Craving (Part I)
She's calling you like a fog rolling in
Beckoning to you as a book turns it's pages
And you're craving her like a bullet to the chest
She feels like chocolate ushering itself down your throat
Looks like sound painted across the sky
Tastes of sun on the beach
Gnaws at your mind like a dove
A release like prison chains
Hunt (Part II)
Trace her foot steps
Catch her sideways glances
The soft sound of her laugh
Like rain on the sidewalk
Capture her soul
A bird caged with clipped wings
Teach her to sing a song of freedom
Show her how to fly again
Possession (Part III)
Pull her in close
Stay her trembling body
Feel her warmth
Through soft silk
A question on finger tips
Response through her kiss
Bring her back to the cage
And make her feel safe
Lay her down gently
Slowly peel away
The walls she hides behind
Take away her defenses
Gradually unravel her from her skin
And the heart is yours
Free for the taking
Graveyard Valentine (Part IV)
But she's not what you think
Your expectations were too high
All these ideals in your head
She won't live to be
Maybe she's only human
No angelic being would fall this far
Her soul was offered to you
Bare and shuddering at the vulnerability
So you take it in your hand
And its essence repels you
What filth she's turned out to be
Life is a right to be earned
And she has failed
So you take it from her
Cold steel laughs
But she did love you
One last blood stained kiss
And a rose in a jar
On your bedside table
To remind you of her
And the others who disappointed
I think you've missed the point
To and fro, to and fro
In my little boat I go
Sailing far across the sea
All alone, just little me.
And the sea is big and strong
And the journey very long.
To and fro, to and fro
In my little boat I go.
Sea and sky, sea and sky,
Quietly on the deck I lie,
Having just a little rest.
I have really done my best
In an awful pirate fight,
But we captured them all right.
Sea and sky, sea and sky,
Quietly on the deck I lie--
Far away, far away
From my home and from my play,
On a journey without end
Only with the sea for friend
And the fishes in the sea.
But they swim away from me
Far away, far away
From my home and from my play.
Then he cried "O Mother dear."
And he woke and sat upright,
They were in the rocking chair,
Mother's arms around him--tight.
When I gaze up
I see the night sky
Illuminated by the brilliant stars
That are the stage lights.
Radiating from the epicenter
Like the sun,
I feel their soft rays on my face,
warm and nourishing.
The outside world
Enveloped in darkness.
The black expanse conceals onlookers,
But I can feel their presence.
Their energy infuses the air,
Every molecule heavy with anticipation.
The electric atmosphere fuels my passion.
I am at peace.
The clouds enshroud my night in blackened cold
I'm stretched from tundra to savanna grave
The snow and sand comes at my eyes, a wave
In shades of frozen white and burnished gold.
I'll heal, I'll overcome my grief, I'm told
But healing's not the medicine I crave;
There's nothing left of breathing now to save
And nothing left of loving now to hold.
But when the sky parts, brave and bright with stars,
I feel your ghost rise up inside my skin
And though my smile is cut apart with scars
The promised healing fuels and begins.
My faith consoles me; you'll be never far--
The presence of an angel is within.
I. the breathing of human nature
her poetry weaves a chimera
through ontario maples,
ghostlike songs intoned in late november breath:
*i don't really want to be a pretty girl... *
whispers of woodsmoke fall from sky
(sky, pink as cochineal, pink as avarice
sky, blue as bruises, as jazz, as tropical waters)
she steps from the fog and ash into the beckoning trees,
seduced by leaves,
an autumn saturnalia of honey, flame, amber,
nectar, pistil, anther.
she is cupola and chalice,
budding fuchsia and iron cherry--
but she writes and breathes
as if something more than a woman
who knows all the names for the ocean
stirs and struts inside her.
II. the statue and sobriquet
piano wires melt into statues,
heat steals rusty bottle caps
and bends them eerily into muses.
butterflies perch astutely on their shoulders,
violet, violent, a mosaic of shredded lilies and shellac,
paris in flames, flowering tea-houses,
the mariana trench, a thicket of morning glory.
nature sculpted this metaphysical tribute to her
for all that she has done, for all that her bent fingernails
and snow-covered lips have given
to inspire solstice and equinox--
in the night-songs of the crickets,
crystal bells and rustic chirps,
she was lauded.
she feels the songs in her eyelashes
and writes of wine and palest bone,
fragments of bashful moon,
roots her fingernails into the tarnished canadian willows
and finds her way through magnolia clouds and sea-spray sky;
after all, she can soar.
