Poetry
Newest Poetry
Here below are some of my works, but to see the whole poetry gallery, go to:
My Deviantart Poetry Gallery
Wasted on a Legend
August 27th, 2010
It's been ages since I wrote anything, I just haven't had time to think! Maybe now I can take it up again, as things are less crazed around here.
Anyway, I just started watching Legend of the Seeker (based on The Sword of Truth by Terry Goodkind, and this was inspired by that story.
Through all the miles behind our feet
Your secret life confess,
But this freely given haven, love
You never shall possess.
I will teach you all the pitfalls
Since the mountains first arose,
Swinging blades and still keep smiling;
Getting bloodstains out of clothes,
It's the tyranny of ages, but
The rules do still apply,
It's an art to just keep living
With the reaper standing by,
It hardly counts how much you love
When fate is not your own,
When bones of all your people lie
Just waiting to be shown,
For freedom is a greater cause
And our lives grow thereof,
If life's inconsequential
You will have the time to love.
We are wasted on a legend.
True, but nonetheless
That dream you so desire
You never shall possess.
A Unicorn Called Horse
July 30th, 2010
An insignificant, but true story about a stuffed unicorn that currently presides over my desk at work. Someone left him on top of the copy paper last week, so I brought him into non-fiction where I usually work to keep me company on those extremely slow nights. This was very much poetry-writing to make the time pass.
There's someone sitting on my desk;
A unicorn named Horse,
As I was thinking “what to write?”,
It struck me that, of course!
His right hoof is no longer blue;
I guess it doesn't hurt
That some careless kid some time ago
Had dragged him through the dirt.
I pet him when I'm lonely and
With nothing much to do,
When the shop, dead as a doornail
Doesn't yield a single clue
As to what I could be doing just
To get the clock to move;
It's nice to have a friend around
When getting in this groove,
'Cause though he doesn't talk much,
He's a listener, I swear,
And I sure feel much better
Knowing he is sitting there,
And if you ask: “What is this verse?”,
I'll tell you that, of course,
This is a little poem on
A unicorn called Horse.
How the Summer Goes
July 17th, 2010
A pretty accurate description of a workday in the city.
I'm pretty sure my sandals
Are eating up my toes;
The leather chews and munches,
But that's how the summer goes.
I wish they'd pop the hydrants;
The air is standing still,
But laughter from the streetbound
Weaving past the windowsill,
I want nothing more than join them;
It's just two hours to go,
To where the nonexistent
But chilling breezes blow.
And I woke today with longing
For the day to swallow down,
With dreams I couldn't extricate
For fear that I would drown.
I turn the fan back on again,
And swirls of air abound,
Before, I couldn't hear my thoughts;
Now, it's a welcome sound.
The word around the water-cooler:
"Oh my god, it's hot!"
And musing on those hours off
That frankly, you ain't got,
We're living in the moment
Since the last one wouldn't stay,
It's time to stop and think,
But we just wallow it away.
The city never could decide
Which soundtrack it would play,
But no one gives a flying fuck;
They all play anyway:
As jazzy cats and rappers mush,
Donations in a tin,
Whoever said you needed teeth
to rock the violin?
And as the quiet falls again,
And night comes closer still,
I keep the town outside at bay
And stave it off at will,
I think my ears are playing games
with footsteps on the stairs,
But this house is so old and cracked
I hardly think it cares,
This place has seen a hundred years;
It doesn't get impressed,
It's seen all fashions come and go,
And I dare say, undressed.
My papers flutter in the breeze,
"No more work today",
If those pages could have talked,
That is what they'd say,
'Cause all I do is dreaming,
For I cannot leave my post,
The workday ends in hours,
An eternity at most.
And there go all the people,
Passing through with their hellos,
And all I do is waiting,
But that's how the summer goes.
Love Song of New York
June 18th, 2010
I am an insomniac. That and the nightmares I have when I do sleep are rather a problem. However, you have to turn those destructive habits into something creative, right?
So, my sister and I are planning a trip to New York. It's way in the future, and will be so for some time, because neither of us have any money. But we've made some calculations to have a goal to save towards, and hopefully we can make it happen.
So, what I'm saying is: This is inspired by New York and images in my head.
Wampum into concrete,
The stones put down in code,
Paved in taxi cabs and lights;
The yellowest brick road,
If only I was bold to
Become what you became,
But I feel a little closer when
The billboards scream your name,
And I turn at every corner,
At the asphalt's every fork,
And I hum a quiet prayer
And a love song of New York.
White Boy
May 22nd, 2010
Say you're alive; I'll believe you,
And give me the world set in stone,
White Boy, it's no more than memory
And all that we've ever known,
Well love, you know where to find me,
And I don't know your regret,
Am I that bolt of lightening
So blank it makes you forget?
