MementosI return home and empty my coat pocketsMore Like This
I pour out the cinnamon scented coins
scraps of paper, and the red of autumn leaves
I dig out the heavy air, and the smell of old books
mixed with the smell of rain,
and the spice of freshly cut grass
I shake out the last of the city lights
and the sound of footsteps on sidewalks
and so I gather up these pieces of moments
and tuck them away, to be pulled out and admired
when the memories themselves begin to fade
The Child Catcher's Out AgainI will not step outside again.More Like This
Not now. Not now the days are closed
and paths are damp grey rivers leading
to a lesser world. The sky a low lid
over every ant-like step. A press on us.
This time of year the eyes are out.
The watchers watch away.
Their gossip comes in frozen breath,
makes lines of heat, makes mouth-to-mouth,
resuscitating wintered minds.
My hooded head is down, and will be down
until the eyes are turned, mouths sewn closed.
I keep my needles rusty, just like so,
in case the child-catcher’s out again.
Her smile is raw.
(They’re always hers, those crafty types.)
They care you see. They see.
Their eyes are hawks, talons out.
They live on specks.
Swoop. Eyes forward, down,
wherever searchlights like to fall.
They look for dirt, loud gulls they are,
their arms umbrellas, shields,
aching arcs to capture wind. To lift.
Support. To love with stoned-out eyes.
The loud-voiced ones they are,
the social animals. They will expunge
the warped outsider
White CrowsI. to C:More Like This
You soar on thermals, warm and uplifting,
until the tenuous column vanishes and you
skim too close to treetops and lakeshores.
I have never glimpsed your heights
or touched your depths; I only hover
on harsh ocean breezes tinged with salt.
I dream that you will know the peace of stillness,
and that I will remember the rush of motion.
II. to T:
Cloud nine is not bliss. It's a panorama of raw cream
chiffon with an underbelly of curling smoke
that blocks our view of the earth below.
When we fell through the clouds
mist coated our limb tips so all we could feel
was the ghost of each other's touch.
Blame the wind or the feathers drifting from my moulted wings,
but I always knew we'd land thousands of leagues apart.
III. to P:
Among flocks of shuffling feet and stuttering wings,
you shone the brightest, a sparkle in the summer light.
You dazzled the world with solar flares and I was the negative image,
dark after-thoughts burned onto retinas.
IV. to W:
Crows don't sing, they say, bu
Questions of the NightGlass skies of starlight overtake the falling sun,More Like This
and the constant heartbeat of the world takes pause.
Do you hear the skipping beats of the giant creature?
Tell me, how do you miss that mournful sound?
Standing in the meadow of the lost and stolen,
hearing the screams of those gone long before.
Do you feel the souls crying in the blackness?
Show me, how is it that you cannot see the faces?
Hidden fires of the ancient heart aching promises,
and the dying ember of the betrayed and forgotten.
Do you know how the night shelters them from your sight?
Find me, how is it that you have gone so far from my heart?
Night AwedTiny embers float like dreams in the night sky.More Like This
The night sees them when the moon does not.
The black like the mother of all the forgotten,
and hope for the children born of shadows.
The smallest of creatures cling to the warm summer air,
flying in their fires like ash from a well tended flame.
The heat is but a passing wave that kills when it recedes,
abandoning all joy in the wake of the cruel tide.
The chill of the world will return with the dark autumn.
The firefly and the leaf will alike feel the deadly kiss.
Dragon breath and crystal death will take each in its time,
and the power of all rendered defenseless in the fight.
Yet wonder still pervades the darkness.
The Void will always astound the Young.
What is there but the night of the world,
for the Sun is just a poor trick of the light.
I stand and watch the world dying in the grip of the fading tale,
and the dying glow of the fireflies in the sodden grass.
The ever failing starlight on the black mat of the soul,
and the gentle