A Moment of Silence

not for death or deceptive deity
but for life observed and reserved
for thy moment, internal and intrinsic

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/31/2010 at 8:56 pm est

Henceforth

one shade glancing down
one shade looking up
one drawn with delicate tea cup
one that swathes another ineffably
stirring her nature intensely
dipped cherry blossoms
soaking in a refined graceful wine
who hides humanity far away
with a never ending sailing
from the end of an edge to eternity
sedative and inseparable
in a tiny painted boat
pushed quietly offshore
composed for only one

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell
written in the afternoon and throughout the evening of 03/30/2010

Devotion

nothing compares to that
of one's most beloved book
hands on threaded seams
a crinkled spine, curled pages
from being read and carried
a hundred times over
tucked away in sacred enclosure
each new gingerly glimpse
discovers another impression
bookmarked in blueprint
of revered recollection

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/29/2010 7:47 pm est

Inundation

sitting in a bundle of my own making a loud thunder clap has me shaking, jumping up from bed at 1:30 am listening to the rain trickling again on a dark, moonless night covered by clouds

with throat on fire I am carried up stream into subconsciousness of bewilderment where I desire to swallow a cool, comfort to calm the burning of a yearning, that moves down chest

and swim with guarded wind who guides me gently onward, pushing me past limits never thought possible, of a damaged disposition recovering from the torment of existence

complete redemption may never be restored, but reparation comes in storms and rain and brightly budding trees; tears and joy and sounds that flood me, into other realms and dimensions

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell
written 03/29/2010 3:01 am est

Through my father's words ~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

The Same Current

Down river further than ever dreamed
Still we clutch the other
In the bottom of the boat
And as mountains yet moan
Over springs half-thrown
Still we are carried clinging
Laughing and singing
And dreaming
Of the souls of our souls
Running by the poles.

~Richard Wilson Moss
written June 2005

Suffering

a moment of a contentment turning into a scream
watching mom disintegrate and bleed
internally from drone attack

sweat rolling of the back of shadows
strolling broken Iraq taking children by the hand
leading them across demolished land

a lonely soldier digging a hole
and making a home for weeks on end
with a cig or two in the middle of Afghanistan

genocide of masses in tribal classes
and no one gives a shit because they
could care less about an African mess

and me in my headphones drowning out the sound
pretending to wear a crown
with eyes wide closed and a magic wand

where I roam enchanted, hiding in my wonderland
with magic in tow and a fairy glow
sparkling among the rainbows of destruction

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/27/2010 9:27 pm est

Intangible

curled up tight in a ball of fur
an unknown soul rests within her
of beautiful eyes and graceful essence
mournfully swimming in absent presence

in collective moments of weakness
she weeps for that which is not possible
to touch her internal core physically
and calmly caress it knowingly

although just beneath the surface
of skin and orchestral matter
there is a binding of both natures
abounding in abstraction

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/26/2010 7:04 pm est

The Second Greatest Pleasure

eating avocados cut in two
with the round of wood removed
a spoon dug into a silk organic flesh
the very color of teary eyes

strawberries taken by the stem
freshly picked and rinsed
eaten with seeds surrounding them
the very color of a pouting mouth

a slice of rustic tuscan bread
kneaded and baked
smothered with cheese and butter
the very color of wheat ringlets

the Third greatest pleasure is sleeping
which leaves us to the First
in multitudes and minutes
encompassing all the rest

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/25/2010 8:39 pm est
photo taken 3/20/2010 just after lunch
edited photo 6/23/2010 4:15 am est

Origin

Sitting in folds
shivering and shimmering
a form covered in silent film
collecting the dust of delight

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/24/2010 8:54 pm est

Resplendence
~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

"Poets utter great and wise things which they do not themselves understand."
~Plato

Photo taken 3/20/2010 approx 11:30 pm est
Gallery5
Richmond, VA
knees for tri-pod

Essence
~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

"The individual, man as a man, man as a brain, if you like, interests me more than what he makes, because I've noticed that most artists only repeat themselves."
~Marcel Duchamp

Photo taken 3/20/2010 approx 11:30 pm est
Gallery5
Richmond, VA
knees for tri-pod

Temperate Cataclysm

fell in love just yesterday on a March spring day when the first storm appeared in an obscure thunderhead above

he roared, he hammered on rooftop at peak, lines of rain fell like vines reaching downward for me to climb

he soaked a self in fresh rainwater and bathed me gingerly in timed rhythm, tapping upon an existence cultivated within a saturated chest

he shook his head once more, tapering off as quietly as he came, tapping from an existence cultivated within a saturated cloud

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/23/2010 6:10 am est
edited 03/23/2010 7:24 am est
photo edited 06/22/2010 4:36 am est

A Fairy Tale

On rustic planes of desertion
a diminutive self wanders.

