Water Brass Art by John Byde | John’s Studio by Design
Poetry
The Forest of your longing
Look see you not?
It is there beyond your self imposed forgetfulness.
On the hearts stone you sacrificed your longing.
But watch the wistful, mindless mist.
Illuminate the Forest of Your Longing.
Blue grey smudging mountain roots.
New warmth through the aorta shoots.
Shy fire of the old moon yet still seeding slow.
Into the Earth you must go.
Soft rising the flowing mist the old moon has as yet unkissed,
Then Kisses all that you may see.
Still!
In my arms the flow round the mountain I would be.
Neither the mountain nor the river know through which one the other doth flow.
The memory the child left in a hidden cleft – river to warp mist to weft.
No standing adult seeing this patchwork quilt could retrieve the lost child from hidden guilt.
So feel the wistful mindless mist its beauty will retrieve that forgotten tryst of heart and sacrificial stone and return you to your living throne.
Inner Child & J.Byde – 21 Feb. 2012
Who Stole my Sexuality
Whittle and chipped to shell its beauty.
I am on the trail of the thief that stole my sexuality.
No quarter given no forgiveness.
I forge my anger at the brazen theft to a diamond tip and rip through the onion skins till all is in bits.
In the disembowelled battle field of feelings there I will take stock and let Angels decide if this is forgiveness….feels more like SPARTA TO ME.
I reached in to the burning, blue cold of my feelings to retrieve the compass.
Oh yes they had no choice to treat you as they did.
Empathic beauty formed the screen on which they vomited their pain.
I am wallowing, celebrating indulgently my pain because I know what it is I feel at last.
As a dog I roll in the shit and rotting flesh because I know what it is I feel at last.
Because I know I don’t have to project it on others to see it.
Take these feelings in your hands, while kneading ask for strength.
J.Byde – 3May 2012
Hearts Pen
In the dead of night I set to work.
I roll my world to a tube and fill it with dancing laughter of the moon on salt water.
From the top most rock of Everest the frost cracks me a nib.
Feather of scaly dragon balances its weight and how the word flows.
On a virgin cloud I write my love and care not that away it blows.
But if one drop could touch your lips or run over swaying hips.
Then.
Incandescent sparkling blue grey dawns edge lifts the brightening day.
Stars are left to wonder at the creation of thi sway.
With the last drop he writes this…
just enough for one last X
J.Byde – 18 May 2012
The Garden of my Heart
That terrible pain was the door to the garden of my heart.
What you find within is not hidden.
There-there is no mystery, no occult.
That place shines with a light that casts no shadow.
J.Byde – 18 May 2012