walking in shadows
speaking in whispers
acting in secret
murmuring at dusk
dancing in starlight
scaring the sun
stalking by night
watching the moon
waiting for me
Screaming your name into the winter winds,
the emptiness its own reply
Marked steps leading to a coven grove, faint crescent moonlight on the snow
in the small clearing, round water, clouded starlight watching above
Praying by a frozen forest pond at midnight
The spirits of the trees acknowledge my presence in their circle
I tell them I have come to see the darkest part of night
Turning up my palms, opening my hands and my heart and my mind
A human receiver, channeling the vibrations of the Earth
Sensations directed inwardly outwardly flow into action
Collecting branches and pine needles
Leaving them at your door, the fresh scent of cool mint and sap
Natural balms to sanctify a new reality
Priestess, I am sorry.
I turned my back on the faith. If only for a span,
But for absolute belief, it took me doubt
Doubt burnt down the church
But the spirit still resides in our hearts, Shakti
We felt the flames of the church on fire,
we watched as the edifice we constructed
crashed and burned around us
Invocations of death and pain, I heard and felt the despair from your mouth, my love, a hateful sword ran through me then, and I could only stand still, close my eyes, and die, as it penetrated us
Kali came to wipe the unreal away
What is left?
Benevolent Mother Goddess
Redeemer of My Universe
I am your equal
Standing together to face the world
Building amphitheaters in the wood to recite inspirations derived from love
Let me bring you flowers
Let me be your hand
Let me be a swan by your side
Never leaving you again
Dependent on no one
Yet interdependent with each others entire universe
Our voices merging together into a song
By you, divine lover, this universe is borne,
my mother, my sister, my friend
You are my woman
In woman is the form of all things
There is no jewel rarer than you
Let the Moon spotlight
On this masquerade,
Some psalm they say
I think I’ll pray.
As my toes weave beneath
Crushed leaves and starlight imagery,
I think I’ll pray.
We hummed along to every song
We ever knew.
Licking the lyrics out on
Scattered starlit scratchpads
With the tips of our tongues.
Ink-dipped ego trips about love
Etched out top-chart carbon copies.
Our cursive grew sloppy,
But that hardly seemed to matter.
From tattered verses about fictional characters
To Hymns about God
To an aucapella exploring the difference.
Every song seemed to be sung specifically for us
And, Oh, how we both knew it
As our eyes jumped the stars and
Traced the constellations
Searching for inspiration in
The echoes of deteriorated light
From thousands of years before.
You spoke in absolutes.
To which I’d reply vaguely
And we dug up the roots of a tree
That we never let bloom;
Clawing hard and deep at the
Untasted foundation below our feet,
Despite the build-up of dirt
Under our fingernails.
But between the grass-stained knees and
The hail of stars that poured on our backs
We couldn’t find time to breathe,
So accordingly we damned the sky
And lit up another last kiss
Which we’d miss again in
A matter of minutes
And make a habit of the instance
Exploring a distance supported by
Limp wrists that gave way to
Two-ton daydreams, which always seemed
Just out of reach
But that doesn’t mean I didn’t try like Hell,
With locked-joint elbows and fingers widespread.
And while I read the symphony that the
Wind silently recorded on the back of my hand
I remembered how,
I whispered a song in your ear
And my breath gave you chills
When I got to your favorite part.
Will the Sun ignite
On this matinee?
It’s safe, they say,
Don’t be afraid.
But their water’s gray,
And it tastes like silent yesterdays.
‘Don’t be afraid.’
You closed those eyes and smiled that smile
That I write poems about.
But I shouldn’t be allowed to draw out such
Brilliant arched lips
So I sucked it back in mid sentence
Before it could drip
Through the cracks in my teeth.
I’ve chipped so much away beneath this surface
Which our toes cling so tightly to
That my bones have grown black and blue
But I’ll continue
Because this tune makes it worth it
Each time my pick-axe sparks stars when it
Collides with stone.
And amidst the skin and bone framework
Of a canopy sky, it seems to me that
You spoke about the history;
About the end of things, so many times that
For a point,
All you’d breathe is eulogies.
All our songs forgot
That the finest things in life
Truly are free.
That the buzzing of bees
Can be music too.
A tune so true
That even trees will dance,
Their leaves will cast sunrays
In rhythmic waves
Putting ripples in timelines
And making tomorrow’s yesterday
Something worth remembering.