Turning bikes into ponies,
asphalt into meadows
and trees into entities.

Climbing cliffs composed
of clay, exposing silt
on ascent.

Only to return back down again
and rinse thoroughly in the
Rappahannock.

A quick walk along the sand,
a hand stand, then for the
grand stage event.

~ Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/22/2010 12:04 am est or there about

Ceremonial Ambience

tasted and tested
unveiled and unspun
naked and glistening
exposed to the sun
an acquiescent dance
fragrantly entranced
with twilight
strung, among trees

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 3/19/2010 9:24 pm est

Subterranean Tide II

at approximately 4:00 am
eastern standard time
I feel the shore line
it rolls in and washes over
a self sleeping with sand
most days it sails in quietly
waking soft green eyes
and crimson cheeks
and the stars, the moon, the eclipse
are all one force pulling me
into the same existence
residing among a willful cosmos
descending a staircase

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell
written 03/19/2010 at 4:21 am est

"I confuse reality with unreality, I don't even understand the difference and yes, I live in between both worlds. In a dream-like awake state, that is my realm. Both are one."

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell


A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Edgar Allan Poe

Houdini's Book

there is a bookshelf filled with faded paperbacks covered in spiderwebs, with the exception of one; a single book sits enchanted, it's cover woven with fine threads and lined with a golden edge

with chapters beyond the depths of it's effluence and pressed flowers between tea colored pages... roses, lavender and scented sages

many leafs are soaked and torn in red, especially it's middle; but mostly intact full of birth, immenent death and great compassion

others are soaked in blue, especially it's rising currents; blue for the tears it sheds, blue for it's integral reflection, blue for the skies above, blue for the sake of just being, blue for healing

and through an eternal embrace, a key is passed unbound from one existence to another

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written throughout the morning and into the afternoon on 03/16/2010

Autobiography of a Dream

under an oriental sky a walk is taken through a moss garden peeking with stolen buds freshly blooming across the horizon

there is another who walks within, a tree entangled in a weakened chest that fits to perfection and roots to the lowest depths lighting up lanterns to guide the way

across spherical soundscapes climbing rolling green hillsides sectioned off by cherry groves and delicate rice paper fences

and with bound feet the walk is intoxicating by the jasmine scent of skin and the red oval shape of a mouth that tastes of an endearing universal frailty

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/15/2010 3:30 am est

Subterranean Tide

at approximately 3:00 pm
eastern standard time
I feel the shore line
it rolls in and washes over
a self playing with sand
some days it rushes in rapidly
flooding soft green eyes
and crimson cheeks
and the sea, the sand, the waves
are all one force pulling me
into the same existence
residing among a willful cosmos
sitting on a bench in an ocean park

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/14/2010 at 8:37 am est

Honey and Tea

exhausted by the flirtations with death and desolation
desperate to be reborn again surrounded by a purple hue
with green fire on the inside to keep me alive
and safe from ideas I cannot consciously understand
although I know them so well and they have become
collected petals of contradictions and impaling pain

exhausted by the flirtations with suffering and madness
desperate to be reborn again in a beautiful song
or perhaps within the whisperings of a captivation
that feeds me spoonfuls of honey and warm vanilla tea
and nurses my spirit safely back to the depths of a wonderland
where I roam most peaceful, playful and inquisitive

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

The Realm of Existence

In the realm of a Kingdom rests a weary essence still scattering dust of tenderness and integrity, still bathing in an ever-binding trust; that all beings write with golden pens, sing in perfect refrains, play in cheerful rains, sailing pink kites, laughing in hidden gardens, resting too with me in the arms of compassion, securely tucked all together under down covered feather beds, with pillows of cotton beneath their heads and Morpheus sending them sweetly to sleep.

Returning all to where they have always felt at home to fields of golden grasses where they may have grown, sailing pink kites, hiding seek, among the foothills of their peers and I'll never comprehend the rest even though I feel the painful reality of such torment in my chest and realize it is all from within one single subconscious blue pool of existence.

