under a spring moon
WonderWhen the parade arrives he is entranced, a child,
fearless, with light shining in his eyes. At first,
I am skeptical—embarrassed at the offbeat
clapping, uneven dancing—but rhythm
aside, his wonder comes alive, a smile bright
after being buried under pursed lips for far
too long a time. Hardly fearless, I dance too,
starting uneven until I wonder why I worried
to the point of wandering from happiness.
moving haikumoving in autumn:
I want it
but I can't keep it
sunlight in fall
an open box
with a cat inside
to thrift stores
Dungeons and DragonsAnd of course, in the game I am tall,
strong, intimidating, but kind-hearted,
gentle. I am a fighter, the team shield,
a pianist who reluctantly took up arms
but still holds passion for art
and spirituality. In game, each morning,
he prays. It is routine: sunup, shower,
submission. And of course, he is devout,
doubt plagues him once in his life,
and only for a moment before it ends. Each
morning when I wake, I too have a routine: sun,
up, shower. In game, I make it a point
to say that he prays each and every
morning. And of course, when I wake
each morning, I wonder if, like his, my moment
CleaningFocusing on the big picture is
not one of my strengths, at least not
at first. Everything is covered in dust.
Dusting can't be done until surfaces
are cleared. Surfaces can't be cleared
until things get put away. Things can't
get put away until older things are
thrown out. Et cetera. Until
there is a floor, there is no floor. With
no floor, there is no room. No room
means no guests. Et cetera.
The first step to cleaning is accepting
that the first step will almost always
feel like the wrong step. The room
will get more dirty before it gets clean,
life will get more complicated before
things get simple, the world will go
on spinning even when you feel
you are at a standstill. Et cetera.
canyon rengatwo leaves
on the water
through the canyon
the river runs
in the canyon at night
before going home.
like them, I return
GraceThe hands that cast the mould that made the plough
that dug the dirt for crops to make the dough
that makes our bread - they let us grow.
The souls who drive the trucks each waking hour
from farm to store to shop give us our power -
it makes them dead - and we devour.
Each morsel grows from dirt to plant to food
we tear a piece and sell so it's construed
we do our bit - we don't - we just collude.
And while each toiler keeps us from our graves
so we keep them trapped in their enclaves,
to tell ourselves each night - we don't own slaves.
CompanionsLight and Dark are not enemies
I have traveled with both
One revealed the wonder around me
and the chance to see how far I've come
The Other a moment to appreciate it
and the stars to guide me where I want to go
I got bullied in school. A lot. Walking the corridors was a nightmare. I rarely made it between classes unscathed. It wasn’t actually the abuse which really stung, though, but the illogical mind-set of the bullies. You can’t reason with the illogical. You can’t make it see sense, no matter what angle you tackle it from. I remember vividly the intense frustration at that.
Decades of both the tabloids and dodgy politicians spewing hysteria, hate and flat-out lies to an audience who can’t be bothered to look out at the wider world, or at history, have come back to bite us.
Just as in school, I feel my fate is in the hands of illogical forces that can’t….couldn’t be reasoned with. An hysterical mob which voluntarily close off routes to all manner of exciting possibilities and progress because they read in some ratty publication that the EU was so invasive and bureaucratic that they even insiste
TumultuousA poem in my heart felt insane.
The words recited
to the beat of
A story in my lungs burned.
It withered away like leaves
fall from trees
on the first day of autumn.
My heart felt like
it was drenched in peroxide.
I swallowed the earth
and spit up the oceans
in agony’s embrace
as the mountains scraped my throat.
The clouds felt soft
on my tongue
when bitterness rolled over me
like a tumultuous sea.
I was drowning
in carbon monoxide
while all I did was
try to get to you.
The waters are restless, my love…
│ my train of thought is plodding
│ towards uncharted territories
│ across the globe.