I read once that astronauts returning from outer space are prone to
a deep and despondent depression. What is it about hours spent
orbiting the stratosphere that wrecks such havoc on the heart? While
it must be trivial to be standing in line at the supermarket after
spending months amongst the stars – the sadness is greater than that,
more subtle and permanent. Carl Sagan said that the greatest
revelation in the age of space exploration is the image of Earth as
finite and lonely, somehow vulnerable. Last June, driving home from
the Gilbert’s dinner party, you described our marriage as a satellite
that we were both floating helplessly away from, each caught in the
gravitational pull of separate galaxies. We had been bickering all
evening, much to the discomfort of the other guests; seven years, and
our love was beginning to quiet away. According to rock lore, the
Elton John song Rocket Man was written about astronauts no longer
being thought of as heroes, but as average Joes. Bernie Taupin came
up with I miss the Earth so much, I miss my wife while on a motorway
in Britain, and had to repeat it to himself for two hours so he wouldn’t
forget. When I hear this song now I think of you hurtling away from
our fuselage, a white vapor trail tapering off into the night. Left to my
science and speculations, I charted a new course, mapping
constellations across the kitchen floor. When I close my eyes the sigh
of compressors sounds like a song, with my hand over my stomach I
dance alone in small concentric circles. In space astronauts complain
of a nagging isolation, one that persists upon coming home; when the
fabled vastness of space offers less meaning than the gas station on
the corner, a reconciliation must be made. I think of our marriage as
time spent in space, as though the despondence through which I now
tend to daily errands reflects a return to normalcy. For example, if I
am sitting in a coffee shop doing a crossword puzzle, I will suddenly
remember the weightless love we made and my heart will emanate a
low homing signal, leaking into the atmosphere, desperate for your
response. And other times, driving to work in the morning, I imagine
you coming back, flying slowly over the suburbs in the blue light of a
winter predawn. This is the loneliness of the astronaut – it begins at a
molecular level and leaves us devoutly desolate. In my sleep, I still see
Cape Canaveral falling away behind us, and I wake remembering your
voice through radio static, your naked breasts in starlight, the tinniest
moon rocks in the palm of your hand.
If you stand so very still you just may hear giddy little fireflies (dancing in the moon kissed sky) whisper across the wind a wondrous tale, otherwise kept hidden within their light.
Secrets from the Land of Never Here, a forgotten world where our most coveted dreams are born and shimmering starlight is no longer bound solely to the night.
Fascinating tales of an enchantress, the keeper of bewitched forest, so captivating that even the strongest of hearts fall helpless when caught in the magnetism of her gaze.
Where a hillside water fall displays capricious streams of color crashing down over smooth rocks, the mist creating a delicate rainbow haze.
A land where the wild imagines of poetic minds are captured and given life, where one's inner sprite is encouraged to frolic and flutter, never stifled or confined.
It is a world of endless wonders where each new dawn the brilliant sun rises up into the pristine sky singing out melodious song nourishing the canvas in your mind.
Where fantasy and reality mesh splendidly into the now and the allurement of what tomorrow may bring fills one with anticipation and excitement instead of worry and fear.
A refuge in which time sets forth with specific pace, never late, for one will find themselves right where they should be in the Land of Never Here.