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/10/2010 12:05 pm est

Pain and Joy

In a teasing stream; I arise from a deep sleep
pain climbing up my arms like that of rose vines
entrapping a delicate fence, weaving in and out
of my limbs and enveloping my very existence

What is this pain? It must come from the same source,
where joy is also born. What is this yearning and
turning from both emotions breathing back and forth
into each other as two wrestling winds merge?

And within a few moments of a tormented solitude,
a following occurs of the most tranquil stability
resting sweetly again in the arms of an endurance
of an adored vulnerability lined with silk.

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/08/2010 4:40 pm est

Movement

from unreality to reality in one movement
a long song, a weeping song, sung in Lyon
followed by a piano interlude of love and emotion
what is there to fear when the past is the past,
and there is only this sublime
moment of dancing on hardwood floors
among a fireplace that doesn't burn in a world that turns
on an axis around the sun with a moon and planets
named after man made gods, there are no monsters
here, just simple humans and contentment composed
and seeded by the perennials of life and sustainment

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/06/2010 approx 8:00 pm est
revised 03/07/2010 5:23 am est

The Teachings of Eurus

The Greeks had it wrong, Eurus was not ill-fated or terrible; just a tender wind with a teasing temper, mischievous yet refined, winged with satin feathers to tuck one in tightly on many restless and frightful nights.

Bearing gifts of wisdom, enchantment and candied fruits for a fearful, tearful child concealed in an aviary with harlequin birds, colossal gardens, and never-ending blossoms.

With a merciful push and cynical, boisterous laugh, the graceful wind swept her forward and prepared her for re-entry into a world where reality is somewhat sinister, full of suffering, sadness and deception. Yet acquiescent and breathable if she keeps a little bit of the unreality folded on the inside, with playfulness intact and holds the universe lightly upon her hands.

And with great hope and devotion; the wind will continue to push her pleasurably onward.

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/05/2010 8:35 pm est

Captivation

in solitude I sit watching the shimmering sunlight reflections on the ceiling
the clock ticks, I have been sitting for days, for hours, for weeks, for years
the reflection is like a majestic tree seen so many times on my daily walks

it never sheds it's leaves and in the heart of winter they turn a soft peach
and as I sit I'm waiting to see what it will become swinging on a spring afternoon
and as I sit I'm waiting to see what it will become shading on a summer morning

a tree that only sheds tears when new growth appears;
anxious for it's great flood so I may bathe in barefooted pools
and feel it's colors beneath my toes
what is this tree that permeates my very being
and transforms me measures beyond?

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 03/04/2010 10:35 am est
edited 03/04/2010 3:34 pm est

“There is no pain so great as the memory of joy in present grief.”
~ Aeschylus

The Sun Torture

One of my my father's masterpieces. ~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

The Sun Torture

Look at him with both arms outstretched and legs tied apart
All his limbs staked to the ground
Though most Indians are gone-
The sun torture extinct.
Then who is he?
What crime has he committed unable to move
Except for the agonizing wrenching of his neck?

As tourists
Remember to obey the rules posted above
And don't touch the red-hot man.
There is no sign to read nor button to push for there isn't any speaker
To listen to
No deep perfect voice to explain
For the story is as of yet untold
I cannot tell it
Don’t ask me to
Just listen to the insects buzzing in his ears
Biting and stinging him
Cup your ear to hear the soft but harsh scraping
Of the leather binding each wrist
As you witness his beautiful convulsions.

Now form a tighter circle around him
Ladies and gents
But careful of his stakes.

Don’t his parched lips make you thirsty?
Don’t fret
I will pass an ocean of cool spring water around in these paper cups.
I know he looks like death warmed over
But notice his eyes slowly rolling and his nostrils flaring
His mouth gaping
Frequently coughing
From breathing the dry desert air.
His lungs rise and fall
A weak testimony of the ridiculous persistence of existence.

Well may I have your attention?
At this point in time we will take our break
So sit down and relax enjoy the picnic that has been provided
And remember to obey the rules posted above

Remember!
Don’t touch the exhibit!

