kokopelle: Black Cat (cat black)
“Shores of Make Believe” was inspired by a meme that featured the saying “the past is just a story we tell ourselves”. Common acceptance of the present is debatable. A past shared in complete agreement is nearly impossible. Sometimes the past is used to house the happy memories. More often its shadows hold the regrets that seek to impact the present and beyond.

Shores of Make Believe

The past is a story set in a land
far removed from the present place
on the shores of make believe
beyond the reach of mortal men
bordered by the towers of assurity
defense against the questioning
ramparts thrust high to the sky
upon foundations of partial lies

these tales of misery are introspect
held to heart yet invisible
to the eyes of those who walk around
the owner of the lonely realm
beneath the cliffs that shelter one
so tall as to block the sun
one of millions, part the sham

beware the traps that are set
along the paths of history’s fields
each is unique to unto itself
with no two contraptions same alike
you’ll find them if you say a word
cross the bridge with tripwires set
between the here and there of life’s travails
dialogue explodes the ordinance

in the ruins each must live
shattered houses filled with sad regrets
each may seek to look ahead
to find the place where all do live
beyond the shores of make believe
away from towers of truth embraced
leaving behind the snares of self
searching for the common ground.

2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20161230.
kokopelle: (Dark God)
The poem "In the Woods" is about past memories. The recalled moments speak to a reality that is forever separated from the present moment. A dear friend's birthday got me thinking about the past, with the poem inspired by the memories.

In the Woods

The past resides in its home
warm comfort behind closed doors
the company I used to have
is fresh recall, far from hand
I see your face in my mind
you were younger, so was I
that day now held out of reach
the world captured in the woods.

Trust brought us close in that vale
forest glen across time's void
the masks were dropped to the ground
joining clothes as bodies wound
separation ceased to be
quick dismissed when passions freed
the space between was indistinct
how real this seems to memory.

Connection came in many forms
the flesh as one now I mourn
the long talks were interspersed
as we walked through the groves
my smile joined yours in revelry
the laughter voiced as well as moans
emotions held the space that day
now sad recall is dismayed.

Father Time you taunt me so
with flashbacks to the magic found
the wild-woods were our escape
turned to rapture, not to pain
the gate is locked, windows closed
a single light is high above
the fondness for the happy past
becomes a prisoner when nothing lasts.

2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20161104.
kokopelle: Black Cat (Cat - Black)
The most horrific place a mind can go is to endlessly review the past, wondering about what was said, how it was received, and what may come of the instance. The poem “Words Once Spoken” is about this place.

Words Once Spoken

Prisoner in a moment’s time
focused on an inner voice
turning round the smallest stone
as the past echoes forth.

The world is shrunk in its frame
to find the smallest circumstance
explaining all that came before
solving what may come to pass.

What was said and by whom
is all consuming in the gloom
where incriminations are shadows
cast by actors conjured forth.

Could they be reality
or mere phantoms made to jump?
The fantasy becomes the norm
at ends of strings made from thoughts.

Shadows from the occupants
constructs of the fancied past
projected by the ego’s lust
to bend the world at long last.

Soliloquy is the only speech
resonating with no peace
for the one who wonders why
words once spoken won’t return.

© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160828.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (Frank-n-Furter)
A picture on Tumblr reminded me of my childhood, complete with jumping off of dangerously tall walls. The poem “Spirits High” was the outcome of the inspiration.

Spirits High

I remember the day I jumped
from the wall onto the ground
twice as tall as I was high.

It was so many years ago
in the past of when I was young
more counted than my friends are old.

Released to the world at day’s start
directions varied I may run
across the blocks around the vale.

Adventure waited when we played
big wheels and bikes were our means
of finding our way to other worlds.

Those were the days I roamed large
with my friends running wild
across the roads from the yard.

Dusk found us by the lane
sided by the stone palisade
of stone stacked with mortar bound.

Onto this edifice we climbed high
transportation put aside
intent to leap onto the loam.

So many feet above the ground
a life not yet begun to thrive
staring death straight in the eye.

I live to say this day
the jump was made, I survived
no bones were broken, spirits high.

© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160818.
kokopelle: Black Cat (Cat - Black)
A second year of Lindy Exchange dance weekend has faces missing from the dance. This inspired me to write the somber poem “The Absent One”.

The Absent One

There was a hole where you should be
a gap in space incomplete
by the one that should be here
by the one absent from this place.

In the past it was so easy
to anticipate you'd be there
now I wonder if I had sinned
to assume the best in my life.

We danced together under stars
when time stood still in recompense
for two fools who owned the world
before life unjoined the two of us.

There is no fault here at hand
as life decides the circumstance
of people meeting along the way
as time unwinds as it may.

This does lessen my heart's pain
the longing for what we had
I am here and you are not
this I know about the absent one.

© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160625.
kokopelle: Black Cat (cat black)
I saw a photo of a dancer friend online. I remarked that the photo made me wish her that much more, given that the photo was of her waiting to dance and I could not step into the picture in response. This got me thinking about how we would like to interact with photos. They offer portals with no doors, windows with no entry. The poem “No Entry” was the result of these ponderings.

No Entry

The photo reminds me of the pain
the monster waiting deep inside
wanting you by my side
knowing you're too far away.

The image has no ill intent
no malice of consequence
except for the weight I give
two dimensions that test my will.

It cannot utter, it cannot speak
I give it voice when it may not
my heart yells loud in response
to the absent in this print.

Time has stayed its stealthy ground
in the mock report of the past
where my grief knows no bounds
in the face of this fine art.

The false doorway beckons me
through it I may not past
no entry is the only path
through this portal of last resort.

Age does not blunt the beast
into my heart it still rips
while you are forever there
on the other side of mocking print.

© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160617.
kokopelle: Black Cat (Cat - Black)
If you live long enough there will be a series of lifetimes distinct and separate from each other. The people featured are sadly temporary in those forever moments. Others may come later, echoes of what came before.

Come and Gone

So many people come and gone,
associates of life's mortal journey
here one moment then not the next.

Some life in anger, others in pain.
Purpose had a hand in the minority,
fate took the rest as God saw fit.

Lovers were in the minority,
richly treasured for the life then shared
remarkable in the retrospect scarcity

Encounters had a purpose then
requisite for the script near at hand
now discarded for the next great plan.

So many lovely souls photographed,
some I knew, others knew me instead,
pictures remind us of the time then spent.

The lifetimes have passed me by,
wheels turn around to bring again
shades of those only in my memories.

Pardon me if I look seem surprised
incarnations rise to walk again
in bodily echoes of the come and gone.

© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160329.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (Frank-n-Furter)
Art has a life in the moment and a legacy in the future. So much creative output is lost as more piles on. Why? Is there a purpose to the creation? The poem “Memories” speaks to this.


Best memories of the past year,
notated in the written word,
photos linger in compassion
of the script put to paper.

Spilled ink in social pools,
overwhelming the casual soul.
So much to see, much of the same,
fretful tributes laid on the way.

In time they will matter not
when future poems are issued forth.
The trail of thoughts is subject
to to Father Time's ill mercies.

The angels will remember this
as they confirm their boss' wish,
to aid a mortal in sharing time
when fate is fickle in the beyond.

Fae memories of a year now gone,
scattered leaves lay on the ground,
each embraced a treasured glimpse
of God's face beyond the veil.

© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160107.
kokopelle: Black Cat (Cat - Black)
Dreams are both lovely and frustrating events. The past is presented in short vignettes that speak both truth and lies.

Hundred Dreams
Poem for Day 351 – 20151218

Lay with me confident
of a hundred dreams
but not real life
in the waking place
you are no more
yet in my dreams
we are still one.

My dozing mind is to blame
for building spires
to the elder days
where fae memories
speak their mind
in the dozing space
of life rewound.

When respite blesses me
no time has passed
on the other side
where the only pain
is from is missing you
mon amour
the only one
in the hundred dreams
life is again.

© 2015, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.
kokopelle: Black Cat (Cat - Black)
The poem “City in the Sky” speaks to the looking back at the past and those things that may be glimpsed, but not truly lived once they are past.

City in the Sky
Poem for Day 319 – 201511156

City in the sky
where I did reside
seen at a distant
only imagined
in my memories
faded reflections
of what could have been.