│ back and forth
│ goes the antique clock - same old,
│ same old chimes from two great wars
│ ago. I swear the pendulum's winking,
│ as if to make me indulged in gold plated
│ tempo; so why would I become a felon
to live on plutoi want to live on pluto
and inherit from him the world’s uncertainty:
live life in a year’s meager fraction,
make snow cones that never melt,
become nearly weightless
and one-third ice.
gracelessly i glide on patches of ice,
hopskotching the moons of pluto
and drifting into nothing, weightless,
contemplating distant blues with such uncertainty
my blood refuses to melt;
my fingers twitch in fractions.
my bones, too, fraction
and my eyelashes get tipped with ice;
numb lips whisper “melt,”
but he refuses: pluto,
with no uncertainty,
makes my head weightless.
my whole life i’ve wanted to be weightless,
to stop being whole and sing myself into fractions:
wholeness was uncertainty,
wholeness was falling through the pond’s ice
and sinking down to pluto,
to a frozen underworld that never melts
and i, too, refused to melt,
to give in to drinking myself weightless
till i met pluto--
no more bread gets fractioned
the blood of christ has frozen to ice
Angel of Justice Artwork by the very talented, :iconumbatman: ,
and used with their persmission.
I am the Angel 'Justice'
fiercely sought after scales.
For in my balance
In my presence always
Satan does fail.
And, shall flee
should I be for thee.
For he knows
the time is at hand.
His fear is great
for I never deviate.
When the Lord hath spoken
I take command.
And I shall remain
unto the end of time,
slow and precise
That all may see
the truth rejoice.
I spread my wings
at the guilty's door.
I am she, Serenity...
Thou knowest not my beauty.
But if ye sought the face of the Lord
surely, I would come to thee.
My wings are bound and chained
to fly, only, unto the sincere
whom have searched with the angels
of Patience, and Mercy, and Truth,
for the key to my seal.
I reside not, in the halls of vexation,
nor do I, neighbor with wrath.
I know only the ways, of love and justice
and all they of whom, such qualities hath.
I flyest through the beginings
unto the ends of the earth; my candle
an eternal flame.
Given to me of the Lord
seek His face
and share my name.
hydrophelia"this be the verse,"
with the conviction of a felon
and the heart of a child adrift.
it is the verse
of guilt-stricken fingertips
and faulty cuts.
you are the colossus,
heaving in your anarchy,
swallowing god like air
in your wake.
and in this requiem,
a friend lost in crossing.
they say surgeons need
nothing but to be taut;
if so, you are rigid
strung through white by gauze.
by ophelia's mercies
you draw close to the river
it is easier for you to float
when these lines are cut closer
to the horizon.
but before this dialogue bears
take a step back and observe.
find the world wrecked in your home
and tell cleopatra,
for these riddles
are intricate in the night,
and negative feedback
by day storm.
from your cicatrices elms
unravel and speak.
but elsewhere in the woods,
in these summer stones
you are scorched
"here lay the verse."
of an infinite sun-shower
in the laugh lines of your eyes
so let's walk a little farther
and you can take me to that damp
keep their tears quiet
bent over in stifled pain
will put my hands on the bark
and heal them
will offer up a prayer
for the sorrows of the myrrh
perhaps then her father will forgive her
will again hover silent
in her womb
you've filled me with words
brimful and light
on the tip of your tongue
and escape playful
with every kiss i steal
easy and soft
will whisper them back to you
if you trust me
and take me to that crying
place in your heart
i see it there
let me squeeze it
in my own two hands
they can scarcely hold you
you give me my songs
but i swear to you
dead man's dancenever tell me that the dead look peaceful
until you look them in the eye.
in most worlds, there are sober
in fear of facing retribution.
in most worlds, there is a void,
a glitch on the horizon.
the dead man's dance
draws it all in,
swallows the universe,
and short circuits.
there is deep gravity plastered
in the finite over the infinite.
in skin towns he is a terrace
flicker and urban beat.
he tries the trireme tarantella
over the sin cliffs.
he is tried for the great divide
and carves life into the mitotic skies.
like saturn's branches, freeze
and balloon, for jupiter grants
you no mercy.
rewind, fast forwardi.
a little less linear
than expected, reasonings
that make no sense and fragments
softened to sea glass-
night scenes, my specialty-
impersonal (impressionable) soullessness,
vivid without color, contrast, contact:
pair nicely with a cheap bottle of wine.
let go, let's go- to save you
(to save myself)
sub-par and vanishing (vacant)
there's ringing echoing
in the halls and in my head
and i cannot tell the difference
and i cannot take it back
whispers turn to shouting;
on: how to make bad choices
for the best reasons
on: blending fact and fiction
until it hurts (less), resonates (more)
give me six feet of earth,
and i'll bury us both
with some to spare
(leave the rope at home, honey
there's enough broken necks already)
she brought clippings
from old news papers
and her mother's garden-
weeds with pretty names,
so they must be pretty, too.
