The Lover Dreams

Sweet sultry silent sound
Beyond the sphere cosmic bound
Dancing perfect and quiet melody
All asleep, the hour past three

Closed rapid moving eyes
Hear the snore’s dream filled sighs
That aim to take away restful peace
But angels protect as pain is ceased

Wake you will I comfortably dare
To see astral sparkles on eye lash hair
Catch them will I in cup of hand
To keep in heart crossing deserted land

Kevon Simpson © 2015


There was so much proving in my early writing.
“See how fancy I wield the sword so swift!”
Even a movie is a series of still images.

The mind is a funny thing you know,
it can make you think you are doing so much,
when all you are doing is standing still.

Movie of self hijacked by ego,
convinced of the important role,
wishing to be more than a grain of sand.

Here ye! From one grain to another –
do you know why we fear the desert?
Self or other, we can no longer tell.

by Kevon Simpson © 2015

Differences Spoken

I find myself writing a spokenword piece
And calling myself a poet, but the reality is
All words are spoken, if only in the mind
Misfired and ejected no longer sustaining self
Shouting words to make someone else cry instead

Such fresh picked cruelty, fermented fruit
The intoxication makes it worth it some nights
When I see my younger self in another
Fingers trembling as icicles in the wind
Falling to crash, a sound, they will forget by morning

At times I would win the smoke and mirrors
Mitote reflections, the pages slaughtering shadow
Such blinding it must take to cast one so tall
There is something about the pressure
Of winning, that chokes creativity
My small and kind was almost killed

“You talk like a girl,
Start acting like a boy!”

Is this a world of not enough
Or are we just hardened
And bruised by the tough
That come to kill
All plush things
To crack the bill
And pluck the wings

I continued walking with my friend
Have you ever been spit on from an overpass
For wearing clothes you liked to wear?

He shot him so fast that we marched for peace
I can’t tell which is more tired, this action, or my heart
Cops don’t even have to leave their cars to die
These days, wearing the uniform is enough
Like wearing minority skin has always been.

What a cruel point to make.

Maybe this is all just one big funeral
For God, or the ideas of, that have failed
The idealist in me wants to believe
That poems are prayers that can save something
Certainly not the world, at least, it documents history
At best, it inspires action through tender love
In between hugging and kissing we toss a bucket on the fire
Far too much work to be done, for any one thing
To actually work.

“Trust me man, if you spoke a bit louder, you would win!”
When all the world is screaming, what we miss most,
is a soft, kind, and quiet voice.

by Kevon Simpson © 2015
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Merkabah Flakes

Just like that the moments gone,
continues melody of subtle song,
infinite orchestra falling from sky,
awe profound no room for lie,
as cold and wind together start,
beauty within thy snowflake’s heart.

Was there warmth to make your edge,
tip of sky, perhaps fearless ledge,
origin of air no need to leap,
nor net to catch thy wind of sleep,
perfect individual gone so soon,
shovel, salt, sand and moon.

Know I something of this bright,
endless shining in darkest night,
genuflect thy magic much,
bitter broken by sweetest touch,
such simple beauty dare I say,
feign I knowing mystery’s way.

by Kevon Simpson © 2015

Traveling Light

But please, let me not die with longing in my heart
wishing to walk the leaf’s edge in a fresh cup of tea
from a foreign land steaming behind glass that sits
in the souvenir shop of my imagination’s dream

Let me leave with the memory of flavor
a sweet seasoned last breath of spices
sold at the market of my turbaned heart
wrapping experience as a sparkling jewel

I desire to depart with less woe
not a single too-late left to bare
the strength to finish everything
moistened finger tip and crumbs

Empty backpack postcards sent
train, plane, horse, and camel
dunes, secret rituals, and brews
the shoulder of another language

souvenir shop of my imagination’s dream
wrapping experience as a sparkling jewel
moistened finger tips and crumbs
even the shoulder of another language
‘twixt I leave this journey of my soul

by Kevon Simpson © 2015

Write Your Soul Free coming in February!