Visit for a time,
take in the bright sights,
fay phantom walking
I am the tourist
vicarious life
the interloper
the base intruder
a fleeting squatter
here in the city.

Those who walk the streets
wear the age old masks
handed down through time
by the ones before.
There I see my own face
mask on a stranger
passed by the turning
of eternity.

Why didn't I
fully embrace the
my time embodied
by the boundaries
of my time begun
and ended to short?
Only God may know
perhaps I will find
the answer beyond.
Now I flit as a ghost
disquiet haunt in
the city in the sky.

© 2015, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.
kokopelle: Black Cat (cat black)
I was sharing past photos with somebody dear to me, and I got thinking about how life turns around on itself. They are the same age as another person was in the past, someone important in my life. This dovetailed into thoughts about taking photos of young(er) dancers who could my my children. The result of these combined threads of thought is the poem “The Album”.

The Album
Poem for Day 314 – 20151111

The years have passed by,
their shadows deep on the ground,
gray has touched my hair,
and still I look to the past.
The years gaze back in the eyes
held in faded colors by photographs.
Frozen smiles holding space,
praying that we now feel the same.

The pages move towards the present day,
walk their way through the interval
between then and now life progressed
as shadows grew and we moved on.
Cut scenes from many joys,
some moved to tragic in their remorse.
Recorded tribulations were revealed
as stepping stones to better times.

A happy turn to the picture parade,
celebration of life in motion,
dedicates to music's hypnotic ways,
dance found in contra and swing.
Dancing partners now our past age,
fresh of spirit and keen to play,
like when we were much younger,
they were not yet born to the world.

And with this I'll close the album,
consider where we've been, what has become,
that the world is in fresher hands,
captured in our camera's lens.
Our children are now adults,
their own photos pile upon,
the cycle of adulthood continues on
as we fade in the passing years.

© 2015, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.
kokopelle: (Cat - Bunny Love)
I don't know about other writers of poetry, but I am inspired by the music I listen to while writing my poetry. The poem “Life's Album” was authored while listening to Brett Anderson. The influence has created a work part ballad, with lots of sentimental emotion. “Life's Album” is a poem about an old man's past memories. In those memories he remembers when he danced with those far younger than him. I am that man now, fully appreciating the shared dances with people half or more my age. We experience moments of appreciation, enjoying the skill and energy of the dance. One day I will be the other man, remembering the youthful partners of my times of lore.

Life's Album
Poem for Day 261 – 20150919

I – Life's Album

Turning pages in the life's album,
my mind drifts to times now long past,
Images snatched of other souls,
companions of a space once shared.

Most are wisps of morning fog,
scattering in the days of latter life.
Remembered in fragile fragments,
imperfect recollection of long ago.

Not all are sequestered to this fate,
excused by a mind fading by the day.
There is one that haunts my memories,
lovely spirit of a past still seen.

II – Fay Beauty

She was fay beauty personified,
nature's pinnacle of living grace,
still innocent by life's measure,
yet wise enough to express herself.

I longed to be by her side,
with my feet of clay and graying hair.
Even then I had seen my share of life,
the journeyman past his prime.

The tunes of old were the lure
for two disparate souls then alone,
abandoned by life to the sides
and brought to the floor for the dance.

III – Days of Lore

To my mind the tune will not return,
lost to the turning of the wheel,
but clearly I now see her face
and feel her body close to me.

These phantoms remind me of our place,
that I could never possess one as fair as this,
only to borrow and remember my youth.
To this end dance was my respite.

Not once but twice, and many more,
we danced as two who relished life.
The songs swept us in their wake,
two persons who shared a time.

IV – Present Day

Now she is as old as I was in those times of lore,
the years have moved and we have aged.
Her children echo who she once was,
they now innocent by life's measure.

I no longer dance as I once could,
life has stolen that indulgence,
it matters little at this elder age,
yet still I linger on life's album.

I may be sequestered by inability,
and yet my soul is fond of life,
inspired by the one in my memories,
lovely spirit of a past still seen.

