Rainstorm in a Hammock

We live in a world that is challenged, changed and disturbed by our interaction.    Our intentions have teeth -  as much purpose and fulfillment as we allow them..   we give ourselves room to breathe, but that space is hollow -  moments lacking definition.
there is no room to breathe in this place.  I mean that tonight,  I have hallucinations from exhaustion..  there is no room to breathe.  BUT I am stronger than ever,  more alive, more vivid, more aware..   because we must always remember to be ourselves.   The self is never gone,  never depleted, never vanquished, never taken..   it is always there to draw from, to come back to and begin again.   
     Tonight I am a dream with shoulders and a name.      I think sometimes we fear loosing ourselves upon our world, because we fear that we will vanish away with the words that leave our mouths,     It is not true...  have found that we are larger, and more powerful that we realize.    There is not an precipice into which we will vanish, NO.    there is not a place EVER where we must surrender our "SELF" and retreat away from who we were born to become.       We are beyond these bodies,  beyond our comfort and our tiredness..   we are the person buried inside a sunrise - impossible to fathom, and impossible to be undone.  






Andrew Tipton

Copper Earth

Andrew Tipton

Moonrise with the Horses

The stables are on the left,  nineteen
horses, one black one. painted
splotches of white, nimbus clouds in the night
dark

There ways.   Their sweat and mane, scent.
He draws cyclones in the sand with his fingers,
draws,  their attention,  and paints the corral
with music from his eyelids. 
There is a red line to the east.   grows
into a circle.  fits
into the spaces between their ears
makes
them fire stallions.

the horizon is an ember, is a city, and then is a volcano.   here
 comes the feeling
of losing control. again.  here comes the place. meant, 
we all imagine ourselves riding bare back through
our dreams. 
moon beams.
coyote screams. 

the reins hang loosely over the saddles. 
I just want to ride!.  gallop through the night
for the pure sensation of fast /  to nowhere. 
imagines it.  brings chills to his skin and body.
the black horse with the star on its nose stares into my thoughts.
no words.
can describe a moonrise in the desert. 
somehow we reconcile our fear of each.  others have been scared to death,
broken all four legs,
but here we are..     alive,
 dancing in each other's faces

;   the desert is alive, the rocks are alive,  they make standing with you
bearable
I keep looking at my hands.. and so I am not hopelessly lost inside your beautiful
copper face
The other eight-teen horses watch us from the corners of their eyes.. 
jealous.  no. 
certain of our diminished sanity.
they admire us.  





Andrew Tipton

Red is Everything

Andrew Tipton

Conversations of Balance

The sky has edges. and
they are made of patchwork. silk quilts.
Black light.to the touch. 
 I swum laps in waves of tall bending grass,
at sunset. you almost drown in their red golden.
deepness.
Tree pose.  As an island.
 Closes his eyes and there are two hawks waiting.
for a conversation.
Ravens follow me to the edges. and linger on fence posts. 
If you can speak the language of stillness.  Now is the time!
For an entire song.  Or.  Until your legs break.
 from underneath.  
His fingers stretch in perfect. threads to the sky.lines
to the center of the moment.
-----She says:  "yes, balance does exist..   yes."   it does.   
And it grows towards him..
He believes in the subtleties; black birds swaying on.on powerlines.
E VEN LY.  spaced.   
He believes you must become a thing to see it.  s
unfathomable angles.  
it. s   necessity  and majesty.
All living things tremble outwards towards him,
reclaiming their
balance




Andrew Tipton

Roaming Trails

Andew Tipton

Six Times in a Circle

Green tea stains everything
on the pages,
it makes the words
hazy.
|turns,
the cursive into jumbalia,
puts grace into my mispelings. because
the poems
make more sense when you can't read
them.
 almost
makes you want to read them more, that way
so you drink recklessly.  
hand-crafted mug, pottery - sip splash.
your new medium,  Green Tea Poetry
algorithms, presidential debates, science fiction.
We are the creationists, the writers, the leaf pickers.
the blue
lines,
on the page are melting. 
no more blue collars. 
around my neckline.
no more order. no mas. 
Solemente liberdad.  Green Tea stains.
everything. 


Andrew Tipton