Like Orpheus, ****** of lyric and word
I pray my song will not meet thy sleeping ears
But pour through orifice meant for only one,
My veil be lifted!
Sweet and swift, words of thy present god,
Plead mine eyes set forth without jest,
For backward glance should destroy my love
If only for my spirit,
Eternal in thy presence but still without,
Eternal in flames from whence thine eyes yet slept
But woken now for my loves melody to take,
Not the hand of Hades!
Bound is my chain of yearning to which only thee holds the reins,
Thy past with dear Aphrodite becomes my right.
To know where thine love lies true, thou shalt not sway from my lead;
I turn only for my love!
Where doth thine eyes wander, should mine stray not from thee?
Where hath thine eyes gone before thy saving grace?
This lyre charmed the wrath of death for mine prize,
Thy love and thy word
With thou in step to this ascent toward worldly pleasure,
Thy love only known without falter.
Mine trust of thine Hades falls as feathers from a dove,
Thy purity is false
And thus, I must turn to know thine ways,
Praying for the lies of Hades, if only for my spirit,
I turn to face thine histories and met with thine ashes
My trust forsaken!
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 6:22 PM UTC
If I could grow another arm
with hands and fingers
to match the others
I would have trouble deciding
if it would hold you up
or reach for your help
The only reason I don’t seem so desperate
is that I’m limited
to these two arms
to beg for your thought
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 5:31 PM UTC
There are a lot of problems that come from fixing people
hoping it will fix you
The least of which being
that it never does
Build a house with only your hands
and sing in a choir
with the voice of a lawn mower
But pages rarely fill through pride
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC
Just another morning
when twilight reaches my windows.
The days and I darken.
To enjoy the sun with strangers,
we walk in unacknowledged silence.
We have the same warm skin
but to bring it up would be weird.
When we fill the street
is it correlation or causation
that the sun joins us?
They always fade;
I would like to make it to four in the morning
with the warmth remaining.
Strangers pass,
all warm,
if only from our own blood,
but to bring it up would be weird.
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 2:22 PM UTC
I was not born of god and muse.
Pictures of virtuosic health
captured in epic poetry
that I don’t want to write.
The music I make charms my world.
Trees and rocks
obey not the wind and current,
but the meter of my songs.
You too fell for tricks of snake,
though my tune called your name
long before they evaded my coil.
Forgive me, I won’t question your sleep below.
For even the rules of your warden dictate
you can’t look forward
while you’re looking back.
I could be your Orpheus.
Which is to say that even after death
you won’t get rid of me.
I could be your Orpheus,
but with the way his story goes
wouldn’t you say I’m probably
more like his lyre.
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
There is this lamp that sits right on my desk,
layers of dust signaling lack of use,
I bought to make my space more picturesque
that's still void of light, though with one excuse.
I could replace the bulb sometime tonight
but I do not desire that false glow,
for things look better in the morning light;
what’s in the dark I do not want to know.
I don’t recall a time that lamp did work;
it gets me into bed before sundown.
It is no myth that monsters like to lurk,
they tend to use my thoughts as their playground.
It is simple why I won’t fix that lamp:
I’m tired from running monster day camp.
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 6:02 PM UTC
“The problem with falling is sooner or later
you’ll have to hit something.”
- Jenny Owen Youngs
My eyes met your eyes
at nine years old in the cafeteria.
I learned you were terrible
over a loud lunch where
your laughter met the spilled drink
and tears making their way
down another’s skin.
Your hands met my back
before I met the sting
of your unheated pool.
This was the standard when
my lips met your lips
at an age we boasted
in a space that was ours.
My friends met your personality
not once.
Our space was where you launched us.
My gaze met the Milky Way
when you were the only one
around to care for light years.
My feet met the ground
when you called me
your favorite expletive.
You rethought that stunt when
my fist met your face
upon remembering how terrible
you were in the first place.
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 1:30 PM UTC
“Nobody owns life, but anyone who can
pick up a frying pan owns death.”
– William S. Burroughs
Through a door that is not mine
that’s left ajar from time to time
we see a man with zany eyes
scarred-up face, mouth full of lies.
Through a window at an ungodly hour
the night our neighborhood lost power
we see the man pull on a mask
and knit the weavings of his task.
I should have gotten quite the scare
when he pulled that woman by her hair,
then tossed her in the hole he’d fill
and quickly cover with daffodils,
but I’m no stranger to playing detective;
his plots have proven rather defective.
A call to the cops brings a rap on his door
that eventually leads to the lush garden floor.
Now, I don’t think I’m deserving of fame
my ego is simply much too tame
but I have kept dark things from view
and you listen well, so I’ll share with you.
There is something you should recognize
in that man with zany eyes;
don’t always believe what you’re told to see,
for he who plants the daffodils is me.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 8:56 PM UTC
I promise that my grin is not of spite,
as my cheeks begin to crease from the weight
of my smile stapled wide. My eyesight
is tinted green just thinking of your date.
I promise that I don’t resent your side
or hands that get to linger on someone
I think I deserve, though I never tried
to be the one you needed to outrun.
I promise I’ve been in a similar
boat, but waves sound like an aquarium
against yours, so just take my signature.
Paint my mind with the way you love them,
because I promise what’s yours feels like mine
if you’re someone I can hate all the time.
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 11:44 PM UTC
Boredom is sameness.
A note held to talents end
will be just noise.
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 2:42 PM UTC