Adventure by Ollie

A Search for Purpose in a Random World


October 2016

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.



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