New Kicks - Adrian Peterson Sparqs

Transcend

Transcend
by Russell Kabir
Published in Windmill 2008, (pg. 16)

I am a mountain.
Losing face, losing faith
but waiting to reach the sky.

Time erodes my foundation,
but not the faults I'm built on
folding forever in my mind.

My eyes become cloudy
when I wake from my dormant state,
and my shoulders of boulders grow cold.

The elements care not for rocks like me
bearing no sentiment for the sentient sediment
cast from my bones.

It's hard to think of heaven
when it takes so long to rise
from this clay of mistakes and pride.

But I dream.
I dream only of that piece of the sun,
that piece of the sky, that peace of mind,
where the stars transcend.
And the moon and I make conversation
about the peaks of life, the piques of life,
and this beacon of light
can shine on.

Shine on.

Walking into the Wind

Walking into the Wind
by Russell Kabir
Published in Windmill 2008, (pg. 14)

Through these nights where morning never seems to come,
I will keep walking into the wind.
I cannot let the troubling waters I tread
douse the fires in my eyes.

Just to find that envied tree
where sacrifice bears fruit,
and growth means the sustenance
of a self-actualized youth.

Where the barricades of the beaten path
harrow heinously in my head.
But persevere I will, I must!
Through these walks of life I dread.

This windswept state saves little face
by cutting through the cold of my shoulders.
But the will to renew, the will to revive
warms a desire inside to be stronger.


From here on out, the gusts of life
will keep casting my compass asunder.

But what a notion it is, to walk through the wind
in order to realize my thunder.

Atmosphere and Aether

Atmosphere and Aether
by Russell Kabir
Published in and winner of Windmill 2008, (pg.12)

On a journey to be a smaller man,
passing rows of angled fluorescent lights.
Sitting on benches and time capsules,
etching past benchmarks and passerby.

Never thought I'd cross the same thresholds
letting the leaves of my laurels wither away.
But in my return to my old injured eyes
I stumbled upon something beautiful.

Is it the day or night that oppresses us most?
Even when the sun spills warmth on the small of our backs,
it leaves cold, bold remnants of darkness past
in the shadows that follow behind.

The darkness, though mysterious, gives rise to the bright
of life's street lamps so symmetrical.
Orbs of truth giving direction;
the flickering flints with which we survive.

The foreboding sky, the endless ocean of
atmosphere and aether,
Can never fully smother the ideas of the heavens;
the glistening glare that reflects in our eyes.

The dichotomy of the sun and the moon,
the exchange of light that takes place
illustrates the essence of our existence.
Astral. Aural. Eloquent. Enigmatic.

Oh, what a power it is!
To give talent, the will.
Such a rush it shall always be!
To feel understanding seep into the mind.