SpringtimeIt is winter on my breastbone,
Across my nose,
Down my arms,
Snowbanks of pale skin
At my shoulders, elbows, knees.
But a sudden spring emerges on my hipbone,
A rioting vibrant mass
Brought on not by the warming of the weather,
Or a gentle rain,
But by a forceful collision with a table.
This bloom will wither soon,
Just like the real daffodils and irises.
The colors will fade,
And my skin will return to the tundra.
aphroditeclambering lips tumble over each other like
little deer stumbling into the headlights, where
blushing cupid's bows snap shut at the slightest
whisper of a touch; as summer's broken blossom
whistles into moss, suicidal and free-falling at a
twist of the wind, dripping through honeyed-hands and
trickling down wrists. words nuzzle breath, the air
staved of acoustics that choreograph faces closer; watching as
quivering eyes thrust new-born hope, where
restless hearts knock beneath a web of ribs,
screaming silently as bodies are poured into the
stitches of aphrodite's venomo(us) fly-trap.
Clair de LuneSometimes I imagine
That when Debussy penned this movement,
He hesitated with the title.
"Clair de Lune" moonlight.
Perhaps he didn't have the courage
To add an "E" to the end of her name,
Immortalizing her in music.
The gentle chords pouring
From his piano describing
The peace with which she slept.
"Claire of the Moon."
She was the embodiment of dreams.
Indeed, with her hair spread out
In messy ringlets across the pillow,
The pale, spring-time glow
Of the moon hanging heavy
In the April sky
Gently casting its cool light
Through the half-open window,
Onto her faintly blushing cheek.
She looked ethereal,
Like a flower that opens for moonlight alone.
Imbued in this music is the tenderness
With which he desired
To move a stray curl from where it lay
Draped across her brow.
As the movement sweetly closes,
She gently wakes, smiling,
As I gently wake from the scene I created.
This exists in my imagination only,
The romantic in me dreaming
With the fictional Claire.
RosesYou love too much, I am told by a man with a briar heart, thorny sinews and collapsed ventricles bearing down on him, hardly beating in his tight chest. He looks at me with flat, slate eyes, chipping and eroding. His hands are dark with cigarette burns and rough with calluses; I feel them on my shoulders as he looks down at me, face collapsing in at his eyes like a dead man's.
For the first time, I realize he is dead. His briar heart dried up when winter killed his rose; my father, he is all thorns.
He squeezes my shoulders, too tight. You look like your mother, you know, he whispers, eyes shifting to the garden, to the yellow rose I planted for her. It is a rambler, sending shoots to the sky that sink back down. We never gave it a trellis. I loved her too much. And there are tears in his eyes, wet, heavy things that slip down his cheeks and on to the grass below us.
I don't know what to say, so I think of the rose, of her. I think that I'd like to send this
BloomIt's normal, you know.
Bruises flower under skin like lilies in a garden
Tears find their place just like water in the soil
They seep into the black
And hurt grows so green and natural.
Pearl skin is supposed to go purple
It's as right as the rain.
So don't worry, don't fret
I'm art, you know, cross-stitching on the wall
An ivory piano key
Just as I should be
Because battered things are beautiful.
Feathers torn from silk pillows
And stick figures on balance beams
Aren't as loved, nor as adored,
Nor as beautiful as me.
cypress lady.Lost in a fog, a stranger walks.
Dressed in shadows,
Alone, she whispers
nondescript words in a language
for no-one cares to listen.
In the shade
of an ageing cypress tree,
she lies beneath the boughs.
In the soft, soft grass,
she sighs as she dozes.
The sun hides behind a cloud,
and the quiet shadows grow cold.
As she opens her eyes, she shivers,
her grassy bedding turning to ice
as she is lost to the pleasantries
She looks out,
and from the realms of her shadows
can see a faint light
past the leafy threshold.
Standing, she walks
slowly to the edge,
She stretches her hand out,
testing the lighter air.
Gasps. Flinches, snatches it back
into the darkness.
Despite the hidden sun, the air is warm.
(Yet why do I not burn?)
She is in wonder.
Although she yearns
to illuminate herself,
she hesitates to step beyond the shade.
has she stood in the full bright beams
of the sun,
What will happen
PersephoneI fed her
and she cried
at every frozen sunrise
for 180 days.
With cracks in my heart
caught in my hair
I counted 180 more.
Grating RaspsIt courses and winds like air through veins,
Falls languidly through space, red as wax, drips
From barren branches full with leaves,
From sighs and outstretched fingertips.
It howls in silver song from the moon-top
Grips like ice and as ice does, lets go.
Stars and hollowness gently fall,
As it's all that nothingness will ever know.
It shudders and shatters in scarlet decay,
Breaks like waves of unblemished sound,
Until scattering, piece by crystalline piece
To the dusty, earth caked, green-strewn ground.
It leaves forms laying in beds of growth,
Traces rivers through rock before treading back.
It resonates through choking and grasps hungrily at light,
Extinguishing black for greater, water soaked black.
And it comes as easily as it goes,
Goes as though it never came.
Tree Of Rotshe is but the
(once upon a time)
is now the
she was once
InstructionsWear dreamsong like a gown
wear rainscent like a cloak
no shoes, your bare feet know the way
in and out the twisted place
tell them you don't know your name
yet don't dare to actually forget
listen to the honey light fiddle
but forbid your feet to dance
for the music is enchanting
and your feet won't stop
when you want to leave
sing a homesong, follow your feet
through dark forest, over fragile bridge
unknown paths, an open door
you will never find back.
strawberriesdrops of rain explode
into colors on your outstretched hands,
blossoming as roses
like bright ripe strawberries.
and when you roam enchanted gardens,
nothing is ever as it seems
one moment a blade of grass
and the next one of many feathers
on the wing of a bird
about to take flight.
no matter how you try
gravity is wiser,
and you are bound to come down from the clouds.
millions of heartbeats like yours
all search for the same thing
and will find each other someday.
