Volcano
Deep beneath the world, it's mantle,
Covering a metallic core,
Hides what could become the shrapnel
Streams of molten, volcanic gore.
Underneath a salty, sea floor,
The wounded crust erupts from cuts
That have begun to seep somewhat
Into the blue above. There, it bleeds
A brazen rouge—bubbling and freed
From an abyss that's fissured shut.
The water boils as heat rises
To nurture nature's sunken seed.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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The Life of a Grape
On the vine, the green fruit ripens,
Becoming fresh and well-rounded,
And such is the life of a grape.
In the sun, its sweet skin softens
On the branch where it's been bounded,
And such is the life of a grape.
The others grow fairly often.
Eventu'lly, it's surrounded,
And such is the life of a grape.
Then one day, away from the flocks,
It's plucked, dried, put into a box,
And such is the life of grape.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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The Chiral Psyche
The chiral psyche
hovers like
a green, crystal prism
dictating the autosuggested
algorithms of fate.
It is superimposed
over the self,
flecks of satori
spontaneously
misleading me
from the symmetry
that stems deep within
its dialect.
These patterns of creation
come to dissect themselves
by the vectors of compassion
and understanding; limbic
and cortal bifurcations that
seem to separate the mind
from the Mind.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Twenty Five
A commercial
Would suggest
That our happiness
Is a quotient of power
And our misery
Is a direct reflection
Of our intellect.
I warn you:
Do not be assured
By slogans such as these
That suggest
Who
Or what you are—
Including this one.
I lie to you
As others lie to me,
And through those lies
We come to comprehend
What it means for us,
Individually,
[...] Read more
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Happy Stuff
Drink a bottle of bleach
To clean your filthy speech,
Your disgusting tongue and
The fouling words you preach.
What poison is at hand
To cleanse your rank demands,
Your sour milk sympathy—
Putrescence at command?
The stench is thick, frothy—
A foam of apathy
Above the cracked wave guise
Of something so healthy.
Your wasteland thought implies
Theories which surmise,
Impress a compromise
With what truth does comprise.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Sometime After Midnight
Sometime after midnight,
The streets are dark and deserted,
Muted by the vagrant silence in the wind.
The clouds pout softly.
A steady stream of slightly chilled rain water
Washes over the slightly fogged windows.
Inside, a glowing television set
Whispers its story to sleeping ears
That wouldn't have been listening if awake.
An empty gas station across the street
Hums, dimly lit, and cars pass around it
With nowhere to go.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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In My Ribcage
In my ribcage, in its chambers,
My heart will try to remember
A subterranean something—
An almost alien feeling—
I thought I'd forgotten for sure.
The warmth I've wanted to capture
Is a slow flickering ember
Lost in my cool rain's concealing—
In my ribcage.
A cloud of black, ashy cinders
Smogs the dying flame's faint luster—
The smoky fog is revealing,
Lifting what I find appealing:
The love I hide away from her
In my ribcage.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Isolation and Intimacy
Whether we're close together
in the vast spaces
or not;
Whether what we say
echoes in
the yearning washes of
spectral shadows
or not;
Whether we allow
our impulses to
hang unresolved
in the air
or not,
I await you in the darkness,
all sensation
reverberating while
the undulating motorik
[...] Read more
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Time Like Dust
the burning sun
sinks into the sea
a dense mist
rises
to meet the sky
perfusive light
flourishes
on the tarnished
edges of
tomorrow's morning
the moon pinches
thin into
a pale crescent
curving
aureate freckles
on the crepuscular
face of night
fading
sickle blade
[...] Read more
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Treadmill
The conveyor belt keeps rolling.
You stare straight ahead to the wall
And trek forward while the world stalls,
Hearing tapping feet repeating.
The conveyor belt keeps rolling.
Through your window, nature might call,
But you don't hear that—not at all.
You're closed in by your surroundings.
The conveyor belt keeps rolling.
Meanwhile, opportunity sprawls,
Begging you to escape the small,
Stationary steps to nothing.
The conveyor belt keeps rolling.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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