On Awakening

You can be in the room with it
and it won’t say a word until you’re ready
to strip down to the bare bones
to shake loose everything you learned
to take away even your skin
and the idea that you are a body
you are worlds built upon worlds
ever expanding into secret areas
places you know not that you miss
can you tell me what happens
when we blink between a second
where does the world go
when our eyes cease their seeing
if it were about anyone one of us
the world would disappear
as we sleep.

by Kevon Simpson © 2015

Write Your Soul Free coming in February!

They Said He Doesn’t Know

Could one remind you of your beauty knowing not his own,
wouldn’t experience’s lack flash be swiftly shown,
if he knew not what he was doing, how is it that you see,
the love in all the faces, flowing heals so effortlessly,
are you waiting for him to brag, or shout it loud and proud,
but what would that make him, but a gimmick behind a shroud,
should he sit and count the souls that he has helped to mend,
could he be so egotistical and still allow blessings to bend,
from the tip of astral possibility suddenly becoming mold,
like ancient clay you’ve heard them say “his spirit is so old,”
perhaps you think his purpose just came in on a whim,
maybe it’s not he who sees himself not, are you sure that you see him

There there in skinny arms, your tears have come to be bared,
do you find him novice in that moment or even half-way scared,
of the tireless mission moving mountains to free of night and mare,
do you think his need for solitude and silence means he doesn’t care,
perhaps you think he calls your soul, to validate bruised broken self,
but see how long he plays alone, old book upon a shelf,
-is all he needs for hours on end to simply pass the time,
wasn’t he the graceful dancer melting all your rime,
how it collected on that tired heart so weary from winter walk,
wasn’t he protective as an owl while he listened to you talk
so how is it that you think, he really doesn’t know,
the secret you say he unlocked in you, also helps him glow.

But here is the mystery, some healers won’t dare to say,
it is none of us that gives anything, but light that gives the day.

by Kevon Simpson © 2015

Workshop: Write Your Soul Free coming in February!
Photo Credit: Cameron Gray



You have shown me your soft
I will not make fun of it
that would make you cry
you are all pillows on the inside
you want someone to lay on you
all night and into the morning
flip you over on the cool side
you are cool, too cool for school
and I see it on the surface
fancy casing from the discount store
where you hide down feathers
they don’t fly anymore
fluff them a little my darling
those soft soft insides of yours
nothing sexual, all tender wound
you have shown me your soft
and I will not make fun of it
nor reveal secrets of your crumbling
I have no desire to manipulate
the canvas of your life
see here, I don’t even lend colors
I just show you your crayons
how could you forget the rainbow
damn it! You are the gold
at the end.

by Kevon Simpson © 2014


Sometimes I feel like tiny man with only almost dreams,
like tea kettle on low, with only half the steam.
Where is the air, to make sharp calling sound of whistle?
Dreams once made of marble, now come cracked and brittle.
What say I to all the friends who believed so dear,
that my feet would walk the water top without a single fear?
While drowning, how can I tell them I’ve fallen far beneath,
the treasure I was hunting for and never got to meet?
How do I find the courage to face them once again,
as cemetery bones cry earth to mock, break, and bend,
everything I thought I knew about my tired self;
see them collecting dust now, those dreams upon the shelf?
Quivering hand and bedside lamp, reaching careful touch,
perhaps I’ll pull them closer now, I’ve missed them oh so much.

by Kevon Simpson © 2014

Dear Mystery Killer

Dear Mystery Killer,

Keep me with my wonder, woeful as it may make your logical left brain, keep your words out of my veins.  I beg of you, keep me in my unknowing, so that I may see a flower – though named before – as a new miracle, a sacred geometric unfolding transfixed by ray of light. Tell me, how in memory does the scent of an orchid take flight? Labeled have you the parts of the eye, but how is it that you factually see, that because I choose to embrace the wonder, somehow the world has gotten the best of me? I lift my head from the pillow, I am more awake than you remember, more awake than the soul you can’t hear sing, overridden with logic that lays behind to clip your wings. Speak to me when sleepless nights, that wrap your rib-cage with the lullaby illusion of knowing through touch, grow old and from your heart release their tired clutch. We are more than physical. Your bed of arrogance is comfortable, and though I may seem trapped to you, it is your mind that is not free, and so your understanding of my spirit, will always swiftly flee.


by Kevon Simpson © 2014