Thursday, February 25, 2010


Untitled

cut like a fresh rose
bled into an oblivion
of madness and chaos
nurtured by a warm
cup of tea freshly
brewed within me
I am undone
gave to everyone
there is nothing left
but internal hope is
rekindled in the
kindness of steam

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

West Wind

still whispers, a gentle wind, a gentle calling, a gentle cry
without understanding it's offering or reasoning,
it sways her stomach forcing down spoonfuls of ginger ale
to ease ailment and mend a mind

with an early spring comes rain, hoping it will ease the pain
where she will dance inside a primavera painting
as the fervid and whimsical child once known not so long ago

when the west wind first picked her up and wrapped her delicately
and shielded her from the jaded weapons of cruelty and reality
where she can crawl again under a pile of cherry blossoms
and tremble securely

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

Written 02/25/2010 3:41 am est
poem revised 02/25/2010 7:38 am est

Wednesday, February 24, 2010




Through my father's words ... ~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell


To Humanity


I saw the stars reflected in your eyes.
And the cold spaces between.

Perpetual winter surrounding perpetual flame.

I saw our love was the same.

~Richard Wilson Moss
Written many many years and moons ago...

Tuesday, February 23, 2010


Simplicity

somewhere cornered against a confused cosmos and identification you will find fear, suffering, and a delicate ego sitting aside; one that wants to hide beneath the covers and close her eyes tightly to the fists of human crafted creatures, gods and monstrosities

but most of all you will find the most simplest kind of a mind; one that sees most matters with a glass heart, composed of love, laughter, intellectual strength and emotional grace trying to obtain a better view of human crafted creatures, gods and monstrosities

the story is really not so complex, no more complex than that of other stories; with a beginning, swimming in both red and blue seas; with a middle, growing and flowing in all directions;
and with an end, as inevitable as all ends

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 02/23/2010 4:39 pm est
edited poem 02/23/2010 6:44 pm est
photo 02/21/2010 approx 6:30 am est

Monday, February 22, 2010


Insanity

with a pink crayon there is a fine line drawn somewhere in between existence
curving and carving at fixed points; but mostly an ever flowing non-segmented ray
running both parallel and perpendicular with other lines of the same motion

with tiny silks there is a fine line drawn by a beautiful spider in angular dimensions
weaving and waxing of webs; twisting and turning a foiled wrap of creatures
slowly dropping from the ceiling down to the floor in perfect strength and grace

with green stalks there is a fine line drawn from the ground moving upward to the sun
swaying and swinging of stems; depending on which way the wind will push them
growing in scattered pockets all over the earth in an abundance of life and longing

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 02/22/2010 3:50 am est
photo 02/20/2010 aprox 11:30 am est

Thursday, February 18, 2010


Loss

there is an endless ocean crashing upon an immense shoreline
upon this line, there is no sand, no rocks, no land masses, only silent crashes
and with no sand... castles with wooden sticks for windows can no longer be built
and with no castles... great balconies of stones can no longer exist
and with no balconies... there are no passages to travel in between crafted crevices

there are plenty of empty buckets and shovels laying about here and there
all in an abundance of colors, bright yellows, brilliant blues, some with red sifters
they all feel the sunlight warming their bodies as they relax upon the unknown
they all feel the wind playing against their plastic rims and mildly rounded edges
they all feel the stars reflections when nightime closes it's eyes upon them

but most of all...
the buckets, the shovels, the sand sifters all know there is something amiss
even with an inconceivable consciousness of what exactly is missing

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell
02/16/2010 7:15 pm est

Wednesday, February 17, 2010



Awaken

every dawning has a distinct texture
sometimes stenciled in botanical hues
sometimes etched in dark and white toile
sometimes intensely orange shaded as the sun

every dawning has a distinct fold
sometimes planted into pots of lavender
sometimes twisted into elusive glass
sometimes turned into ponds of goldfish

and on the darkest days
it is torn into pieces of paper
shredded and discarded by hands
only to be woven into new horizons

