Journals are vacuums. Good ones, anyway. The fertile clay of pressed, empty pages beckons to be writ, to become a space defined by your devised purpose.
Category: Poetry
Currently
If I am a river, does that mean my being is a force that carves a path forward, or am I simply swept away by the currents whim?
Moonlit Flyer
On the morning of this homecoming, The freshly wet air is still in anticipation. The cool gloom before the day's break hangs over as I board the plane, the great mechanical bird. The buzz of the cabin can be felt all over. Or, is that me? Following procedure, my body is plunged into hyperspace …
Be in a Tree
Imagine what it's like to Be in a tree. What's the size of it? Is it upright, or fallen? Whole, or splintered? Close your eyes and sit awhile. There is life here, Sitting in the trees.
Luna Llena
Los nubes corren detrás del viento La luna refleja los rayos del sol Si los luces se apagan ahorita Y la electricidad se va de nuevo, Yo no tendría miedo. La luna tan brillosa me ilumina y hace que La noche no sea tan oscura. Pero la radiación de la luna no se puede …
Rivers of Crystal
Crystal rivers creep into being, a transformation that speaks of pressures intensely pressing the world of mountain peaks. I see its glittering beauty, delicate and so, so small. I need only to look out and see to lose myself in the shape of its crawl. This moment in time passes as the heat …
Last Winks
As the daylight hours wane And creatures flock back home to nest, The churning sea mist drifts out to shore And splays the sunset hues Against the clouds. The waves The wet sand The monoliths out in the sea All become obscured With the sun's lasting wink.
Sounds Under the Canopy
Walking down the trail, My sound seems deafening. Take a moment to stop. Let the forest speak for a moment. I hear it in the chirping of the birds, In the rustling and brushing of freed leaves, In the echoes of a pecking beak In search for food, In the shimmering and buzzing bugs, …
Writhing Roots
I stand over the remains of a tree. It’s massive form is capsized, Drowned and beaten. Roots reach to the sky, The curling fingers grasping at air. A THUNDER! and a CRACK! have been loosed As the lumbering growth came crashing down. Now that the tree has been torn asunder, An echo of its force is …
At Patrick’s Point
As I sit on the bannister of Wedding Rock, I am filled with the sea breeze, the ocean’s pulsating roar, the cries of the birds swimming, flying, and dancing, and heat and warmth of the sun. The open air echoes with sound, drumming against my ears. I have been to this place before, but now I am …
Oscar Oz Nava 