And if some day I go there
Of the never seen before,
White Boy, all is endlessness
Of lands I can't explore.
Every Day
May 13th, 2010
Every day we run the risk
Of dying in the street,
With the death rates on the living;
Still we don't admit defeat,
And every day the plot unfolds
You say “it could be worse”,
'Cause living sure is deadly
But we won't grow in reverse,
And every day I'm wondering:
Is Elvis really dead?
And is this love or is it just
The blood gone to my head?
And every day from upside down
I read you like a book,
And if I get the angle right
I'll get a better look,
And every day the thought goes thus:
“This momentary bliss;
It's all some big coincidence”,
I'll fall asleep to this.
Deerstalker Hat
May 6th, 2010
I guess you could call this a follow-up to In London Town, it has the same feel, some of the same themes, though this new one here is on Leather Apron (more commonly known as Jack the Ripper) spesifically, as the astute reader may have noticed. He was said to have worn one of those hats that Sherlock Holmes fancies so much; a deerstalker.
Wet cobbles gleam in
The gas light outside;
The allies where gutter pests
Crawled in and died,
And all that you see as
The world's turning matte
Is the blurred silhouette
Of a deerstalker hat.
Whisp'ring a scripture
To only the smog:
“Polly and Annie”,
The blade and the fog,
The glowing eye pinpricks;
Each Whitechapel rat
Obscured by the flaps
Of a deerstalker hat.
Come desperation;
And beasts delight!
“Long Liz and Kate”,
Who go with the night,
Stalks 'round the corner;
East Side kind of cat,
A feline that's wearing
A deerstalker hat.
Sunlight
April 26th, 2010
Just a little something I wrote a few weeks ago (but forgot to share) on a slow night at work.
You say: “What I'm trying to tell you,
Is: I can't right any wrongs,
I can't re-write lamentations,
Sonatas, verse or songs;
I cannot stop disasters
From bearing down on you,
For come what may, there's only
This one thing I can do:
I can point towards the sunlight
Through the grimy window pane,
I can show you how it glitters in
The dirt of every stain,
Since I remain and since I see
And know just where you've been,”
But though I try, I sometimes fail
To know just what you mean.
Certain Kinds of Light
April 3rd, 2010
Inspired by Laura Whitcomb's A Certain Slant of Light after reading like two chapters, so you'll hardly have made the connection. Also, my words have minds of their own, as always.
In certain kinds of light I know
I disappear on you,
And only moments ground me now
As worlds shift and renew,
And anything not solid stepping
Right into the glare,
Will mask me right before your eyes;
I'm only dancing air.
In certain kinds of light I do
Not hold up very well,
But always find you wondering
Was she that leaf that fell?
And as a line of marching ants,
Break rank across the sands,
Do they stray because they're lost
Or heeding her commands?
In certain kinds of light, you know
Your mind is limitless,
But somehow all you seem to do
Is miracles undress.
And when I'm not familiar,
And think I'll never be
With little ways of living things
He brings them back to me.
A Little Bit Alive
March 15th, 2010
Inspired by The Little Friend by Donna Tartt. Just read it. (As always though, my words take on a total life of their own, so if you do decide to read the book and don't see any connection at all to this poem, that's utterly understandable.)
I didn't see him swinging in
My haste to get away,
And so he left the yard and all
The world in disarray,
That day the sun stopped going down;
The night got all too bright,
The corners of my eyes were blinded
With that golden light,
So I didn't see him swinging but
Remembered all the while
How I'd curve around his tenor;
How it'd always make him smile,
How we couldn't help those separate ways
We'd both be charging down,
He said he'd follow, that's no good
Unless one goes around,
But I didn't see him swinging there,
So all I can contrive
Is if I can recall he'll be
A little bit alive.
Medicine Show
March 12th, 2010
I know I've been silent on the poetry front for a long, long time. And I'm sorry.
Things have finally begun slowing down for me, but I've had lots of other things distracting me lately making writing difficult. I finally managed it, however, and this is about those distractions.
I'll try not to be gone so long next time.
If you were in earnest
As to rock me on my base
With everlasting what-ifs
So crawling down your face,
I would need it to be ending,
And I need to never know,
And I'll see it's just another day
At this medicine show.
When showing off my crumbling
And humble outer wall
The spectators are saying that
“It's fortunate she's tall,
For at the rate she's going
She'd be gone in just a tick
If she wasn't such a sturdy girl
Of strong cement and brick.”
And if the cracks are showing,
Will you cover them until
All my joys and sorrows breaching,
'Til I crumble, out they spill.