I know he stinks
But he doesn't sweat his skin baked the sweat glands destroyed
He’s boiling
Ever see water boil over and left to boil
Until it is completely gone?
Much of his water has boiled away.
The sun of course has done it continues doing it.
And you know I bet each and every one of you who don't have
hats
Sure wish you had one now!
So grab a cloud and together let us try to imagine this man's
agony.

Excuse me?
Did someone remark that he must be dead?
No he is not dead nor ever will be
As the sun lives the life of the lifeless
So shall he

And I suppose when the sun’s dead the burning will stop
And the leather ropes binding his limbs will break away
I suppose he will freeze into solid ice
But this man will still flourish
In clean clear ice etched agony
No he is not dead nor ever will be.
But I have begun to notice everyone seems mesmerized
Admire his handsome face, will you?

Why ladies! Don’t blush!
In the middle of day you cause the desert sky to redden
Well I'll just remove his loincloth
And you shall see what is not there
See
Here is Prometheus uncocked
Oh the shaking of incredulous heads
The upheaval of nauseated stomachs

Now don't pity the poor bastard
Castrated by the heathens he gave his all
And don't dare ask for the story
I cannot tell it.

Now sit back down, sit down and quieter please
Otherwise it will be impossible to hear his wriggling
For that is the most joyous noise of creation
As you all certainly know (stupid of me to remind you)
A simple demonstration of unadulterated pain
Is his plight as well as his purpose?
And the Indians could have told you about purpose
Why they knew the purpose of their stars of their wind
They were the proud parents of infantile purpose
They gave birth all by themselves
To the wild notion of suffering for a purpose
Why from the loins of their brains
The sun torture.
They knew their Apollo
Created to nourish life or to burn it up

Yes such concepts are impossible for us to straddle worlds with
What are the finite amounts of suns to us?
As common as plankton in the sea
And around them countless exhibits swing.
Stars are our own desperate eyes
Some open-eyed some shut forever
Wearily looking at eternity for eternity is bitter
A thousand mirrors reflecting a thousand mirrors
Eternity is a crowd of god-awful tourists
Gawking like sublime assholes
At these exhibitions of beginnings and endings.

Excuse me if I have truly disturbed anyone
We think we talk of truths making the sounds of words.
Forgive me my rambling on like this
I am no more than a poor curator
A poor curator assigned to nothing
And for want of nothing
I picked this
The sun torture
Boring isn't it
Death.

But this sad soul before us defies this boredom
The last moments of his life having been extended indefinitely
These last precious seconds of life
Are like fireworks suddenly exploding
On a dark quiet night stinging the astonished eyes
Of the open-mouthed crowd
Eventually fading back into the nothingness
From which the rockets seemed to have sprung.

But did someone complain of hunger?
Again?
So soon?
Is it dinnertime already?
By god does time fly waiting for someone to die
That will never die of course
So we will break for dinner immediately.

Dinner was delicious!
What appetites tourists have!
We’ll have to order more of that delicious nebula!
Now follow me into the lobby to obtain
Your very own miniature of our exhibit,
And look
We also sell various figures
Sculpted out of their own time
For example here is retarded Jesus pinned to his hand-made cross
Bleeding like a son of a bitch he never met a person he didn't love
But what the hell is love?
Don’t ask me I can’t explain it
But I think it is part of the story
As of yet untold
I cannot tell it
And don't ask me again
Now here you go
Don’t complain now
Here you go take one home our compliments
And by the way did you know everyone
That he was the son of a god?
Don’t snicker his father was a good god so he has said
No matter for that god has moved and his son is dead
So why not take one of these figures home to the kids
Why
Their very own son of a god!

And my! It seems our crowd has swelled
So those of you joining our group for the first time
Remember to obey the rules posted above
When you hear the purpose of existence recited
Kindly ignore it

And if I may
I'd like to make one more announcement
We’re offering a midnight program
Also cheese with wine

So please if you can stay for the all night show
As an extra bonus you'll receive a ticket on a chance to win
An obedient universe.