Let us now decorate the symbol of life and ensure that the protection from Scandinavian and Turkish witches is confidently displayed at our thresholds whilst snowflakes silently fall.
Are you able to recollect the innocence, where the magic circle of Arctic captivation nurtured the sending of burnt letters through anticipatory chimney flues, deep into the twinkling sky at night?
There is a certain connection to the pattern of Odin - the guide of souls.
In wisdom, I have left savoury and alcoholic sustenance for ancestral spirits between the high places of Ounasvaara and Korkalovaara. So, here it is my sibling energy field of eternal carbon footprints. Once again, the Yule buck and its Old Norse master are soon to descend upon us.
So, although it may have been outlawed in colonial America by Puritans in 1659, we must also acknowledge those infinite prints of cloven hooves in the deep snow of 1038 a.d. in this mid-winter nativity of Cristenmasse.
As we celebrate the harvest of Kekri and consult with Joulupukki on the forest ridge, the symbolic colours of red, green and gold will lavish perceptual and spiritual gifts which are unable to be purchased with material commodities.
As this festival has gradually evolved into an obscene Western construct of politico-economical prowess, we must identify one more thing: Santa is an anagram for Satan.
Is this truly Finnish or Byzantine? Perhaps it is just cosmological ethnography?
Our eyes are forever searching for something beautiful,
longing for its sudden appearance until we can wrap our arms around it and watch it suffocate.
Die in our tiresome grip.
Not by choice, no.
How many times have you been exposed to the night sky?
How many times have you looked up and admired its beauty?
How many poems have been written about it's moon, it's stars?
Constellations you've depicted with your best friend at age eleven.
You're 15, you're 19, you're 25. It's still there.
Unattainable as ever.
Beautiful. As. Ever.
People are not like that.
People are beautiful until you see through their soft skin,
and fall into the creases of their skin;
break through scar tissue
trip and fall through the cracks of their forced smiles.
People are beautiful until you can no longer face the tragedy of their lives,
can no longer deal with the burden of what you once would have died for.
No, definitely not.
People should not be disposable.
They are not the socks you toss away in disgust, after a long day of breaking a sweat.
They are not the gift wrap around your new Macbook Air,
torn and ripped to shreds until you finally get to the good part.
I know this, I do.
So do you.
But I cannot help myself.
You cannot help yourself.
Human nature is a cruelty of some sort.
If I believed in a Hell,
I would say that boredom is the Devil's advocate.
the sky was out of place in this night sky.. it was as if this night was not real.. but it was.. there was a feeling of leaving always.. as if the night was saying goodbye to me every second i was in it.. it was quite enchanting being here.. things were not in their right place.. pictures on the walls were alive.. even the luster of the stars in the sky spoke of flase beautiful magic.. almost as if a child drew them upon the shadowy blanket dark sky..
A lone cloud passes by and takes me with it.. for a moment i am above this night.. i see my old street where i grew up.. i see my brother pulling me in our red wagon.. fireflies gather around us.. the baby pine trees begin to dance in the wind.. the night starts to feel fresh again.. the air taste so good..
i am back to my first home.. i go inside my first room.. and go straight to my old toy box.. the wonders i see.. all of my old toys light up my memories.. the room grows dark and my old night light glows upon me.. once i was afraid of the shadows there.. now i see them and become one with them.. shadows of the soul.. I awake from a dream of my past.. I see clear my memory shell and how it pieces together..
volcanos form at the end of my wrist, erupting with every glide of the blade.
The lava flows and doesn't stop, but this time I'm not afraid
When I put water on the spot of red, it burns just as lava should. but it's not enough to make me dead.
I close my eyes and take another swipe and because this one is finally deep enough, it'll all be alright.
I open my eyes and look out the window at the many stars. then down at my many scars.
I look at the sky, saying my last goodbye, I slip off into the night.
The bright and colorful morning light grows to then fade into a night sky,
All of the rose colored rays are much to often covered with snowy mountains of clouds,
Together they create a brilliant picture as they dance together across the sky!
With decorated peaks of flawless creation in the light of life,
Empty is my heart of words to speak,
For nature is so wise, so smart that I have learned why to be quiet!
Listening to the most Beautiful song while watching the most Beautiful picture be created,
It is to late to move away from this moment,
I am completely Awestruck at ALL of life in this moment!!!