Burn For Me
December 6th, 2009
Again inspired by Beautiful Creatures, that Southern Belle/Voodoo Charm of a book, written from Lena's point of view. Getting bewteen a woman and her witch hunters: Don't try that at home, honey.
I will not make you kneel if you
Do yourself choose to stand,
When everything is flying through
The fingers of your hand,
Outstretched right in front of you,
But Ethan, can't you see,
You can't stave off the hurricane
That's baring down on me.
Strong is when the witch hunters
Give you the time of day,
Brave is when you're scared to death
But tarry anyway,
And when they're bringing out the stake,
I know that there you'll be,
The truth that you'll discover when
You cannot burn for me.
Hundred
December 6th, 2010
We tell ourselves the rainstorms
Can clean away our fears,
Just walking slower to endure
A hundred of your years.
To the road, it doesn't matter,
It don't still the songs of birds,
When we dark ones pass you by,
To hundreds of your words.
So bury me at crossroads,
Just hide me underneath,
To listen in the quiet
To a hundred passing feet.
The Savior Doesn't Wear A Suit and Tie
December 6th, 2010
All the little miracles
Do sometimes pass me by,
For, you know, the Savior
Doesn't wear a suit and tie,
If he passed me on a crowded street
(If the city ever dries)
He would drown in all the businessmen
In starched, pressed suits and ties.
With street corner philosophers
And other lonely guys
He'd sit and watch the world pass by
In somber suits and ties,
If someone says “your tunic's nice”,
He'll know it is a lie,
For, you know the Savior doesn't
Wear a suit and tie.
High Horses
December 6th, 2010
Sometimes people really disappoint you with little falls from grace, but you're left thinking that "well, at least I didn't waste my energies on people who can't be made to listen anyway".
They ride out of town on their high horses;
Guess we could give that a try,
They ride without feeling or knowing
That no one are waving goodbye,
I notice your hand getting steady
Thankfully, as they ride,
I know that they happened across you
On the defensive side.
You know we could yell into deaf ears,
Guess we could give that some tries,
Or flashing our rudest gestures
Into their unseeing eyes,
See, it's we who have it easy;
Still unmoved like before,
They ride out of town on their high horses;
We are serene once more.
The Other Road
December 10th, 2009
When it all is said
Said and done
Who can love you and
Still be standing
There's Mary calling
Up a storm
Can I take from you
And not keep taking?
- Tori Amos
This poem was inspired by Kami Garcia and Margaret Stohl's Beautiful Creatures, which is an absolutely lovely book I highly recommend.
This is one of those poems where a sort of surreal landscape starts appearing in my head. A lot of people think I slap on the metaphors as thick as they'll go, while in fact I'm mostly just describing what I see, and that I mean most things in their literal sense (I may see them differently than most people though, I'm not denying that), and that's the case with this one.
I use a lot of concrete elements from the book (lemon trees, ceiling cracks, muddy hands, forks in the road), but mostly this is written from my own experiences with wishing and dreaming. How hope springs eternal even though you just wish you could shut your mind up, because it'd be easier that way, and you wouldn't be disappointed when those dreams are so far out there, they'd never come true in a million years.
I told you and I told you:
Take the other road instead,
But sometimes I can't stop dreaming
And my mind, it runs ahead;
It runs to where you're standing,
Past the road that is correct,
And I know you'd keep my head 'til
Mind and body can connect,
And through my raging hurricanes
The trees have all been skinned,
My love, you are not sturdy
Enough to bear that wind.
Their lines of fate are reaching
Down through the lemon trees,
I'm not sure we'll outrun them
As they spin our destinies,
There's only walls to keep them out,
But something brings us back
When your mind is working
Around the ceiling crack,
And when my soul bends 'round my bones
To suddenly transform,
Will you fear my disposition then,
For calling up a storm?
I'll conjure a Northeasterly;
We'll fly to distant lands,
But the other road will know us
By the mud on both our hands,
I'm thinking: “Not another step,
But please just go away,”
And even though I long to hear,
I wish you wouldn't say.
48 Degrees
December 6th, 2009
The skin has reached its boiling point
At 48 degrees,
You trace it from the topmost branch
And down between the trees,
I couldn't tell you where it hit,
Perhaps right where I stand?
How can you look the other way
And never once demand?
And sometimes it's surprising;
How you can be this bold;
To claim those walls and chimney
And then last night's porridge cold,
Have you ever thought that we
Just weren't made for this?
That the wind would not acknowledge us
With his far-traveled kiss?
Just don't come to your senses,
Immobilize and freeze,
Just stay locked in your frenzy
At 48 degrees.
Bones
November 15th, 2009
Not sure I can explain this to you, except that it's about familiarity/unfamiliarity, but I'd love to hear your thoughts though.