© 2015, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.
kokopelle: Black Cat (Cat - Black)
I don't know if this others share this affliction, but I'm best friends with a ghost. There are conversations that I'll never have. Life never shared because there is nobody with a common past. The friendly phantom fades with time, but I fear I'll forever be best friends with an apparition.

Best Friends
Bonus Poem for Day 185 – 20150704

Best friends with a ghost,
most close with a memory,
this is my very sad state,
my soul held captive in solitary.
How many years have passed?
Too many for these feelings to linger,
witnessing the dust on the stairs,
and the water crossed under the bridge.

Once there were dreams of you,
struggling to stay connected there,
in the sleep's realm we talked
when the waking was not possible.
Now I no longer see you there,
my sleeping self has released
you to a place beyond here
while I waking mine still yearns.

Music invokes the memories,
unlocking doors never opened,
echoes of a world that used to be
when you were once close to me.
Photos speak of a time removed,
images of younger versions,
when trials were met together
as the word included two of us.

So many things to be said,
my inner feelings and trials withheld,
from the larger world until
that time that may never yield.
One of us has moved beyond,
distant from the one waiting here.
One of us fondly remembering
because that's all we can do.

Surrounded by people, yet alone,
this is my life with my ghost.
If you had passed I'd be tempted
to join you in the shared beyond.
So I wait and wonder if
you'll know when I pass on.
An empty hole in the crowd
gathered next to my lonely grave.

© 2015, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (frank_n_furter)
The spiritual / metaphysical aspects of photography have always interested me. The photos I take today will be imperfect reminders of the past. They will be seen differently than from how they are seen now. It is also probable that my photography will outlive myself and the subjects of work. Such rich, if perhaps disturbing, thoughts.

Future Memories of Days Past
Poem for Day 100 – 20150410

I am your humble photographer,
here to record a single moment
in a long train of minutes marching
into a time we've yet to see.
I bear witness to these echoes,
not yet resounding through time,
as one who will sent away
when you have reached my age.

The eyes captures a reality set,
my hands edit the factual content.
The outcome is the very best
of who you are in this time focused.
You are so sexy, so handsome too,
a slice of time beholden to beauty.
The clock progresses, moves ever onward,
leaving behind the ones come before.

The moment has passed, gone forever,
this photo a revenant in our futurity.
Then not be haunted by the now,
life is too short for such concerns.
With a button's push I've captured
future memories of days past.
Glimpses of who you are now
to be seen by the one you're yet to be.

© 2015. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved
kokopelle: (Dark God)
I had more to say on the theme of “The Dead Can Dance”. The departed dance in our hearts and mind. They live a life beyond death in our memories. The poem “Dead Can Dance Again” is an emotional look at how the ones important us continue to live past corporeal departure.

Dead Can Dance Again
Poem for Day 034 - 20150203

Dead can dance again, never truly pass.
Living haunted with memories of the past.
Those with us now are unwilling partners
to the loved phantoms of those gone before.

Hearts and minds enwrapped by reminders now.
That tune plays again in remembered song,
a stranger's face echoes features now past.
The recalled is never forever lost.

Hearts with hidden halls betray the moment,
doors opened to reminisce yesteryear,
time misled in the instant of recall,
to be plunged back to then, before the fall.

Never truly gone when memory calls,
alive and visible to only those who care.
Dance with smiles etched in the stones of mind,
grooves worn smooth with recollections consigned.

The dead can dance outside our longing arms.
As close as a thought, as near as yearning.
Taken by Hades, abducted to Beyond,
but like the spring, blossoming in the heart.

© 2015. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.
kokopelle: (Cat - Felix Face)
I've been thinking about how people leave a legacy in history. We have many lives. These range from the most private thoughts to the most public exposure. There are people who share these with us, but how much do we really share?

Here is my question to my LJ friends. What history would you leave if you passed away tomorrow? Assume you could hover over those left behind. What emotions would you feel as they went through your personal possessions? Would it be closer to joy or embarrassment? What would you leave behind at home and your workplace? Would those close to you have a different reaction than those who are social or work acquaintances?

What if the end was near but not quite here. Would you rearrange some part of your life if you had warning?


kokopelle: Horse Totem (Default)

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