Elegy Of A Lost SeasonI am the fall.:thumb203486410:
Broken in June, buried in August -
haunting September from the boughs of hazel,
where not even the rain could reach me.
How my limbs ached to feel its soothing caress;
but my limbs felt nothing, and I felt nothing.
And the season moved on, without me.
Once, long ago, I was spring,
delicate and pure; fragile as willow seedlings,
believing themselves strong, as they stretch toward the sun -
before the wind breaks their stalks, and they fall
defeated, drained, limp upon the ground;
crushed and forgotten as tears.
But no, I was summer -
when I looked into your eyes for the first time
and forgot to curse the sun.
Tiny beads running down my neck;
hateful, so hateful - ignored, as you ensnared my senses.
You were summer, too
cradled in the branches of oak,
bright enough to burn my eyes and scorch my skin,
but never close enough to touch.
Until in your arms, I became summer,
and the sun could not outshine us.
But now I am winter -
numb and cold, faded, stripped and desolate;
of pink camellia blossoms
litter the sidewalk,
a school of tropical fish
escaped from their captors' net
I wait for them to rise
into the sky,
a flock of bright angels,
fins turned toward the clouds.
They will bloom again tomorrow,
this I know.
Atlanticyou were the ghost
who made the apple fall.
it's not you,
sometimes the seeds
turn into trees
or flowers, strange
the strangest force,
and, at other times,
the wind lifts them away
so they never
touch the ground.
there's nothing left but course.
of course you are, but i must know;
do you go door to door,
knocking on the stars?
an architect's answer
to a philosopher's question.
over the atlantic you sing
like the end who just learned
he was a beginning.
over the atlantic you sing:
"god is an ocean,
and you can only pray
by kneeling on the ground."
Apple BlossomYour blush is fading;
windswept, you shudder gently
fragrant petal tears
One Day I Shall Lay Down And Dieone day i shall lay down and die:thumb202708923:
and so for now here is my kiss, my golden-ness,
my forehead pressed against yours
like two strange animals lost on a plain of
red sand. one day i shall lay down and die so
now here, let these birds pick me apart,
show you it all, the torn underwear
and the girl gazing at the soft glow
on trees, the ferocious lion-love
weeping under the kitchen table. one day
i shall lay down and die
so for now i feast on beaches, your breath,
the flutter of my dress sore against my skin
someday i will find that peace,
plant a spring-flower deep in my heart, land one last cool kiss
on the bow of your mouth and slip away, i know that one day
i will lay down and die but for now
feel your fingers spread across my heart,
feel my roar in the night
Only as Old"Frail bones predict what fragile minds can't detect,"
He trailed off slowly, "And my bones are achin'."
The air around me hung low and depressed,
Sticking to the back of my throat like a stormy syrup
I'd tried to swallow down.
I peered out the kitchen window
And caught an inklet of patched-over-grey sky;
I wondered what was in store for the day.
Impartial to the gloom outside, we stepped out onto the back porch;
Grandpa wobbled out with his cane in hand and we waited.
In the hushed stillness the trees traded birds
Robins, swallows, whippoorwills, and cardinals.
If you squinted hard enough at the sullen shrubbery,
You could spot the caterpillar creeping to the underside of the leaf.
That's when I looked at Grandpa,
And saw through his eyes nature receding
At his prescience of a storm.
"Grandpa, how do you always know?"
He chuckled and simply said: "The world tells me."
It was left at that, but years later I have found
That the world is only as old as the person to whom you speak.
Dance of the (rainbow) white, rainbowBedecked in white, she came,
Silent footsteps melted as she beckoned;
'To winter cometh thee' said she,
And taunting, teasing uttered: 'Thou cans't resist me';
Come stay a while in my silent, calm and quiet woods,
Come rest a while, lay your weary head upon my drifts;
I'll crown thee with my flakes,
Resplendent jewels of heaven made;
And finest flutes of old oak trunks I'll play,
Sing a mournful tune of old, with wolves for baritones
And creaking of the branches, under heavy load, for rhythm;
Come Play my love,
Your crown of fire dazzles me, even if it burns,
Your footsteps melt my heart as new shoots upwards strain;
You bring the deer and robins, dear, to chatter in my ear,
And whilst my muse is soft and fragrant linen, yours is water through a prism, dear;
Assembled footsteps, danced together in the round, in the middle met
I'll Play my love, play the game of old;
As all good elves are told, as soon as it gets cold
Mists of Luetalse
I was raised to know each slope and crevice of my island, to understand its movements and temperaments. I have bordered the entire circle of rock more than once, getting to know my home as if it were the visage of a close sibling.
My father first took me on the thirty-day journey when I was very young, in the early spring, describing the land as though we were birds in the sky, as I ravenously absorbed the scenery, drawing each detail on a mental map. At that time, our island, which is really the head of a dormant volcano, Mt. Luetalse surrounded by sulfured water, was still half submerged in the surplus of melted ice and scuttled up the cliff-side. We walked carefully on thin, rocky margins between circular pools, seeing clearly the rim of sky along the wall of ashen steam that endlessly escaped the tip of the central mountain.
In the winter however, the steam is visible from everywhere at once; it leaks from cracks in the ground, comes up amidst the half-frozen pools in large bubbles
Dax bent her head over the tiny dancing flames in her palm, trying to absorb every lick of heat she possibly could. The tongues of fire were small and weak, flickering on the edge of extinction, but she kept them alive through the sheer power of her will.
A particularly cold gust of wind caught her by surprise, breaking her concentration. With a hiss, the flames went out.