The noise beyond the roaring city bustle
Harsh blaring horns
Frogs croaking in a pond
The whippoorwill its sad call
Crickets talking in a secret rhythmic language
Bats fluttering eyes shining
Left to right
Snakes wiggle across cold ground
Wildcats scream calling
Into a eerie starlight sky
Silver speckled fish leap out of the water
For the winged bug in flight
Armadillos root for their food
Having sufficient but limited sight
The owl swoops into predatory dive
In its sharp claws his meal clutched tight
These are creatures of the darkness
The unique musical sounds of the night
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)( Tammy M Darby
All manner of people can be found in train stations, there character betrayed by attire to the more observational at least. The hard pressed city worker, walking ever walking, phone at hand, ever scanning emails and ensuring accessibility always, to control is too maintain is too succeed. Those who's steps seemingly shorter and more though out, are either here on some grand tour or some exotic soire as if silently noting surroundings, as the pass beneath the ornate decorations of their location. There care free folly the main indicator of intentions.From time to time a transport police officer shall pass, stern faced, seemingly compelled by some unknown mission others stand stationary a deterrent to would be criminals. From time to time the most beautiful facet of humanity is likely to appear, in the adoring stares of young lovers. It's this or the hold and don't let go grip, young lovers and train stations have long associated (In my mind at least) the point of departure is a grey area. Where displays of public affection normally reserved for movies and poems, reach the realm of social acceptability. Long deep kisses and well thought out speeches describing the grievances of an ever bleeding heart. There is one group I have failed to mention, who in there own way are entirely distinct from any of groups fore mentioned. They are the watchers, found normally at some quite looking coffee shop across the street, however this is not to imply they can not be any of the above. All of the above mix intermittently with interesting results, I shall for as long as I live never forget the passionate embrace of an on duty police officer and his wife. His eyes bright with surprise, at ease staring upon the one he so adores. I leave the station and head toward the embankment,
All manner of people pass me on their way to unknown offices, some holding hands and staring deeply. The rumble of unseen locomotive reassures me now of course I'm drawing closer, the winter winds once faint now felt as the once green leaves now all manner of colour are pulled by unseen gusts. This city must surely be the greatest in the world, from the industrial chimneys distant to the rolling ocean. Dockers smoke cigarettes and exchange raucous tales whilst foreign sailors stare intently. I always try my hardest to listen to as much as I could manage of these half spoken speeches. Im rewarded instantly with an image far more detailed and planned than anything the most creative minds could conceive. The wild waves create orators, there thoughts distilled be evenings spent alone. I've always found myself drawn to transient people, I feel like I've spend forever dreaming of someplace else Greenland Egypt Canada, you name the place and I've seen it in my dreams at least. It took me a while longer than I care to admit to truly get a feel for the place, at first like some timid child I avoided it. From the age of thirteen I've been locked in a battle with wanderlust, my urge to leave it all is simply overwhelming. In all my darkest fantasies, I leave this place at some point on some old ocean liner to arrive at unknown port. Too share a meal with mountain air as my ashtray overflows. I warm myself with images of ancient explorers sailing distant oceans, guided by starlight. Some people just elude me. I'd call myself stubborn but certain people melt me, I the eternal romantic a victim of my own high hopes. I'd often find myself alone, staring across the river and wondering. I always sit upon the same old bench carved with all manner of messages declarations of undying love, names, dates all carved into immortality. The steady movement of approaching footsteps is eternal, beyond the customs house solitary North Star shines, as if admiring its provincial estate. An unknown entity now serving as a subtle voice of reason in the darkness, occasionally couples pass, as if to cement my my longing. The starlight illuminates breaking waves, as boats sway easy tied up to subtle quayside. Ever reminded of my obligations I should really leave and go to sleep. However the pull of the darkness is tangible, that was something! oh something! Suddenly a gentle calm smothers all thought, as lights glimmer distant. Light! Oh brother light, I the eternal castaway home bound at last. My expectations were entwined with food and wine, and the comfort of my own bed.
I threw open the door to the sky
And the ocean rushed in like oxygen to the flame
The crescent moon cut like crystal glass
Casting shards of starlight from a distant past
Drawing pin-pricks of blood from my hands and my feet
Sending rivers of rosé which got lost in the sea
I heard distant laughter from an empty shore
I cried tears of joy and then drowned in it all.
on an indigo night
You flung starlight
on my stellar path
of lovin' on my knees
My aim to please
Falls short between wrong and right
Walkin' out my denim days
And flannel nights
Took fruit from you any way
Coiled yourself around me
In the middle of a powder blue day
Never felt the strike till you were gone
Poisoned by your midnight song
Skin bruised by scales so tight
Walkin' out my denim days
And flannel nights
I am your china girl
Your cornflower field your summer day
And you are my river flowing
My blue moment slipping away.
Walkin' out my flannel nights
Trippin' down my denim days.
winding ways of moss grown stone
lead me down this path I've known
when we met and starlight shone
I said goodbye to life alone.
my painted picture differed
yours was a sculpture, Sun bleached
mine was coal, from strain leeched
a fate Id hoped, to tell no
but gods are cynical, time shows
here again I am and stand
forgotten how to lay down
feel my mind turn to sand
a mindset that live found
creases beside blue eyes
shows how much that I've grown
echoes in my empty soul
speaks to effort blood sewn