Her name is called
Her name is called
Her name is called
Her name is called
Though the world is dark around her
Though misery is close to her
A selfless beacon amidst stormy seas
A storehouse of joy in a river of tears
A guiding light to the likes of me
Who else would wander eternally
A protector and a defender
A shepherd and a councillor
She is the Mighty Catdragon
And above all
Her name is called
You appeared like an apparition in my mind,
a saint with holy water blessing me inside,
with the fruit from the forbidden tree,
like a bird in Eden,
Lovers entwined in eternity,
the flower of youth,
the face of beauty,
like a vision
Heat like a fire with licking flames,
the wood burning red,
all i have in me is
I was never lost but now i am found,
falling upon my silken skin,
grace a blessing,
outside and in.
Was there a word,
Plain or shimmering,
Cast of gold and mercy,
In the bathing light of forgiveness,
Tempered with down and feather,
Wrought of worthiness and pride,
The mellow flame of tenderness
And shearing morning sun,
One tabulation of saving flesh,
The tapping root of the knowledge
Tree, the forge of stainless metal
And touch, stone direction,
One healing humour, cardinal
As blood, forceful as the salt
Journey bearing the pines
Of lodestar coordinates,
Spotting the Xanadu ex
Of the lost lovers?
She would often take long walks,
Long walks on a forest path, she hated walking around city blocks.
She would walk with such grace,
As her brunette hair brushed her dress trimmed with lace.
She would walk into a sunny glade,
The only place that wasn't filled with shade.
There she would lay in the evening sun,
The only place she didn't have to run.
She would dance all the time,
This was her place where she could be free to rhyme.
Then she would sit down and put flowers in her hair,
Here, she didn't need to hide from peoples staring stares.
Then she would begin to walk when it was time to go,
Before she would leave, the wind would begin to blow.
Knocking out the flowers in her hair,
She would then be exposed to their dark stares.
The flowers drifted in the wind,
And landed on the soft grass, may this be a reminder.
That I won't give you a dark stare,
If you my dear, decide to put flowers in your hair.
I have fallen in to your words
Fighting the rip tide emotions
Plunged beneath the surface of your thoughts
Struggled breathless against the flow
That is you
I have fallen from my petty dreams
The roaring sound of waves and sand
Just an echo in hollow eddies
You swirl and rise with the tide
If I am only safe harbor then I am sane.
I have fallen from grace
On my face in the surging rivers of despair
And found fragrant waves of you there
Amongst the quiet shoreline
You leave me clean
I have fallen...into you.
TL Boehm 11 15 06
I am wretched and dirty
Covered in the filth of insecurity and addiction.
To the lies that promised me life.
Leaving me broken and bleeding
Knocked out on the floor.
This is the war
I will be fighting the rest of my life: the war of recovery.
“It is finished” rings in my ear
While a tsunami of grace washes over me.
Oh how sweet the gospel sounds to ears like mine.
27 years incarcerated.
27 years of committing to the same ideas and ideals that shut him off from the world.
Unsurpassed courage and finally unsurpassed Grace.
Forgiving his captors and those who would wish to remove his hope for a brighter future for his people and his country.
The longest and most arduous marathon ever won.
Redeemed at last.
Oppression crumbled by one man's will.
And being humbled by the journey.
As if anyone would've done the same.
Rest quietly 'trouble-maker' for now.
The invitation to return is always open.
i allowed you to take the wheel
and steer our relationship in the
like a virtuous child,
i instilled my trust into you,
believing that our hearts were beating
to the same rhythm.
but you had a severe case of arrhythmia.
you took my feelings,
and threw them into the pond for the swans
to nibble on.
and then nature took its course.
you distorted my words,
making me believe that i wasn't worthy
of your presence;
of your grace.
you dissected those nouns,
and threw an adjective in my face
that left a permanent scar.
a scar my brain won't forget.
and i when i shed that tear,
i knew i had lost you.
i had lost my first love.
i lost my innocence,
and i knew then
that i would never love again.
My addiction is spelled out in iron:
Words have been stomped into my fate by elegantly gargantuan feet of Greek goddesses and
in the metal lies every pretentious metaphor and ink-soul-splatter that will define the rest of my existence.