“No!” Dax half-shouted, half-groaned. She snapped her fingers, but they didn’t spark. She tried again, desperate for some warmth, but it was hopeless. Between her frustration and the cold, it just wasn’t going to happen.
She ran a hand through her bright red hair and sighed. Practicing frustrated her. She had no idea what she was doing, and trial-and-error was only getting her so far. She couldn’t even keep the fire alive for more than two minutes, and she had a feeling that there was so much more potential locked up inside her, waiting to escape through her fingers.
And then there was Pi
Frost Fern DragonsLeaping lightly across the clear glass, the frost dragon left a cold trail behind as it traversed the distance between itself and another of its kind. Bigger than it, the new frost dragon strengthened briefly, ferns of ice trailing from its head and neck and creeping across the window. The first one faltered, stopping farther away than it would have liked. Frost fern dragons were extremely fragile, the mere mention of heat enough to send them scurrying away, tiny ice creatures leaping over the windowpane.inspired by
The bigger dragon studied the smaller one for a moment before allowing its new neck ferns to merge with the rest of its body, ceasing the threatening display of power. The smaller one responded by raising fragile wings and leaping upwards, climbing the slick, vertical, two-dimensional world that was all it knew. The bigger followed, and for a while the two frost fern dragons danced around each other, each rejoicing in the presence of another as they left trails of miniscule ice drople
Heart of IceShe wanted to be the Snow Queen.inspired by
None of us could understand it-- we all wanted warm and sun and away-from-here-please, but she wanted to be the Snow Queen. The ruler of the winters we all hated.
She told us this on the ancient playground floored in cracked concrete full of metal swings and metal slides and metal monkey bars, under a flat dark sky that looked more like a far-off roof than clouds, playing with a dead weed the color of wet cardboard that had worked its way through one of the hairline fractures in the cement we stood on, and the only color was our jackets, and even they looked washed out.
One of us asked her why, and she said, "Because everything in winter is gray and brown and dead and ugly-- except snow. Snow is white and blue and pure and beautiful. I want to be able to make it snow."
She always talked like that.
Maybe we didn't understand her. Maybe we didn't want to. Maybe some of us did want to, but were scared to try. And maybe she was lonesome because of it. But s
Until Next SummerThe breath of winter lives on the surface of the waterinspired by
Hot cold steam that takes a calm respite over the stirring creek
No fish to be welcomed by, no bright copper scales
Just the creek below that moves despite the snow
A vagabond rests his wings at a nearby branch adorned with ice
His brown speckled feathers ruffle from the breeze as he sings
He whistles a tune of relief, shakes his tail feathers
And settles down onto his branch, his cot for the night
The trees and bushes creak from underneath their white burden
Flurries of their cold guest continue to litter atop their bare arms
Like a visitor that has overpacked for their stay
And has in turn overstayed their welcome
Through the bleak mist remain the hot and summer memories of old
Shadow, light and wind tell tall tales of lilacs in the snow
The earth grins a welcome as the sun breaks overhead
But she is fickle and then earth freezes again
his weeping paints the worldinspired by
As the world grows colder,
he reigns silent
over the fragile hopes of frightened children.
His heart long ago turned to ice
from watching the lights go out,
one by one,
in the night of the world –
but when he weeps,
snow covers blackened earth
and soothes bruised hearts.
HitchhikerLeaving alligator skin trailsinspired by
Etched into the snow,
He watched the cars to by.
Arm outstretched, thumb out,
He watched the cars go by.
His breath coalesced,
The tips of his fingers blue
And still the cars went by,
As the sun went down
Still the cars went by.
Shoulders hunched, world weary
He walked on the side of the road
No cars in the night went by.
He screamed at the snow clad trees,
No cars in the night went by.
His tired eyes closed, and he stumbled
The snow softening his fall
One car, at last, went by.
Driven like a demon from hell,
One car, at last, went by.
Leaving alligator skin trails
Etched in the snow
The cars went by.
Missing the body covered by snow,
All the cars went by.
Birth of the Moonlight GoddessThe date had gone well.inspired by
She wore her prettiest purple coat, the one her sister had given her, brand new and pressed clean.
He picked her up at the right time, and he kissed her during the movie.
Afterwards, they wandered for hours through the city streets, gazing up at the pitch black sky.
I'm so happy right now, he said.
I feel so alive.
She had nodded.
She wore her prettiest purple coat, the one her sister had given her - her sister loved purple and pink.
Five years old, bouncing on the bed, her sister grabbed the puffy dress-up dress they shared.
I get to be the princess!
Four years old, cross-legged and still, she pulled up the crinkled white sheet and wrapped it around her shoulders.
I get to be the goddess.
It worked for both of them.
I feel so alive, he said.
You, in that coat.
You're so beautiful and alive.
His arms were inside her coat, wrapped around her waist, and she looked over his shoulder.
The sky wasn't p
A Middle Age SingletonThe princesses are rescuing themselves now. All the handsome knights are gay. What's a man to do?inspired by :thumb313354489:
Oh, great. The last dragon in the world just got slain.
That does it! I'm moving to another century.
Huh? What's a MySpace?
Rainier (Pollinated)When asked what I see,inspired by
It's rather easy to be
Not at all sensational
But when I speak what I observe,
The ball's now thrown with a curve,
A city becomes atmosphere,
With smog and towers far and near
So truly, is it much surprise
A sunset (or perhaps sunrise)
Creates such powerful imagery
Beyond what the eyes chose to see
A mountain reminds of friends gone by,
A forest speaks of epochs passed
A lake reflecting wonderfully
Missing only a sailboat's mast
The picturesque is peaceful,
That calm continues on
It warms my heart to know today
Not all the world's beauty is gone.
flower foldsSeeing it,inspired by
her eyes gently
She has the courage to fight fate,
to stay strong through lies and hate.