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

Tuesday, February 16, 2010



Overtunes

harmonizing in heart and rhythm, all is forgiven
and there was nothing ever to forgive
humans are strange and yet... all the same
composed of love, sadness, grief, misunderstanding
and so many unexplainable possibilities

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

Monday, February 15, 2010


Tyranny

sitting on my shoulder day after day
morning upon morning, pecking still before the sunrise
the clock chimes three, four, sometimes five
ready to pounce upon a daily consciousness
and scratch a twice broken record of resilience

yet I realize we all wake up with the same tyrant
I may be yours, we are each others, I am mine
the oppressor is inevitable, just as the oppressed
and to escape such an intrinsic dance is as hollow
as sitting frozen against a curtain of celestial fields

and convincingly; I sit in a somber silence and remind myself...
to pet the tyrant with devotion, for it too is a pure captivating silk
gracefully black, magnificently rare and as precious as all fabrics
tied in exquisite packages unveiling enchantments of existence
adored and serene, like a rare rose rising from the underworld

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

Written 09/14/2010 03:00 am est
Photo 09/15/2010 09:10 am est

Friday, February 12, 2010


Somewhere In Between II

somewhere in between
the sparkling pink bones
of our delicate existence
there is a connective, collective,
clear pool of subconsciousness
and in that space...
simplicity sits complacently
in silence and dust
that is the secret

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

Written 02/12/2010 2:28 pm est
Photo taken approx 4 years ago this spring

Thursday, February 11, 2010


Re-Birth

born onto a stomach
ardent by touch
perfumed with sweat
suckling, singing, clinging
to all that has been known
climbing the struggle of existence
and for the lucky ones
the initial ascent is supplemented

colors beyond the pavement of known rainbows
crawling on soft grasses
rolling delicately beneath our little feet
stories told of great adventures
of princesses, kings and puppies
poking out wet noses beneath fences
squealing and squiggling

bustling with breath as fresh as spring hyacinths
our faces rolled in dirt after just digesting perfect mud pies
wet from swimming in rowboats filled with muddy April rains
fresh as the first day
we dry ourselves off
soaked once again

and with a towel, seashell pink, I dry my own tears
and wipe my mind clear of all those insignificant fears
and harrowing angers amongst an infiltrated humiliation
and bathe again in sea salts composed of humanity
and to the whole universe
I plant an eternal kiss upon it's ripe brow

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell
written 02/10/2010 7:15 pm
photo 02/11/2010 approx 10:45 am

A very special dedication of this poem goes to Paul Hawgood
founder of www.archwayfoundation.org.uk

Wednesday, February 10, 2010


Non-Existence

every word, every sound, every image is abstract
out of abstractions, a personal understanding is extracted
and a reality created, which is nothing more than an unreality
invented by minds that think an identity has been formed

how can we even begin to understand what does or doesn't exist?

one is painted blue, one painted red, among the colors of others
all the same, all non-concrete, all deluded by in-significance
yet from the confines of minds, both yours and mine
abstractions arise from the whispering of blood and nature

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

2/10/2010 Originally written 05:18 am
2/10/2010 Revised at 2:40 pm

Tuesday, February 9, 2010


Somewhere In Between

the rising and the setting sun
the setting and the rising sun
precious gifts were lost
a soul lined with feathers
a soul lined with flowers
a soul lined with gentle folds
and here I sit, under an umbrella lined with illusions
situations I cannot begin to comprehend
situations made ever more complex
by souls of other sorts and most of all
by the soul of myself that I once knew
but I know her barely not
for she too has become a stranger
suffering somewhere in between
the madness of those spokes
turning amidst the wheels of man made horrors
still wanting to hide with her under soft blankets
wearing pajamas, tied with satin bows
taking refuge in her warm heart lined with such beliefs
that most others are just as innocent as her sacred self
that was once...
un-raped, un-touched and un-handled by human constraints
and with her I cannot detach from an ever binding bond
regardless of the cruelties inflicted by fear of gods and monsters
and faith that most of mankind is lined under umbrellas still
with feathers, with flowers, with gentle folds
especially those of both friends and strangers