(faces pretty, so they must
be petty, perfect, pure, too)
it's hard to miss (aim)
and be relieved, but i'm doing it-
Watching ChildrenThe old well behind the abandoned train depot was a gathering place for children; I sat and watched them, weekday evenings and weekend mornings, envying their ease of company. Their secret languages were a marvel to me, and I strained to hear as they screeched around mouthfuls of stolen candies, crouched over the gaping chasm into which they hurled the wrappers, sweaters hanging off their small backs like the shrouds of crows. Every so often, one or another would glance suspiciously over a thin shoulder, marking me as an unwelcome intruder, and the lively chatter would reduce to the comforting hum of inside voices used in the open air. The weight of my age and rusty joints isolates me from their games; and - children being the insensitive creatures they are - they never sensed my desire to join them, my urgency to escape into playful reminisence. But their laughter was a comfort as it broke in the thin winter air, shrill on my unaccustomed ears. Hours passed as I shivered from cold and
on my wayWhen I walk I hear the wind
My eyes remember tears of sadness past
I shed them in this wind whilst on my way
Like feathers of half remembered wings
With all the hope of melting ice in spring
This cold spring unrelenting wind
It stings my face and shears my mind
Bringing radiance and kindness from somewhere far away
where the poems growthrough the glistening river reeds
in between the little waves
diamonds of sunlight sparkle
gentle winds embrace me
with scents of juniper and pine
beneath the whispering giants
the summer sings with tiny beings
mournful loons and chickadees
and a dragonfly rests on my sleeve
every breath is sweet here
my paddle takes me here
where I can really breathe
this is where the poems grow
missionary.out where the wind crawls along my back
lead me to your roost and wander
whisper through the waves of my mind
pillars of ice pierce to hold your spine
fragile yet strong, and the tortuous black
is near, his mountainous frame
wrapping you in velvet rind
a drop of blood in wine.
Everyone has a choiceDust. Dust on the road you step foot on.
I wave my hand goodbye, the last time I will see you again.
No tomorrow. Tomorrow is lost to the toads of today.
Tomorrow is broken by the bullet lodged deep inside their brain.
Tomorrow is over. Nothing remains.
Your hand is cold. Your lips shiver.
And there is nothing I can do to make you warm again.
Your lips shiver while you tell me not to worry. Not to stay.
You are cold and hungry and I am miles away.
While dust settles on your sweating forehead, all I can do is pray.
I refuse to believe this is all. I refuse to believe you have to take the fall.
Tomorrow can heal us, if we stay alive.
Tomorrow will save you. All you need is to survive.
Even in the deadliest circumstances, you still have a choice.
When the tide comes to take you. Use your voice.
The Muse Most August afternoons, you can find me sitting at Johnny Og's kitchen table - unmoving, unsmiling - as he studies me a full ten minutes without talking, then lets me get up and brew some coffee while he bends over his paper, sketching hastily, not noticing that I closed the dilapidated old shutters to block the three o'clock sun from his eyes. The scratch of his mechanical pencil gets interrupted by the dull thunk of the mug I put at his side; he likes his coffee black... but never with whiskey, since they call it Irish. Isn't it enough with his hair, he says, running his hands through it, making it stand on end with his fingers: thick and pale, the nails cut too short. I laugh at him. I say that I like his hair, and then I reach over and smooth it carefully back into place, bit by bit, as Johnny Og sits still - very, very still, his Irish temper and American coffee both forgotten, eyes closed in something like bliss.
I lounge, then