No tears will fall from her eyes,
hidden beneath her beautiful mask of disguise.
A quiet lonely fox in a forest of trees,
shadows darkening all that it sees.
With hair black as freshest ash,
waist bound by a thick leather sash.
Head draped with bands of beads,
with intricate patterns only a mother can weave.
Gazes follow her as she slowly strides,
she will do anything for the future of her tribe.
This time she will not escape,
not another failed marriage left in her wake.
The tribe leader has picked her and her alone,
to marry his son and be heir to the throne.
How she wanted to turn a deaf ear,
the end of her childhood was so very near.
Not a gaze that peered at her could see the despair,
no one near or far even seemed to care.
Her bright Shadowfox will return within,
the darkest chapter of her life is about to begin.
Cheated Hearts - ICheated by the opposite of love...
The solidity in her eyes is making me feel naked.
It seems as though her pupils, rock hard and perhaps storing of endless knowledge, are burrowing through my skin like screws. I am bare and exposed; my emotions hanging out on the line to dry in the gentle summer breeze.
Perhaps her eyes are so frighteningly probing, because they once swung hate my way, like a punch to the jaw, with each glance she tossed. Perhaps they are hiding some sort of mind blowing scar that I can only predict and never really understand.
It could be neither of these things, but all I know is that somewhere along the timeline of a few weeks, something changed. Something that seemed before unchangeable, a storm that had been raging for centuries.
It was me and my friends against her and her's. Typical scenario, and it made my life very normal. Everyone has their enemies. It felt as though our ancestors and our ancestors predecessors had fought the same battle, generation a
Totems and Godhoodi. As a child, confronting giants.
I take the pine tree as my totem,
learn to love the nakedness of its nether-regions
and its northerly fibers stretched and waiting
for the weft to its warp.
Girlhood is still a part of me as the
learning what I am. In the end,
I haven't climbed a tree in a long time;
I am small, and scared, and ringed round with walls,
and I beg the moon to teach me
to use my pine trees as a ladder.
ii. In the way only young love can.
you are pine chips, and I carry you
like a fetish in my mind.
You are the first vampiric sweetness
to suck the breath from my body:
unknowing, the feeling of yearning;
I am fibrouscelery stalk,
pale and clutching my thread self together.
Watch as I petrify,
stretch until my bones
will not bend to let me drink.
With age I become a god,
brittle-boned and cackling; with age
the osteoporosis will leech my fibers dry
and my pine sap blood will freeze in my chest
to keep me warm in winter.
The Mating Season
The copse was luminous and inviting.
Balmy winds shifted and the leaves swirled in tuneful coils.
He crushed the vivid ambers and yellows with grimy boots;
Feet scuffing the supple earth with each enthralled step.
She inhaled a surging gust
and spread her arms in temptation.
Her warm breeze thrust him in
and he clung to her, obsessed.
Undeniably beautiful was she, that he didn't comprehend
the brambles that curled around her legs
and the twigs that rose in the deep red of her verdant hair.
Her lips were soft and her touch bewitching,
like the undisturbed soil next to a water's edge.
That's where he laid her down
and took all that could be given.
Through slumber he was not aware what soon would be returned.
Damp mists and darkness engulfed the quieted creek;
the ambers had drained and washed away the essence of the marsh.
Cold awoke all visitors - disenchanted.
Gales were silenced and the darkness moved only for one sound;
the breathing of a heavy beast whose power
The Page of Promise: A Winter Solstice TaleIn the depths of a night that's about to begin
with the feeling of snow as it melts on your skin
and it covers the land with a dream so intense
that it returns us all to a child's innocence
And then what you'd thought lost and could never retrieve
is suddenly there to be found on Christmas Eve
The sound of her boots breaking the snow is delicate and light, like meditated, unhurried piano notes. She walks gracefully between the pine trunks, their needles making a cover for falling snow above her head. Her face, a frozen petal of porcelain, eyes of crystalline frost, is framed by the hood of her white, fur-lined mantle. The air is still, the cold a pleasant hindrance, as Lumi is able to wander gloveless, touching each gigantic pine in thought. Each tree speaks to her in a unique way, telling of the earth and the sky, of what speaks the wind, what whisper the animals nuzzled against their roots, or perched among their branches. She hangs, on all of them a
The Vanishing HatI warned him once.
"Don't go!" I said
when he placed that hat
upon his head.
He turned to the side
and gave me a smile
and whispered to me
"Be back in awhile."
In a puff of dust,
in the blink of an eye
he was gone from this place.
and I'm left wondering why.
We'd come to this moment
from a time further past.
It all hinged on a glance
through shop window glass.
He'd stopped for a look
at a hat on display
in a shop on the corner
on a street on our way
to a theater in London
where we'd first started dating
a romantic reprieve
and I wouldn't be waiting.
"Don't go," I told him
in a jocular tone,
"or I'll go by myself
and leave you alone."
His face split in a grin
and he pulled me inside
the dusty old shop
where with eyes open wide
I froze where I stood
mouth hanging in wonder
at a room of lost pleasures
and glorious plunder.
There were items displayed
for any age or event,
with fabulous scents,
there were many fine fabrics
most foreign I'm sure
and hand-crafted mirrors
Wail of the Welsh DragonThe dragon bowed his head in pain,:thumb332824210:
He'd fought many a battle and not been slain,
Neither sword nor lance could end his reign,
But now his time was ending.
Life had been a simple thing,
Patrol his lands on the wing,
In the mountain stronghold he was King,
And no one dared to doubt it.
But now the nights seemed so cold
And his flame was not so bold
Even dragons do grow old,
And he'd never felt so weary.
For many a moon he'd not been out,
A subject the peasants talked about,
And though they all may run and shout,
In their way they loved him.