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

Sunday, February 7, 2010

Exhaustion of a Pawn

I am completely exhausted from being lost in translation, a year of suffering from fears generated by past illusions, from modern society and from machines. So instead of my own poem... here are words of my dear father... for today.
~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

BLUE HERON

The river does not surge
And the shore swings like a cracked pendulum
Against a sun frozen on the horizon.
On one leg the blue heron keeps his balance.
I cannot keep mine.

The river is motionless
Its fish paralyzed
And far down the shore toward the point
A small woman covered in an orange afghan
Sits dozing by an eternal pond
Her daughter in her arms speaking nonsense.

Meanwhile the infinite snores.

I must bear the fate of my favorite coat
My father wore again and again
To walk on these cold shores
The small woman sits happily with her child
As a gnat soars
Far above the marsh
To be swallowed by a wren.

Am I wrong again and again
To make wide circles around that place
So afraid of them?

I know that I must learn
That ponds dry and rivers turn
And a gnat may swallow the sun

I must bear the fate of mother and child the blue heron ignores.

Staving but never slow
Like a rabbit in deep snow
I know the thing hated most I will become

Meanwhile the infinite snores.

~Richard Wilson Moss

Saturday, February 6, 2010


Valediction

born among a forest, raised on rain water, fed on sweet nectar's
daffodils in the spring, orange poppies, evergreens
swam naked with red bellied salamanders
watched the creek trickle over rocks of all shapes and sizes
conversed with ferns and mingled with rattlesnakes
climbed the hillside of a mountain made of pine
resided in a house built of the purest redwood
cut and chopped and milled by hands of pioneers and love
listened carefully to the summer sounds of birds, buzzing flies
drank the sunsets, skipped with the bluest skies
walked to a mailbox on an unpaved road barely touched
in a home coinciding with transcendentalism
where something greater than god infiltrates the inside
with principles unchanged, unaltered and unsold
yet such innocence doesn't make a better person
just a being un-prepared for the mechanisms of machines
and there is no coming back stronger, no external wars to win
all wars are within, the walls of our own confinement

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

Thursday, February 4, 2010


Diagrams and Diaphragm

lost in the Sea of Marmara...
labeling along the edge of deep rhythms
mimicked on the inside, in trails and intestines
kidneys, liver, stomach aches, erasing heart breaks
re-aligning with new diagrams, details, directions
nibbling fingers, banging on drums, other percussions
not quite there, stuck in the unknown
swimming with bass and base in Bosporus Straits
finally arrive on a stream of contradictions
trickling into the black sea
with two elegant shades of blue beside me

~Emily Loren Moss

Wednesday, February 3, 2010



Situation II

in the muddled puddles of swirled stars
I saw other wings
not of mars or venus or alienation
but of earth and men and nature
and within it's precious grasp, I sing
unchained and unhindered

~Emily Loren Moss

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Emilylrn: "Ode to Fakeboo" via Richard Wilson Moss (originally written 1979)

Farewell Speech

Don't give a goddamn about the whole wide awful world
Once a world now something wordly

Kiss it off as I have
You delightfully stupid grippers
With a grip unrivaled
By every other's animal handhold

Let go for god's sake you bastards
Let go before I give a damn
And hold on like you hold on
You stupid pitiful but wonderful bastards

And let's not hear any shit
About leaving something behind
Nor any bull about living in harmony

Harmony is something god gave to god
Something that you would snatch away
If ever a fist unclenches

~Richard Wilson Moss
Written in 1979

Monday, February 1, 2010



Resignation in a Hopeless Game of Chess

We shall never know another's perceptions or identities;
it only remains within the mystery of one's self.

~Emily Loren Moss