No, I didn't listen for
A minute, or at all,
But consciousness is all we know,
And was, if you recall
To see your shadow fall around me;
What's familiar, not strange,
To hear your cracking bones and watching
As they re-arrange.
And spotting you among them,
Right there, paralyzed with cold,
How you wanted nothing from me
Is a wonder to behold,
The more you give, the more I want;
It's well within my range,
And I can stand it as your bones
Go cold and re-arrange.
There's no moon out tonight, but still
I see where Mars has flown,
There's that jolt again, I think:
“I wish he could have known.”
And so above your head I spot
The planets' orbit change,
I feel the bones beneath your skin
Now shift and re-arrange.
You whip your hair into the wind;
The strands that smell of smoke,
It's curious how everything
Can change in just one stroke.
No one thought of wording it,
This permanent exchange,
But all the while your bones will float
And form and re-arrange.
Dear Mr. President
November 12th, 2009
Strangely, this was something I thought of in the shower (from now on known as the thinking box). Just expressing my disappointment that I won't be flying to work any time soon.
Dear Mr. President,
Where is my hovercraft?
I mentioned it to Nixon, but
He only shrugged and laughed,
Where sir, is my jet pack?
My male, robotic whore?
All of which you promised me
By 1984,
Where is my pill-shaped breakfast
Or my automatic draft?
Dear sir, Mr. President
Where is my hovercraft?
Sugar Ration
November 12th, 2009
I am having a rather hard time at the moment, as some of you may know. I'm desperately trying to get a third job, but have so far been unsuccessful. So, being economically screwed, I tried to ration everything in an attempt to not spend any money, including my sugar. And I love sugar, so this is something like a lament for my sugar ration.
Also, I guess I should explain that there are many references to Tori Amos in here. She is the one who says "sugar, bring me sugar" in her song (yes) Sugar. She's also the Cornflake Girl who mocks me with that song right now, normally I love it.
And there's also some Alice in Wonderland references to dangerous foods, but I think you all got that.
My sugar ration's dwindling and
There's frost outside today,
Get the number of your dealer since
I always hear you say:
“Sugar, bring me sugar,”
As we pas de deux and twirl,
Oh, see, now I get it:
Do you mock me, Cornflake Girl?
See, my sugar ration's speaking
Like a cake in Wonderland:
“Won't you eat me, won't you drink me,”
With that bland cup in your hand?
The bowl is all but empty, but
With eagerness and haste
Like some exotic lover says:
“You know you want a taste.”
Lipton Yellow Label
November 12th, 2009
Sometimes I find myself obsessing over the little things in life, like a mug of Lipton Yellow Label Tea (my dad's preferred brand). Call me crazy.
The sunny steam is able
In each lemon-coated fable
To dance across the table
From my Lipton Yellow Label.
1923
November 12th, 2009
This poem came directly from a thought I had that went something like "oh my god, I've been so selfish. He kept me afloat back then, now I have to keep him afloat." The year 1923 is used to represent hard times.
In depression-era lighting
I can hardly ever see,
So you don't have to not be scared;
It's 1923.
We'll smile about it later when
We finally agree;
Maybe if we listen, 'cause
It's 1923.
And so I am to him today
The role you held for me;
Depression-era lighting,
Love, it's 1923.
Shiver
November 6th, 2009
I was planning on doing a whole lot of other writing today, but then Maggie Stiefvater's Shiver came in the mail; a gift from an American friend. So those plans were cut short by yet another literary obsession.
I stopped to write this when I was about a hundred pages into the book (it's breaking my heart by the way), and though I usually veer way off course when I try to write a poem as a tribute to another literary work, I always seem to make it about me, me, me instead, but I think I did pretty well with this one.
When the frost gives up its conquest
And I shiver into spring,
And the branches start to beckon
At the South winds for a fling,
My mind will always run ahead
To colder days than these;
I'll let the slate erase me, maybe
Then my heart might freeze.
But she said that she remembers
The blood upon the snow,
It melts her into being and
I hope she'll always know.
So the silence all but deafens;
Even if you'd never shout,
I just wish someone would break it,
Will you breathe and blow it out?
If I ever was desired,
And whatever I became,
I despair to leave her presence and
Forget her very name,
I'll deny it 'til tomorrow,
I will brush off and ignore
That I'll fade into the birches
'Til I'm shivering no more.
Fallen Angels
November 5th, 2009
This was without a doubt inspired by the fallen angels theme of Becca Fitzpatrick's Hush, Hush (a very excellent book), but as usual when I try to write a sort of tribute to something, it takes on a life of its own and starts being about alltogether different (more personal) things instead.
