A love poem

Photo by Yeshi Kangrang on Unsplash

Take my hand
my dearest love
come with me
to the endless depths of oblivion
where moaning wormholes take us
to worlds afar
in magical doorways ajar
Where we shall light the dark
with our dreams in sight
as we overturn entropic rule
of law and order abound
and live forever
on a blade of grass
the marching of ants.

There’s great lore
in your heart
greater still in your brown eyes
swarming cosmic seas
home to wisdom yet released
harmonious resonating
in the halls of eternity
Alas! …

What we take we must return, for all energy is conserved

Photo by Soroush Karimi on Unsplash

An empty glass
in a barren wasteland of plenty
feeling like an old rusty car
in a weed stricken lawn
watching a seasonor two yawns by
streaked by a velvet cold sun,
watching rabbits
flee the last eggplant
in a garden of bones.

I’m wondering what happened
to the meadow of languid fall
to the log cabin, family now afar.
bolts falling like dripping icicles
as coyotes lack up what’s left
of a dried-up pond.

That old crow perched
upon a broken chain
of a porch swing
cawing apocalyptic
harmonies, wondering
when the world will end
and the freedom of
empty roads begin,
without society or rule,

A poem about ghosts

Photo by Tim Rebkavets on Unsplash

I live in a haunted castle
of madman laughter
telling me to write
write you damn fool
write before you become dust
before you become
just another cursed afterthought.

I live in a darkened forest
listening to wolves approaching
closer and closer
foreshadowing of bones
in an ancient altar
and you’ve become
what I’ve always feared
a shadowland
between dawn and twilight
god help me to find life within.

I live in an empty atom
whirling insults at dirty mirrors
shaving cream dripping
but who am I shaving for? …

A poem of reincarnated lore

Photo by The New York Public Library on Unsplash

We’re old souls
counting the stars of yesterday
trying to remember what we were
before time swept away our dust
waiting for the day,
a new earth rises
where shadows meet forms
where cave dwellers meet wanderers
in the house of the immortal poets.
Our hearts now faded
watching that ochre sun, jaded
along a stretched horizon
knowing it’ll come again. …

An ode to science

Photo by Connor DeMott on Unsplash

From what was once clear
as amorphous stained glass
is now as transparent
as wetlands reflecting that
ole tired face of grandfather time
regretting molded roses
love letters unopened
and answers never sent.
In the plumage of Rome
fungi wrap our tales untold,
delicate silver bells ever toll
in my mind’s cloudy eye.
For as the light penetrates
my dense ego foliage did we finally
unveil, matrix harmony in
symbolic matrimony between
observer and observed.
Those laws they did crack
the mind of an existential
thinking thing’s midnight bed,
nature is hidden from us so,
DNA spiraling staircases,
to hallways and worlds afar,
in both life and death,
her secrets hidden below
that to be sleep…

…all living begins between the thought and the dream

Photo by Adrien Converse on Unsplash

I know that all
life is impermanent
but it still hurts
to say goodbye
to unwrap,
erotic eyelashes,
spent at the sight of a goddess
lips. Reflecting grief
in heavy ghostly grins
upon the ponds of time,
as bullfrogs leap,
another century,
of unremitting valor. For what starts
must end, beholder of emotional order
must drop the mug into the floor
and pick up the pieces,
blood, bone, and cracked laws.
I know the ways of devils and gods
because there’s no difference
between heaven and hell
without self-love
and redemption planted above
in a sinner’s mind
neural dendritic shame burns
eternal malaise,
for how shall I begin to today,
when yesterday, is not buried? I know
what the bodhisattva means
I know the…

A tall-tale narrative poem about a man plagued by addiction

Photo by Geran de Klerk on Unsplash

This poem is dedicated to my uncle Ronald Nordell. I hope you found peace in the clearing where the path ends. I love and miss you.


He’s got the most wicked eye in the West

So, they say.

He has a hard poker face,
no need for the truth,
because only a foolish man,
He plays a fixed game straight.
You see, he used to live his life
by the deal of the cards.
He’d sit at a table of players,
and run them all dry.
He’s tough, untouchable.
The only man I’ve ever seen
to get a hand of aces and eights
and live…

A poem about the ways of the heart

Photo by Joshua Sortino on Unsplash

Like Cold Mountain
I was meant to reside
in a cave of loneliness
reaching for love and desire
illusions dancing upon the pyre,
a poet lost in a fool’s hope
staring at a tree
a lifetime to make sense
of a single branch. …

Bradley J Nordell

Quantum physicist, science writer, explorer of the mind and philosophy, fiction writer, poetry, and creator of worlds. Find me on Twitter @bradleynordell

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