Yes, they may have fled and hid,
But cruelty was not his to bid,
He just did what dragons did,
And never killed for pleasure.
He chased their girls and ate their sheep,
And took their gold up to his keep,
But he knew inside their pride ran deep,
"Our Monarch", they had named him.
But no longer does he rule the skies,
Breathing fire to terrorize
The villagers and maidens cries
Are lost to him forever.
A dragon sleeps with one eye open,
But now he close
Beautiful DayThere are some days that are inherently beautiful.
Hot green-yellow days in August-- or July, but never June-- where everything seems still, like you're the only person in the world, because all the normal people are inside with their air conditioners, and all the birds are resting, and you lie down on the grass and it feels like it's just you and the great growing plant world that surrounds you, and it's utterly still, the only moving air caused by your breath, and for a minute you know what peace is. And then the air stirs, and you hear a lawn mower in the distance and smell the fresh-cut grass, and some laughter or shouts in the distance because some kids are playing something, but it's still quiet in your empty space of green, even when a car goes by, even when suddenly a pair of twittering birds flies overhead, two dark spots against the blue bit of sky overhead.
Days in the winter when the clouds are thick and heavy, like a flannel sweater over the world, and they're shaking down
The Wailing: TeaserPart I: The Sirens
The sound of the sirens is what has stayed with me. I remember the explosions, the engines of the Messerschmitts, the screams of men trapped beneath the rubble. Of course I do. But it is the wail of the sirens that yet haunts my dreams, settles that same cold sickness in my gut, that same cold slickness on my palms. It is the banshee shriek of coming death.
The night was cold and clear when that sound prickled along my arms like so many icy fingers reaching out from behind the drapes.
Rowan stilled her hands at the typewriter and ripped the sheet from the machine, lest some unscrupulous eye should take advantage of her temporary absence. She snatched up a grey cardigan, a torch, and the requisite gas mask, and had nearly gotten to the door before she turned back to look at me. Her dark eyes were as empty as ever.
‘Are you coming?’ she asked as she stuck one arm into a cardigan sleeve.
‘I’ll follow later,’ I said. ‘
is death in a mirror,
when a cold candle
for her burning breath,
and her fiery heart
for his sacred chest.
Waxen tears bleed,
breaks the mirror,
cursing them forever.
perpetual decemberwould you give me your december?
i am holding out my frail plywood wrists
and begging you for something
too heavy for either of us to hold
[though you are somehow cradling it
in your fractured celestial mind].
would you sing december to me?
would you play it in thirds
and mold it into something i can see?
i would give the dying bamboo
on my window sill to feel you again
[like when you cut your hands on raw selenite
but they don't bleed].
december is slipping out of our reach.
she is slipping quietly out the door
and i have my hands held high
like sentinels of the sky
and my eyes closed in patient rapture.
you are slipping quietly out of my reach,
out the door
[you did not want to interrupt me;
me and my goddamn emotional revolution.
i am awake and it is not december anymore,
but there are dead leaves on the kitchen table
and it is time for me to go
[i am left with falling in love with people i don't know,
i will see you again].
I Have Always Loved WinterI have always loved winter
With its caressing touch of icy-bright fingers
That stroke past my flesh with a tingle that lingers
A crystalline splinter
I have always loved winter
She was constantly cold
Her skin was of porcelain, her hands were of snow
And timidly soft into my hands theyd go
But her lips were more bold
She was constantly cold
Like embers her kisses
That latched onto mine like a coal hotly dropping
Down fast onto ice sheets without sign of stopping
And sputters and hisses
Like embers her kisses
But I liked the cold best
That bit of her most like a clear, frozen shard
And it pleased me to see her grow pallid and hard
More than the rest
I liked the cold best
And hard she did grow
When the winters invidious, envious chill
Slipped into her heart and set out to kill
That angel of snow
And hard she did grow
I crept into her tomb
Before they could padlock and shut the door fast
I crawled quietly in for a parting look last
At her in her room
I crept into her tomb
Of treesDeep ghost-groves of freckled aspen:thumb300160828:
burn white beneath the winter sun,
whisper hoary adulation,
canticles for the Holy One.
And in the trees, the spirits dance
betwixt the motes of starry snow
illuminated by the lance
of lightning flash and candle glow.
All lights within this place combine,
reflect in splendour, white on white,
and mingle in a trance sublime
that breathes in peace through winter night.
The lofty heads of stately pine
rear up and brush the lowered sky
as if they could, by straightened spine,
so please the God who built them high.
Their incense needles, fragrant, fall
in silence to the chapel floor
and still above, they shade the hall
where ghosts who come by night adore.
Black on black, and brown by green,
create a hush bereft of light
where one may linger safe, unseen,
and sleep in peace through winter night.
Winter's Kissi saw winter dancing
so i grabbed her
and pulled her in for a kiss.
with a sweet, slow
i swept her off
and carried her down to summer.
MY WINTER EQUINOXFalling, slowly falling, snowflakes intertwine
themselves with the crystal maelstorm in my veins,
I feel them melt the noisy grime from my skin
moonlight pale, sometimes I wish I could glaze me
in the tears and haze of Spring's gentle unfurls-
but Winter has always been more real to me, her
bloodline pulses with the essence of Purity,
and Eternity pine-scented, her snowflakes help me
to find my tears as she melts me into an endless
kiss, but I still wish for the frosty Stars to
smile their light on my bruised lips and cleanse
away the blemishes from my warm white interpretations
-then I would be free, I feel her compel my hurt
to shine like Starlight in the shadows, caressing
my self-induced prison into a new independant state...
I can taste the cold defrost its virtues on my tongue,
a duel of silver notes and blank pages as yet unsung,
into my eyes snowflakes melt-until I can see where
Winter walks by, my reflection leaves footprints for
my equinox to follow-deep thoughts and ideas ha
to be born in the rainThe sky's cold tears fall
mingling with the salty trails on my face.