It's guaranteed to save your life
Unless it kills you first;
He stretches now those weary wings
And covers up the worst,
And Samael will say there was
Nobody left to blame,
So he'll just smile and shrug it off
And call me by her name,
It's perfect, so it'd never work;
Just like all else you do,
So next time that I see them I'll
Ask what they did to you,
And Daddy's rich from blood money,
And thousands don't transcend,
And as for fallen angels, well
At least they don't pretend.
And Samael would say there is
A glitch, and I agree,
But maybe you should know that
You're escapism to me.
Hemisphere
October 16th, 2009
You know it's trouble when they wear
That smiling, condescending air:
Just let me leave that piercing stare,
I've located your hemisphere.
For all you do is beautiful, and all you do is wrong,
You strike them matches, let them drop, you've done it all along
While swallowing your song,
Been silent for so long.
If oxygen can coexist,
Perimeters can bend and twist,
Just like when our faces missed,
My handsome, wasted arsonist.
If no one's there to change it, then the world may never change,
But setting fires may assure I never leave your range,
You say it may be strange
This permanent exchange,
That other story's lurking near
And if it ever does appear,
We'll leave it for some future year:
I've located your hemisphere.
Rainwater Bucket
October 9th, 2009
Childhood memories.
There was a rainwater bucket
Standing behind the door,
On your Grandma's back porch left
There for some grown-up chore,
And in the dawning morning,
Dangling by the bed;
Those small and dirty feet of yours
Soon followed by your head,
We bullied her with water,
With droplets 'til the cat
Ran hiding where the dust bunnies
Live in their habitat.
At times you'd dip your toes in,
And laugh, you silly boy,
There standing in a bucket
Splashing water out of joy.
I spotted in the grass blades
A sight to call my tears:
Your plushie camel drowning
With a rot around his ears,
You'd left it on the front lawn
To learn astronomy,
We got your Grandpa's saw, he got
A crude lobotomy.
But there's a rainwater bucket,
And all smiles can't destroy
Is best just left forgotten,
So laugh, you silly boy.
Stateside
October 8th, 2009
If you never say it, I
Won't let you have the thought,
I never want to sleep when stateside
Stays where it's not sought,
Your job is: keep me awake
Within the borderlands,
And scream at me if I should start
To sway beneath your hands,
You stop whatever's coming back
From 1943,
And fingers recognize your face
Just like they've eyes to see,
And if you never say it, you
Might never have to hide,
I never want to sleep, you say:
“No, not on this side.”
Gods and Governments
September 29th, 2009
I am not your daughter,
You truth I never knew,
If fire cleanses everything;
Just tell me what to do.
What are your excuses for
It going up in flames,
And all else you have ordered
In gods and governments' names?
Northern Bound
September 28th, 2009
I never can tell which
Direction I wade
I guess you're my Everglades
I now invade,
And once in Miami
You'd left two days past,
And all I could do was
To leave just as fast,
And north in New York
There's a lady I know,
And allies in Brooklyn
Where all fat cats go,
There's only an empty
Apartment, therefore
I get on a Greyhound,
Still missing you more.
I ain't seen Chicago
In eighty odd years,
But my dancing girl legs
Still remember their cares,
And once in Seattle
I thought myself dear,
But then on the East Coast
Confessing your fear
I left you for Portland,
And tin men and Brie,
And publishing houses
Believing in me,
You said “if you're ever
In LA some day,
I'll teach you to surf or to
Drown in some bay,”
But as I pass under
New Mexico's sun,
The desert's like facing
A ranger and gun,
And if your bootprints
Have passed here at all,
They've blown into Texas
At reckless winds' call.
If in New Orleans
He didn't die then,
He's somewhere still living
The history of men,
And if the humidity
Isn't that bad,
It's not Tampa Bay's fault
That I'm going mad,
So Florida if you
Should get old on me
(I don't think it likely),
What will be will be,
I'll go to Manhattan:
There's laughter around
The sole other reason's
That you're northern bound.
Import and Export
September 25th, 2009
On giving and recieving.
There's import and export;
I'll carry your blood,
And cupping my hands
Restraining the flood,
I know you were hoping
I'd stay off your lands
Take imports and exports,
Your hands to my hands,
You claim all your exports
Hold no attack;
You say I do nothing
But giving it back,
I answer that all imports
Can bend you love, until
I am that pacifier,
I am waiting, waiting still,
And you're always asking
What you have done,
Your imports and exports
Don't empty me none.
Beautiful Girls
September 22nd, 2009
When you go and break them
Those beautiful girls say
You took them from the empty air
And blew them out, away,
My anger is misplaced when
I say you waste to flee,
But surely there's no reason, give
A reason we can be,
Maybe when they get there, though
We never could atone,
They'll know the outer limit, what
The Good Lord can condone.
