Adventure by Ollie

A Search for Purpose in a Random World

I Am, You Are

I am every eye,

I am the moon,

every rising, setting, eclipsing

all the seasons, the waves

splashing hard and fast upon every shore

as every kiss is wet and sweet, I Am, You Are

each bird song that thrills my heart and soul

the sparkle in every star

and I am every woman-

you,  every man

in every love story ever told.


My Face Reflected

like tree roots in an old graveyard

wasted is the day

staring into mirrors,

where no one comes any longer

to lay flowers,

to sit beneath trees,

to speak with dry bones.

make me not look in,

but let me dive,

and die

let the light embrace me.

leave me not with time.

every second sixty thoughts

crackle with the wind against the cold marble

and none of them,

upon examination,

contain my face reflected

in the twin pools of

thine eyes

or pondered within the expanse

of thine mem’ry.

let the dead carry their dead

cross over to life again.

waste not my coin

for I shall not waste yours.


Add the Brilliant Light

Oh to add the brilliant light

upon the feckless hills

and feel the satisfaction

of fancy alteration

to sum a word polite

in phrases of pure fire

and heal the broken bone

with nothing but a line

keel up, reel up, divide and multiply

the sound and feel is more of rhythm

than contrivance, what is?

more than my meat and potatoes?

Is it rounded on the tongue

and fitting in the groove?

Smooth as Casanova,

the mighty word Play.


Teacher for the Trembling

A trembling flame, he did not extinguish,

but blew gently to make it grow.

He earned the name others had bought

and was despised by many, even though

the others would demand the tearing out

of wicks, the elimination of all light.

Who then, wise one, desired to teach,

and who loved the pupils?

The One who did not tremble in the time of darkness;

who took away the shame of the weak.

I won’t hide there’s scars

can’t deny it

not in the game for it

seldom the mood

red ladders for climbing

red landmarks to keep

the path of my body

for the long haul

yes I have scars

and also you

red mountain jagged

steep cliff abounding

perfect nonsense

becoming personal

like a map

memorize each road by heart.




Tell Me How

the gods were jealous of us,

how we shone too brightly in the pool of heaven

Tell how

we were that which philosopher’s dreams were made of

sitting in the long dewy green grass and blue jeans

analyze the distant stars

count infinitude

Tell how

we were born in blood and hair and spit and tears

animal bodies tempered with spirit

fierce breathers of air, stomping into the earth

making plows of our feet and fingers

Tell how

skin felt so good to wear

leaping, laughing, jumping in deep water

sand between toes and the pleasure of pasta

Tell how

I was bitten and bit in return

tasting red, warm iron mixed with salt

fisted glory, rage and passion

how we fought, were overcome,

were conquerors

Tell the story

we dig for, seek in strange places and

find only in coming home.

Make jealous of us.

Tell me how

much like gods we are.



Crone Songs

Grow flower,

grow quickly,

before the daylight fades –

carrying with it

all the bright, beautiful birds.

Come again sweetly,

lend a feather to a friend

and nest with me.

Feathers or no,

dig a little deeper.

Caress – bud to sky and root to earth.

The rising tide of wings gather

in the setting light

exchanging colors with the sun.

Do not be afraid

when the day is done.

You will sit alone in the dark

and the moon will sing you her crone songs.


The Smell of Paint

Sometimes I remember the smell of oil paints

and see their contents arranged

with graded borders

the mixed and shaded hues of context

blurred boundaries and

I love the way you add light to

your own eye’s favorites.

There’s a slap of paint

hard across the canvas, difficult;

hard to tell when to stop calling it blue and

begin calling it purple…

that’s black,

at least I thought so,

but you are so adept at convincing me

of red.

ask me why

There was a girl once

who wore

her hand in my belly,

and I, a sash around my heart

called friendship.

And I told all

her listening faces

about the love I’d found

in one sunrise

ending long, dark night.

A treasure

of which she decided to take all her own.

So now, ask me why

I sit empty of belly and of heart.



Breathe in Me

Get the hell out from behind my eyes

You, yes, I know I walked away from mine,

let you fall behind, pushing you far behind.

I can’t stand you, can’t let you breathe in me,

but without you everything is so boring.

I’m miserly.  Just let me make believe

that I can live a day without thinking of you,

I can be alone in a room without you.

Freedom is so much fun, being on my own,

and by the way, How the hell long have you been gone?

I’m demanding why you let me leave-

overturning and throwing things.

Go be a god in my universe

be the sun in my sky and my star at night

Be my Orion, I’ll be your dog star

chasing you with tongue panting like oh my god

sit in the heavens on a diamond throne

just as long

as you touch me and I feel you

breathe in me.



Wrinkles and Youth; Lead the Way Toward a Free View on Aging.

Our modern society respects the youth culture. It believes being young is beautiful, but it’s actually quite naïve and stupid in many ways. It is our responsibility to reclaim the beauty, the sacred, the holy which is characteristic of aging. We can do this simply by choosing a different perspective. It is a choice.  We decide.  It’s conscious for some, and then others follow unconsciously – the herd mentality.  That’s how it works.  So what we’ve got to do is be the ones who lead the way.

The theme of wrinkles appear often in my writing.  I like the idea that they are words, sentences, stories which life has written upon our bodies – which we write ourselves upon our bodies as we live life and gain experience.  I choose to celebrate them.  I invite you to do the same.

Let’s Play Once More

before it’s time to go.

The clock rushes,

too soon another hour

dictates the measuring of life.

The work desk demands,

“what have you done today?”

The body says, “I’m weary,” and grows old.

The stubborn donkey feet declare,

“I’ve walked enough for one lifetime,”

then the soul is agreeing.

Don’t turn your eyes away from me.

Let’s play once more.

Taste the wine fully.

Laugh completely.

Tell every joke

and hide away

a little while longer.

Let breath, kisses, and love exceed that which is wise-

the One who measures all these

loves abundance.


Higher than Can’t

they said, “You can’t do that,”

and so we did

every step.

There was no path –

we made one.

The steps we took,

were stumbling steps

feet upon gravel

not neat and swept.

No looking back –

hand in hand we rose,

higher than the cant’s.

“Can’t climb mountains.”

Good we didn’t listen,

here we are, at the top

and not ready to stop.

Now, to climb the clouds.


just to see what happens

when I do this

your mouth is drooling

all it took was a kiss

just to get a reaction

with mouth open wide

are you astonished

at my lack of pride

just to see what happens

now your eyes understand

how ordinary

and so very plain

are your own machinations

your own attempts

to acquire dominance

The Best Stories

Do not cry.

I will not die,

Child of my Daughter’s womb.

A fading tree in

the fading light-

not I.

Do you see these hands?

These wrinkles are words,

are sentences.

All the best stories

of life and love

are written here.

Is a book ever buried?

Only shelved.


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