There is no going back
The poetry is here to stay.
the changes the letters have wrought are now normal.
I have become used to looking in the mirror and seeing none of my features for the quotes clumped across my forehead
knotted around the contours of my cheekbones.
My morning coffee will never again just be caffeine and warmth,
but a complex metaphor for love-("being burnt by what you also cannot live without").
Now, I only know what my soul looks like
after it has been typed into pretentious metaphors
and ever since that shivering Thursday afternoon I first picked up a pen-
I look at the whiteboard and cannot absorb the continuing inadequacies of various white men because the stanzas are scattered too thickly across my vision.
But I have adjusted.
I accept that every chemical reaction my brain sets off will have words, a story, line breaks, and lonely Friday nights spent editing my soul into prettier pieces
Editing poems and homework will forever struggle against each other on my priority list
And there is simply no denying the fact that behind everything is words and in front and after there are letters and when glancing sideways and upside down you will find quotes and little sayings and poems,
but it is all perfectly fine.
I will breath in each linguistically-caused tragedy with grace and gentleness
because words are the only way I feel at home in this madly spinning world.
I have never felt cozier snuggled with any human or bed than when I am nestled in the dips and dots and curves of language.
"So," you ask, "what seems to be the downside?"
well, dear reader;
if we are being honest poems aren't real therapists.
and they lend themselves well to madness and isolation
But I cannot bring myself to care...
If words were alcohol I would be that horrible mother they whisper about at the PTA meetings who comes home after work and chugs biccardi on the couch, ignoring her children as she runs around the house screaming and throwing things descending into a state of such lovely and intoxicating madness that she cannot resist another page, another pen, another shot.
If words were meth instead of meth sores I have little holes all over my organs where I have drilled down as deeply as possible, hunting for even the smallest hint of feeling just so I can lovingly string letters together like pearls and polish them until they shine with the brilliant lights of tragedy and love and hate and sadness and nostalgia and anger and lust and frustration-
all of these chemicals we fuel our pens with
because numbness is not an option.
I engage in this substance abuse because I am bloated with so much longing, filled with a desperate ache for all the beautiful things I have not yet experienced,
for those brightly lit 2ams and screaming laughter and being drunk and high and kissing and yelling and the because in this moment we are young and alive and breathing and crossing lines and who gives a shit about anything else?
I write in half-crazed scribbles, wondering,
"Maybe writing about friends and laughter at 1 in the morning as I am surrounded by only netflix and tumblr will make me feel better?"
I am always wrong.
It only makes it worse.
My words are glorious escape and icy blades of stark reality.
Clarity and obfuscation.
Pancreas-cracking pain and model-tall joy.
So if words cause me to ache, beat the world into pieces, sob, and ignore my responsibilities,
why am I so goddamn in love with them?
Because my words are mad
but people are too-
so one cannot look down their poorly-described noses at poems and smugly snort that it "doesn't make any sense"
as if they have brilliantly solved and debunked an art form.
They would be quite wrong.
The words are just a reaction and reflection of the world their letters were conceived in-
and so this fevered world and the expression of its insanity are inextricably linked.
(at least for poets).
the difference between poems and people is that humans are
in addition to the insanity,
horribly unreliable and capricious creatures.
They never stay.
They never stay
But metaphors will always be there to cuddle me in their warm arms on lonely weekend nights
Why writing? you ask?
Because when everyone is gone, annoyed, asleep, or dead and the whole earth has been blown apart;
every city destroyed and great moment reduced to nothingness,
I can still trace poems in the ashes.
Her rosy cheeks were red just like her lips.
Her laughter gave light but her grin was coy.
With dark midnight hair that grew down to her hips,
And eyes set on a handsome dark haired boy.
His wondrous eyes gazed o'er her pale sad face.
His heart was set on an other sweet girl,
A more free soul with elegant grace.
She could not compete with her golden curls.
Pondering all day that he'll take her hand
But leaves her restless and singing the blues.
Hoping one day he'll see and understand
That all those grins and talks were more than clues.
Sitting by the keys when she's feeling down,
She'll belt her voice and produce her own sound.