And so they step right into space:
A nanosecond's bliss,
There's nothing there to land on
And we won't get over this.
With a little watering
Beautiful girls grow,
Does he, does he know now?
Does he still not know?
Upon Your Windowsill
August 26th, 2009
When violet eyes get brighter
And heavy wings grow lighter
I'll taste the sky and feel alive again
And I'll forget the world that I knew
But I swear I won't forget you.
This scene came to me as I was walking home, when I saw a gull and got the (rather childish, I admit) wish to sprout wings to fly to faraway loved ones.
As the sky beyond the city turns
The colour of champagne,
I think of how the clouds last night
Did weigh me down with rain,
And heavy feathers barely flew,
I forced them to, at will,
So I could now take up my perch
Upon your windowsill.
Two lovers cross the street below,
Their doorway for to find,
And once inside, they'll fall asleep
With all their toes entwined,
And through the curtain gap I see
The dawn rays slowly spill,
I make you out now from my perch
Upon your windowsill.
So maybe if I'm lucky, I
Will see you waking up,
Tousled, fumbling blindly for
Your bedside coffee cup.
Are gods inclined to listen
When there's wishes to fulfill?
But I wait in silence hoping, perched
Upon your windowsill.
I will think you're still as handsome
With a magpie's nest for hair,
As sunlight shatters on the glass
And glitters everywhere,
See, watching sunbeams ricochet,
That is my brand of thrill,
Off of your window, perching just
Upon your windowsill.
Uninhabited
August 21st, 2009
I'm uninhabited, and
I'll stay an empty mansion
And be the metaphor you crave.
You see, the paint is flaking,
And every room is trying
To be silent, being brave.
Encroaching desert crawling,
We are surrounded always
By seas where straight saguardos wade.
And I keep recognizing
The dust motes in the twilight
Where love and quiet spirits fade.
You're uninhabited, and
Screaming the open windows
Where all the frames have been undressed.
But I would sleep tonight if
You'd only close those eyes and
Shut out the memories we possessed.
Transparent Lovers
August 20th, 2009
Little, pale, green seedlings
Escape the garden gate,
And all the ruffled ravens
Have trouble flying straight,
Our ancient, bending birch tree
Sheds raindrops like it grieves,
And sensed transparent lovers
Among the topmost leaves,
And striking electricity
That blackened feathers bear
In deep blue clouds ascending
Into the atmosphere.
Atkinson Grimshaw
August 19th, 2009
Cold mud in between my toes
Where mist and shadow lurks
On a winding road in one
Of Atkinson Grimshaw's works,
The ravens all remind me
While cawing me in codes
Of beaked plague doctors walking
The empty London roads,
And when the puddles freeze tonight;
White-lipped and blue of hand,
I might grow silent with them;
Go immobile where I stand,
White skies lay their blankets down,
And sigh and whisper "hush",
Obscuring all arms of the trees
In Atkinson Grimshaw's brush.
I Wish
August 17th, 2009
I wish you had a dirt road
To lead nowhere at all,
That you could walk not minding
Its curvy rise and fall,
And when I cross the border, are
You poisoning the hive?
Have you burned the old piano
That sat beside the drive?
You ask if it is personal,
This tough turn of the way,
And then you laugh, remembering
You know what I would say.
The house is empty by this time,
I screamed all you could bear,
Exhausted by the broken fence,
You fell asleep right there.
And segregating One is not
Attractive as a creed
From Gran's abandoned armchair lined
With dust and tumbleweed,
I wish you had a dirt road
To lead you anywhere,
With rocks in both your shoes to rest
Your head upon my hair.
New York, New York
August 4th, 2009
A children's poem of an alternative NYC, inspired by Cassandra Clare's urban fantasy series The Mortal Instruments. (The title is an anti-climax, I know, I know, but I happen to love Frank Sinatra.)
Crossing under the surface
'Neath Queensboro bridge at dusk
The people of water are gliding
And greeting the cod and cusk,
A Brooklyn warlock pacing
The night-dark streets apart
Knows aches of ancient heartbreak
That needs no beating heart,
Vampires dance behind boarded doors
As soon as the day's withdrawn,
But energies of the darkness
Render them lifeless at dawn.
Manhattan's full moon says hello
To night children anew,
Just beyond the distance
Of Liberty Island's view,
The lonely werewolf on a crate
Knawing sides of pork
In Chinatown's black alleyways,
He hums "New York, New York".
Fishing in Nova Scotia
July 27th, 2009
An open poem?! Who'd have thought!
I am so outside my comfort zone with this one, so I really hope you'll like it, at least not hate it.
This is partly inspired by an escapism-themed TV commercial, but mostly it's about a friend of mine.