I am born with a winter's rain
caressing my newly formed cheeks,
stiff limbs taking first steps through puddles -
tiny oceans gracing black pavement.
So this is what it feels like
b r e a t h e
fresh, cold air floods tender senses,
tingling and full of a thousand new smells
connected with sights and sounds.
Birth is a cold, fresh, marvelous thing
pulsing and swaying to the discordant music
of new life.
Frozen MemoriesBy accident,
I found her tombstone.
It lay buried beneath snow,
encased in ice,
under a canopy of white held aloft by the trees.
I had been walking,
as I often do,
on the clouds of steam rising from my mouth,
and what they meant to me,
when my foot caught hold of the crumbling cross,
and sent me tumbling down...
I caught myself on hands in a sea of crystal white,
flesh stinging from the cold,
my foot aching in pain,
burning hot in the winter wood.
Why would there be a grave here?
What poor soul would be forever lost in this hollow?
in the cold,
throughout the fading light,
and into a darkness of falling snow,
I worked to unmask the grave,
and reveal the name of the damned.
I toiled for hours,
until my fingers went numb and bled,
spilling red upon the white,
a contrast so stark in hurt my eyes,
but in such beauty that was not lost on me,
until I could reveal the faint carvings that were letters.
Her name was as beautiful as I'm sure she was in life,
December BuddhaDecember cracks open like hazelnuts,:thumb279281658: :thumb276854256:
crinkled brown and brittle, dry from the fire,
cold-crisp and crunching as needles of pines.
As usual, wisdom comes just in time,
reminder to hold on to my forest,
to my stories, to make myself buddha.
I am lacking, no quiet rain-buddha,
born, as I was, a tight-curled hazelnut,
but I do send roots into my forest,
and in summer spread Colorado fire.
I find that more and more I pass the time
among the kings that are my totem pines.
In North Carolina, December pines
not for sun but for a softer buddha,
a figure to remind the month that time
ends not with January; hazelnut,
it curls in on itself, warm with the fire.
It is my roots, winding through the forest.
Some days I wait for rain in my forest.
I love how it trickles down my crown-pines
to soften days and keep away brush-fire.
In the spring I am not a flame-buddha,
want only streams for floating hazelnuts:
all my riddle answers are, "time, time, time."
The mackintosh flesh marks the passing time:
Peace On EarthFreedom is not free:thumb275055103:
Love, it never lasts
Forgiveness has its limits,
We are trapped within our pasts.
all the bodies fall,
all the blood is shed,
Where is the " g i f t " we fought for?
Is there a reason that we're dead?
And one tin soldier watches
Christmas DollIridescent pearls slid along
silken strands of ebony lock
Garland and feathers enhancing
The fragrance of pine encrusted misery
A young girl sits, back arched,
Hands clasped, nails preened
Christmas ruffles and bows
Encompass her small form -
A merry little doll of seasonal fluff
Her eyes, limp, with sullen pout
Her smile a painted decoy
Santa looks down at the child,
"and what would you like for Christmas?"
The camera flashes; her eyes glinting -
A seeming merry sparkle.
She just asks for the picture.
why i'm scared of ghostsdear ghost of christmas past,:thumb275943526:
it's christmastime. christmas eve, to be exact. i can't look outside without seeing the shimmer of the snow, like tiny fireflies etched into each flake. glistening strands of colorful bulbs christen the neighborhood, like they're declaring us worthy of a little light.
i'm shivering like i got caught in a snow bank, and i'm blinking like i'm hoping my eyelashes will tangle together and pull my lids closed.
i was wondering; if dreams are so pretty, why do they shatter like sherry glasses against tile as soon as we open our eyes? maybe they aren't meant for us to hang on to, cause the most beautiful things are only ever viewed at a glance.
(any more than that, and you start to notice the bloody color of the sky and the way the roses smell more bitter than sweet.)
and i was thinking that's why snow gives itself over to the wind so easily, cause looking too closely at your hand linked through m
The Thin HoursI.
Those of us here in this skeleton time,
this time of the year when the nights are thin
and dark, and dark with anxiety, peeling
as layers of an oyster shell, brittle and effaced
and somehow iridescent.
When the bell tolls out the time the sound is thin
and reaches into fractured air and softly
seeks the spaces between the atoms and
misses the vital Os and CO2s in a lasting,
failed pinball. The bell sound dies in
some space between midnight and thereafter,
and each tock tock of slipping cogs is
a repeat and not a moving on.
The air is filled with each dull sound,
each tock a repeat and a repeat again. And the
slip between this old year and the new is the
slip of ice on ice, a thing that will melt and
lose its meaning before the sun can rise.
These dead hours can spin out with
no regard for time, and
no regard for the drub of a beating heart
and no regard
none at all.
The moth at the window is a silent ghost, but
the wind has
we should celebratei.
i tried to think of pain as a flower,
first it blossoms
it wilts away.
but i won't let myself disappear
along with it,
give you that.
(it's not the agony that makes
me scream, it's the flavor).
and you whispered softly
"i'll rip your heart out and replace it
with a song,
it's christmas soon, and
we should celebrate".
you've always used my scars
as a calendar,
as a way to remind yourself
"today is tuesday
and i still exist".
(it's morning now because
i can see
through my eyelids
a bright summer day,
the flowers are
Phantoms Of Another UniverseLook.
I'll tell it like it was.
Static clung to the air
like ornaments on a Christmas tree
and we were graced with the odd arced lightning.
Oh, it was cold.