Now form a tight circle around the exhibit
And see if you notice the sun tortured fellow’s
Pathetic attempt to break his bonds

His eyes bend back into his skull
To look at the carcass of innocence
In other words
His brain in its eternal stupor
He sends pictures to it but the pulp of the head
Stores them ass-backwards
So that when he dreams of his life
The events are scrambled.
There was either a birth and then this
The sun torture
Or a death and then again this
The sun torture
And all this would be fine and proper but for the fact
That he feels that he has never been born
He feels that he has lived at all times
And all this would be fine and proper
Except that he feels he must patiently wait for oblivion

And of course you all know the ins and outs of oblivion
But isn't it strange
I cannot help but be fascinated
By a fool waiting for oblivion

It’s like visiting the circus in the middle of night
When most animals fitfully sleep in their cages
And the circus performers whimper in their beds
It’s like waiting for a midnight show that will never start
Shivering enough to have to hug you
To keep warm while sitting on the cold plastic benches

But all enter oblivion all enter it screaming
And the screaming cut short
Like the lunatic howling as he is pulled into the padded cell
The door slammed shut when his hands are finally pried
From the sides of the doorframe
Suddenly abruptly the screaming cut short.

Sun is setting
The scene darkens
So let’s all sit back and study this poor fool
Gazing at the starry sky twinkling
With the sticky honeyed enlightenment of our after dinner drool

Our pretty exhibit doesn't sleep
Can’t sleep
Could you sleep knowing there's no relief awaiting you in the
morning?
Only another clear sunny day?
The sun-baked body is stiff and unyielding
His teeth chipped and broken
Breath whistling
Long stringy hair infested with the lice
The worms and ticks and the fleas
All burrowing according to individual jaws
Into his scalp seeking the precious fluids of the boiled brain
Burrowing on regardless of their own little deaths
Suffocating in the midst of his brittle skull
The hunger to retain life causing the loss of it
How he wriggles!
The demonstration of eternal pain
The joyous dancing of the suffering spirit!

Give him a hand ladies and gents
I always congratulate him myself
With yet another few moments of life as I have done for since
who knows when?

He itches but can never hope to scratch
His head that lies so close to this hands
He itches
Screaming about the dirty non-existent redskins long gone
He cries for their blood
He mutters to himself the wishes of the dying
Never dying
The wishes of the murderer
Never murdering
He anoints himself with his own hair-curling words
And baptized
Speaks peacefully of hatred
Thoughtfully and politely of others annihilation.

Before the morning light comes the stinging frost
And the poor son of a bitch screams to die
But if he died I would lose my job
He pleads to die not realizing the dire consequences

I am very understanding
But I must interrupt his prayers
To bless him with a little more life
Another day of scorching heat
I don't thing he knows

That life's no different from death both revealing nothing

But hey! You! Yes you! Come back here!
I see you!
Behind that moon you think you can hide
You little brat you ocean less oceanide
Put down that knife!
Why I am surprised at you
You must learn to have better control
Over your god-suckled child
Do you realize he faces eternity uncontrolled?

All must forgo the wrath of pity
Bearing in mind this exhibit is my baby
My merchandise my deliverance

Look at my exhibit
At this skull adorned with burnt flesh
Forever lying on the brink of death
Look at the circular screaming mouth
Tongue less thus noiseless
Pried open by the courage of the jaw
And locked in that position
By a single cowardly muscle

This
Ladies and gents
Is the largest hole ever ripped open?
Among all the head wounds of humanity
This
Ladies and gentlemen
Is the ever-spiraling deep dark hole
Every single unspoken word falls into
This
I suppose after all
Is simply the harbor
Of every empty breeze scented with a thought
Everyone look!
Take off your hats and your coats
And expose yourself to the sun that peaks
Through the creaks of the dark mountains
Behold the morning
The birth of true agony
And how our honored and lively exhibition
Will soon begin to howl!

I rejoice!
I rejoice!
Another day of heat!
Another day of restarting the broiled heart of this warrior never
warring
Another day to salt the sincerity of this brave unslaughtered beast
With the secret of life

And he weeps and I weep
And it is okay for all you tourists to weep
But please not too long
For your water wounds the desert

And he laughs
And I laugh
And again it’s all right for all you tourists to laugh
But briefly for when you chuckle
The sand sinks from the weight of merriment and misery

But of course without much pause he is silent
And this goes on and on and on and on and
And this concludes our all night program
I sincerely hoped one and all have enjoyed it
Please return and visit again
And as you causally stroll toward your nearest exit

Listen
Just listen
To my song

Here are the words
So all can sing along:

His is horrible horrible life
Death avoided
Death evaded
His is the joy of the coming of the end.

His is tortured life
Death avoided
Death evaded
His is the promise of the coming of the end.

~Richard Wilson Moss