We'd go surfing
In the icy North Pacific
Which is warmer than
Anything I've ever known.
Or with the driftwood logs
Like bones in sunlight
I'd let myself drift off
On a westward heading current,
But you wouldn't let me.
You'd be leaving
On determined Eastern winds,
While you still decieve us both
With words that you cling to
Like waves grip the sand.
So tell them we've gone
From their southernmost edge
Fishing
In Nova Scotia.
Fairies in the Parking Lot
July 27th, 2009
About not quite seeing the magic they speak of.
All those heads obscure the view
I long for, so sublime;
With skyscrapers the mountains
I'm longing for to climb,
I'm sure that what you say is true,
That what it's all about
Sure could be seen by anyone,
Be sure to point it out.
Be sure to make a map of it,
The beauty you revere;
Without its love, it has no draw,
And holds no comfort here.
There is no place for you in this,
My mind's no vacancy,
The memories are occupied,
So point it out to me.
All those voices talking, but
Can't hear a thing they say,
There's not a lot of choices
In the state they call "today",
I never did believe you, but
You're chastising my doubt,
If there's fairies in the parking lot,
I wish you'd point them out.
Moonstones
July 21st, 09
For Neil, Buzz and Mike.
"What does it look like,
This orbital ball from the fringes of The Milky Way?
What does it feel like,
This orbital ball on the fringes of The Milky Way?
Raining flavor
Icing flavor
Flavor love."
People need meaning, and sometimes it's almost like we expect it to be handed to us by someone greater than us, or, since the meaning of life (or whatever) isn't here, then surely, it has to be somewhere else. Realizing that there may be no meaning to anything (that it's all just one big coincidence) is terrifying as hell, or, it opens for the opportunity to decide what it is for yourself, to find it in the close things, rather than the universe. Just a thought.
A glowing pile of moonstones
Has nothing to disguise,
But I can see the universe
Reflected in his eyes.
I searched the dead calm oceans,
Gazed all the way across
The dry and untouched canyons
That none before did cross.
Among the shining moonstones,
Given what he has to bear,
He reaches to eternity
And touches only air.
Understanding that there's nothing
At all to understand,
Finding nothing in his features, in
The fingers on his hand,
But here by the silent moonstones,
Perhaps I wouldn't care,
If I looked and only found him
With a dead and endless stare.
The peaks here touch the emptiness;
No heaven there to reach,
And by their foot, here at the end,
Exists no sound for speech.
He picks a tiny moonstone,
Throws it far into the dark,
On a journey to an outer
Spiral arm now to embark,
His face will cast the light back,
In his heartbreak, he's aware,
He has seen it all and realized
The answer isn't there.
Night, You Are A Stranger
July 3rd, 09
Night, you are a stranger
When the morning's claiming me,
And you hide among the branches
Of the twisted, old oak tree,
I don't know you passing by
The roadkill in the drive,
Or even noticing: At least
My garden's still alive,
My night, you are a stranger
When I hear the shovel swing,
And my mind is all but vacant
When the digger starts to sing,
And Poe's Selected Poems and
His famous Pallas bust
In the attic or the basement,
Sits alone and gathers dust.
Oh night, you are a stranger to
All that in darkness swims
Even when you're set each eve
To swallow up my limbs,
But all we need is patience
For fighting off the dread,
Remembering the rifle has
Gone rusty in the shed.
Night, you are a stranger
When you take what isn't yours,
From lawns that all need cutting
Sneaking in our open doors,
But we never knew what's missing,
For behind your silent creep
Comes the beings of this hour,
Just now shaking off their sleep.
Dirt Road
June 25th, 09
We were stranded
On a dirt road,
Dark advancing on our kind;
Eating big chunks
Of the way forth,
Even more the lane behind,
And the desert
Goes forever,
In a passing, gay remark
You said we would
Hear them coming
By the search dogs' snap and bark,
And while smiling
At the pointed
Turrets of the closest peak,
Say: "Tomorrow
There's a new day
And I'm sure it's just as bleak."
You have no map,
Simply walking,
Never measuring how far,
For it's blackness
Of the nighttime
That right shows me what you are.
And that resolve
Is precious so
On dirt roads such as this
In empty eyes
Of rattlesnakes
There is no rest, no bliss.
Apple Trees
June 24th, 09
You pick a sour apple,
Take your dagger to its skin;
When the Milkyway is darkened
You expose the star within,
The seeds are all but rotten, but
The orchard's trees still stand,
I could look for an eternity
Yet never understand,
Time gets stuck in moments,
And on days such as these
We could run when we see it;
Blood on the apple trees.