I remember not seeing,
my fingers frozen off as
feeling receded from them
like waves on a beach.
how could I even be sure
the forgotten memory of a sunset
lay imprinted on my brain,
and its absence made the night
emptier than ever.
we waited for the moon to rise,
for the clouds to shift,
for the e-lec-tri-ci-ty to stop
(like lost travelers stumbling
in the desert waiting for an
oasis mirage to shatter their
we waited, questioning our existence,
questioning this formation of
questioning the light that remained
(like questioning "how in the world did
I lose that!" and it turns out you hadn't
you'd been waving it, flailing it, even,
(incredulously) in your hand)
and one year later,
one eternity l
EnoughI'm holding on to secrets so tightly my hands start to burn.
Winter has come full-force, wind sending the windows quivering against their panes and snow blanketing the Earth in an ivory sheen. We're all bundled up inside, pressed together for warmth to maybe give a bit of it to the not-still-living locked up in a metallic casket no bigger than a shoe box. The mix of flowers yellow roses, her favorite and the musty smell of the funeral home permeates everything, makes my nose crinkle up and eyes sting, spilling over with tears.
The sea of nameless, faceless acquaintances part as I walk forward, cold hands on my back and muted, guilty I'm sorrys assaulting my ears, prolonging my mission. I meet the table, watch my Aunt sniffle and move on her way, pausing to wipe her tears on my shoulder and hug me tight.
I take my turn, all eyes on me. They know,
Her face stares back at me, a dozen pressed beneath glass, her hair in a bob the color of driftwood a
Stories From the Psych Ward (2 of 3)I'm so cold I feel it down to the bones,
sitting in the dining hall trembling
over my cup of tea. A huge Christmas
tree twinkles merrily beside me in red, blue, silver, pink and gold.
Patients huddle together outside to talk,
but I'm forbidden to join them,
trapped inside the ward on a category four.
They're all strangers to me, I've spoken to no one.
Smoking their cigarettes in faded pajamas,
looking tired and worn down,
lips twisting into smiles as the smoke
curls down into their lungs.
Nurses find me hiding from evil spirits in the cupboard.
They let me stay inside, safe until the panic stops and
the shadows disappear, give me blankets
to stay warm, until they take me by the hand and lead me out.
Two psychiatrists come to speak with me
While insects pour from my lips
And satellites speak of the death of stars
The voices scream at me
But I talk.
They want me to trust them
They want me to stay alive.
A nurse takes six canisters of my blood,
a deep frothy red. It pours out of my
The icicle crests of pine-needle tiaras
Had settled onto the crisp craniums of pale
Rouge and foundation-frosted pinecones.
The multi-faceted snow-tipped noses were open
To the hushed aria of breathing with undertones
Of whispers suggesting: sway shatter.
He registered ashen snow and Fibonacci sequences
In the scales of the pinecone, in the evergreen
Needles, and in the steadily increasing flurries.
At a stalemate for minutes past dusk and hours
Until dawn, the evening's lunar fluorescence had
Peaked in reflective moonlight and begun to dim.
Skyward flurries took of frost as he overtook
Diminishing footprints; the soil had lost its warmth.
Presently the frangible flakes were solidifying.
Tireless sets of footprints, encrusted by an iced-glaze
Like a frozen sheen of sweat and dead grass parted
Like a middle-aged man's baldness, were visible
Beneath the conifer's knotted limbs and the
Tin-to-the-touch snowflake-threaded needles.
Photonegative greys and gossamer silver ton
FrostbittenWinter is her favorite time of the year.:thumb214099159:
It's beautiful. Silver and blue dance around with one another in a waltz of freezing passion as snow and ice douse the land in a blanket of boreal glamour. Glass windowpanes become easels for falling snowflakes, frost etching into the smooth surfaces in intricate and unique patterns.
Winter has always been her favorite time of the year, and it always will be.
It is not because of Christmas--no, even though she loves the holiday, it is not what sparks her strong fondness for the star-colored blanketing across the land. Her infatuation with the snow and ice and everything cold has to do with something that most people don't truly believe in.
A boy whom she met long ago.
She still remembers the day like it was yesterday. Running around in the forest, laughing and tasting the snowflakes as they fell down into her parted lips and melting immediately on her tongue. All bundled up as a precaution, even though the winter has always been kind to h
The Angeli am no winter.:thumb291735197:
walking behind tombstones
so i can't see the names
i try remembering
someone indebted to me stands on the far side of the water.
i watch them as they lift their hand to me, then turn away.
they no longer owe me anything.
i trace in blue
a white seashell.
to look at myself
i must look down.
i am a notion
after a few years
i look back up.
the river floods every spring,
the water doing the impossible, taking every path
the wind flattens my clothes against me.
emptiness comes and pulls away.
to merely exist
we have our own lives.
the snow touches the field.
but beyond reach.
something like a harp
sits at the window,
sipping out of a cup.
"resuscitate the sphere:
touch the circle."
the Book of Shapes
never gets read
what has become
is never undone,
the snow replaces the moon
as what you might confid
Winter's SongMy grandmother used to tell me that on a clear summers day you could find the colour of everyone's eyes in the surroundings. I could never find the colour of mine, on those beautiful days where the sun spun my hair into gold and the wind tickled my cheeks. I could never find the exact shade, but I didn't tell her.
At dusk today I found the exact colour in the sky. I have winter song eyes. They are the colour of the sky when the birds have sung their last note and tiny snowflakes have just begun to fall. Snowflakes so small that you can never catch any; if you did I'm sure they would taste of magic. Maybe winter songs only come along once every decade, only when you need to feel that the world is at peace.
I have eyes the colour of winter's song, maybe you can find your peace there.
DecemberMy hands are
black with soot
and shiny with grease;
the embers lie low.
The air grew teeth.
We sit alone
in our separate dreams
and entertain the shade
of what was lost.
Our fingers will twitch
with phantom pain-
our mouths will run dry.
