moving from one end of the room to the other
a somnambulist still entranced by a nightly dance
carries residual temperaments of delicate dreams

~Emily Loren Moss