You embodied me so easily,
How sure you are astray,
You bite your tongue so calmly when
My tears run red today,
Branches still reach skyward 'cause
That's how it's always been,
Even in the first days when
A fruit contained the sin,
In other words: it's not so bad,
And when that notion flees,
I will just hug you closer when
There's blood on apple trees.
Impressionism
June 24th, 09
People are harder to define than that.
You require close inspection;
Looking from an inch away,
Impressionism needs you to
Stand back from a Monet,
Your brushstrokes; hardly visible,
I cannot make them out,
Can't place you on a timeline, find
What -ism you're about,
Granted, you're a feast of light
And endless shadowplay,
But impressionism never
Covers it in any way,
I can't define your colours;
Shifting but devout,
But "Impression, Soleil Levant"
I'd bear to be without.
Digger
June 23rd, 09
Since my hands cover both your ears,
I hear their judgements well,
But no one knows the core of this
As far as I can tell,
And through the cemetery gates:
The last load for today,
It keeps the digger busy
And employed another day.
Is it only them, or don't
I recognize disgrace?
And with a 2B pencil they
Are shading up your face,
If light is beauty, then I wonder
What do we convey?
We keep the digger busy
And employed another day.
I didn't sleep all night, the dark
Was made to swallow you,
The truth is, I'd forgotten what
Your wizard hands can do,
But shame is not for those who
Do not care now either way,
But we keep the digger busy
And employed another day.
Sleep Beneath the Floor
June 12th, 09
Maybe it will kill us, but
We're choosing to ignore
The footsteps up above us as
We sleep beneath the floor.
You cannot keep me out if you
Can't recognise the sin;
If fingertips or spiders
Are what runs across your skin,
It's sprinkled on your body, but
Erase not love or lust,
You're down there in the debris
And I'll settle in the dust.
You sighed "thank god" in whispers,
My hands are not divine;
You know I'm more aquainted
Across the borderline,
Relentlessly unwrapping and
Then drinking from your soul,
I've reached the deepest veins, you say
And chose to loose control.
You may still be unmoving, but
I wrap myself around,
And I know that I'm dying,
But my grief's not that profound.
They may rip all the boards off
And discover where we dwell
When in the summer heat at night
Our dead limbs start to smell,
They were mine, you know, love;
The bones your hands explore,
And maybe it will kill us as
We sleep beneath the floor.
Drown Like A Fish
June 6th, 09
The contradictory idea of drowning like a fish.
I will drink all the seawater
To have you close,
My body shuts down from
The salt in repose,
Your ocean-deep secrets
Must grant you one wish?
And swimming, not sinking
I drown like a fish.
My eyecolour's faded
To grey I'll admit,
But as for my soul, love:
The sea harbours it.
Lips Like Brine
June 1st, 09
Love must surely be the only
Thing that's worse than hate,
With lips like brine you dare not speak,
But you know I will wait,
And morning comes in dead of night
And to it you concede
Your everything, for you are even
Beauty as you bleed.
A thousand winds and fingers
Are braided in our hair,
Say answers to the questions
You most would like to hear.
I gasp as mighty mountains
In the ocean shift and sway,
By Pentecost it's all a distant
Memory anyway,
On sand that's undisturbed and
With the flavor of the sea
You point those eyes and telescopes
Directly down at me.
So, good pilgrim, there's no reason
Speaking at your cue,
I love the quiet filler that
The silence is to you,
Lips like brine can never seem
To name that life or fate,
For love must surely be the only
Thing that's worse than hate.
Secret Gardens
May 13th, 09
Things change, no matter how much you want them not to, no matter how much you grab on. And sometimes it's hard to know exactly what it is that's caused the change exactly. It's like you just wake up one morning and something's different. Where there was laughter and voices before, now there's just silence, and it's ever so hard to break it.
It will not last forever, secret
Gardens too get old,
And in the icy morning you
Complain my feet are cold,
There were no wings of love as aid;
I had to climb the wall,
And tearing all the ivy off
It stood exposed and tall.
I do not want to hear the speech
That's caught inside your yawn:
"I know of secret gardens, this;
They don't stretch on and on."
And though our muted presence,
It leaves a funny stain,
We watch the fountains fall asleep
And freeze with English rain,
And through that stony quiet
The aching morning brings
I'm resolute and silent
And mum of holy things.
Even though their memories
Are hidden and unseen,
The blades of grass, caressing,
Tell what the stones have seen;
They're messagers in gardens
That speak up as they bloom,
But timeless, starving mornings
Are twilight in the gloom.
You're quick love, to accept it,
When leaves drip on your head,
That knowledge still consumes us:
We're faithful to the dead.
If I leave secret gardens,
I swear to you, my dear,
If I go bleeding somewhere else
I will not leave you here.
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