Everything I am,
by a fistful of
words with teeth;
as heavy as gold,
as poison as lead,
and I can't write poetry
because I said I would
leave you alone
and you never leave the lines-
you are there between them,
WinteringIt's a canvas of mouthings,
of open throats, that wave of grey.
Storm clouds pass like sails torn,
loosing their limbs to the wind
with each stroke of the brush.
There's a symphony in the rush
of them, howling their wolfcry, O -
breathings holes into the fabric,
Lethe leaving their lungs. And low,
tugging at the hymns that line the sky,
the moon, sister of a stone,
rises, rises with her hood of bone.
AirYou do not have to be empty.
Go, now, to the high places, the thin spires
of mountains and skyscrapers
the roof of your house, tipped with snow,
and fill yourself up with the air.
Drink it in, taste it, roll it around
on your tongue, feel it settle
in the caverns of your lungs. Feel the dust
and the ice crystals and the scraps of newspaper
brush your lips, and fill yourself with them, too.
Fill yourself up with the moonlight, the frost,
the dusky rose of the rising sun,
the night, the morning, the calls of birds,
the sillhouettes of telephone poles,
the shadows of people and clouds and alley cats
that dance across the pavement.
Fill yourself with the feel of your lover's hands,
the smell of the cold wind (mint and forests)
the taste of afternoon tea, the sight
of birds pinwheeling in the snow.
You do not have to be empty.
l'hiver.(you can't tell the birds and the snow apart in the sky:
the grand church of dizzying space - )
and the trees are yellowed in cowardice, raking the sky
to the ground and around and around.
listen to your organs: the almost grand piano of the
churches i'd never attend.
and never mistake the courage of the sky for the cowardice
of the ground. never frown, never frown.
listen to your palms: the salty swing of the old snow
burning up on silk and splendor.
and visit the dying snow birds in their graves of the
ground, and they drown and drown.
(you can't tell the birds and the snow apart in the sky:
a grand church of dizzying space will reply. why. why.
would my white birds die.)
the promises of winteri will wear gloves from:thumb277651414:
now until march. this is something
i decided last year and i am
determined to stick to it.
if there is anything to which i will
adhere, any self-set rule i will follow,
this will be it. and i will
know myself better for it.
when i am handed a
hot white mug of peppermint tea
i will not be burned because of
these gloves. and when there is
snow all over the place, when the
streetlamps are cold with it,
my hands will be
ecstatic with heat.
my only fear is the wearing-out
of fabric. my hands are put to
good use every day and i can see this
becoming a kind of problem. i will
have to guard my hands very carefully
from now until march. i will
treat them as glass.
Radioactive Snowflakes Oh boy, boy, boy:thumb197580834:
For the last shall be,
and that arctic disposition will melt away in time
written on a hearth rug, read it and then
turn the dial back and tune into Goodbye FM
"Oh boy, boy, boy
Goldilocks should have been clad in HazMat,
bear in mind the Gouda enacts the rat trap"
For the last shall be,
when fractals free fall from the sky
thickening icycle eyes, cementing prisms with time
measured it all in half-life
Oh boy, boy boy
December RainDecember Rain
So it was the end of December.
There was a steady rain touching the peaks
of our eyes' tiniest lashes
to shroud them in cracked drops
that would ice over as your breath did.
(why was it so cold?)
It was to make them as strong as steel,
though they crumbled like dust, nearly
collapsing from the wind flurrying around.
(I could trace it from the rain and
carcasses of leaves that stuck to its sound)
And each and every note that left your pharynx
was the color of a dead blue, blending in
so it was invisible under all the noise in the background.
And I stood, waiting for the time your mouth would just stop and
for you to understand how much time could hurt
when abused and left out to dry like a towel in the sun
on a day like today.
With each tick of the clock I rocked on these nearly-new feet
and tried to taste the remnants of autumn wafting from the lawn.
(that was my favorite season, though it won't come again)
Though when I saw the lights go out in your eyes,
FrostI am devouring chaos,
chasing it down with winter's chill.
Spare me your fingerprints,
summer's lovechild. Those knowing owl eyes
have me second guessing the wild churning
in my bones. You are the sleep that sweeps
my eyelashes, drowning me in my own daydreams.
When was it...
that you plastered yourself to my ribcage?
Th' Braw MountainsCome to the wild places, the high and lonely places.
Inhale beauty, in the form of icicle air and pine dust.
Touch it, the cold mountain soil, and rejoice.
Let the wind fill you and find the point inside all of us,
Where you reach out over the forest,
And fly without leaving the ground.
Sure and proud, like the eagles around you.
Let your hair lift and whip, flushing your cheeks
And awakening your bones. Spin at the peak of mountains,
Glorying in the cold clean height. Laugh for it.
And when you are tired from the air,
Come and rest on the rough hills, amongst the brown and gold gorse
And feel sunlight thaw the wind-seeds. Watch the loch and love it.
Not for the beauty but because it is there. The comforting age,
The bedrock of your soul.
Stand in the bitter river on sharp stones and know you live,
That the land loves you for its Maker's child.
Exult in the cold and the warmth and above all the immensity
Of the weight of the world around you.
Wrap the landscape around your body,
i swear, there is a ghost beneath my bones.
she slides around the rungs of my ribs, gentle like a lover's hands but cold, so unlike yours. i lay in bed at night, days after you have gone, your jacket and seven blankets struggling to keep me warm -but her arctic touch seeps deeper, slides its way past my lips and settles in places i swore only you could touch. and i am left gasping, arching, desperate for a body one hundred and thirty eight miles away, a voice that doesn't seem nearly as warm after traveling through the airwaves, a spring that only exists in your arms.
because i miss laughter, i miss your eyes, i miss the feeling of thawing after forty days in the tundra of my own heart, and two in yours.