in our town there is a park
I walk it every day
in one corner are two flat stones
two small graves, one boy
one girl
in the park, in our town
I walk every day
girl gone at birth - 1901
boy three years of age, a son
died - 1907
in two small graves, this be their final heaven?
in the park, in the town
that I walk everyday
children come stare at the stones
elders wonder - Who?
could be sleeping there
in the rain and in the sun, and
Where their mother? she rests not here
in the park, in the town
that I walk everyday
other's walk there too
mother's smiling as their children play
in the park, in our town
none offer
nor ask these two children to play
or beg rise up sweet little ones, from
where you so quietly lay, in the corner
in the park, in the town
that I walk every day
some will pass smile, some
look once maybe again, not
asking Who? their mother might have been
frightened
what these stones might actually have to say
in the park, about the town, where
I walk everyday
Feb 8, 2011
Feb 8, 2011 at 7:45 AM UTC
when shall I linger by the stair
where I first met you standing there
you in coat, my long, long brown hair
where I first met you last December
when shall I linger by the stair
where a woolen scraf so willingly shared
you wrapped it round my face and hair
the beginnings of our love affair
when shall I meet you there
when shall I linger by the stair
my hair now cut your shoulders bare
the summer warmth still finds love shared
no given end to a this fond affair
when shall I linger by the stair
I shall meet you there....
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 9:08 AM UTC
from new to waxing
blinked a moon
Orion stood in might
of a heaven
belted
earth below - such a
starry, starry night
expression
words not fair to this
sight beheld of you
Vincent and your timelessness- beauty
golds and blue - and held
me in the spell of moon, and in the spell
of light - a vision of
one "as beautiful" - this
starry, starry night...
Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 6:51 PM UTC
Blasphemy!!
torn holes through all yarn
darning i had never done; what else
to do i, but run, and run...
screaming out, you called
by name, i ran and ran until
on tear came - words ran too,
down your face, traced my heart
for years replaced and i cried
long, for what was spent - where heaven, prayer?
nothing sent
and with vow - now
spoken for God to hear
this heart broken, his promise where?
i placed the gate (closed) on
my soul - and its holiness
of long ago...
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 11:56 AM UTC
the feminine bleeds
not always red, not always white
seldom enough
for words - she inters herself, crouched
chambered, begs for
cleansing, hand held cupped
round- her curves
familiar to self, unknowable;
unselfish giving - she bleeds, not enough
mutilated even by her own kindness, cradled
without righteousness, coddled by an unnamed
nebula .....she curses her own image, and likeness
slivers it, cuts it raw, for dead left - visible
a world denies
knowledge with sacred
alibi - scribed hieroglyphs, scrolled - she bleeds
white, and a
desert conceals her face
calculates her dance - her movements
mythical, she cries inside
out
tears of salt river-ed, rested
underground, a birthing place securing
her masculine seed coming to
light - Madonna paints her
face black, *"Oh Czestochowa, pray for us
Oh Mother - we beseech thee"*....
She bleeds - red, the
world turns with season - she re-seeds our flesh
feeds us with her ***** prior
to the sacrifice -"Witch, it is, Witch....burn it," conceal
in alabaster stones
lone, unmarked - her womb
tomb it only in site
of an unflinching god - hold him, birth him
in sorrow grieve and give him, his blood shed
"take it ,drink it" - red, she bleeds - seldom enough
as the masculine prepares for HIS resurrection
feminine for trial
He is reborn - she never dies
she is Wisdom (Sophia) eternal
He - Godhead
she - Feminine
denied....
Dec 30, 2010
Dec 30, 2010 at 7:09 PM UTC
A Mortal Love I seek, I am not stone
Goddess's of past standing cold;
Rome's current shore- shown godless?
I have flesh, and
still it clings to supple bone, veined marrow
Comfort, none in promise
of a heaven that still thirsts
for my mortal soul, ... remorse held,
holding infinite death, that love would pass
from my partaking; and not
(... a martyr's fate - I refuse it's claim nor seek it's place
on a said judgement day) For without it, Love...I am
but formless discontent, unforgivable by any winged angel or ether,
by any artisan's muse, lent full
Tell what earthen grave
would embrace mortality's warmth/
expose an ashen soul to life? ...Love Mortal itself is lone witness
to all posed as vital, human and willed perfectly finite....
as moon fulled to new
matched only by counted nights; Mortal?....I will
bear it in joy - Love, as word,or turn of tarot,
of fates
consecrating it - immutable
consecrating it - truth immortal...this
Love ... Mortal...
Dec 29, 2010
Dec 29, 2010 at 4:17 PM UTC
piano, portraits, pyres
milking the celestial wellspring
notes, have and have-nots, halfed
alms, imperfect time
exchanged for dignity..a
knee takes score,
chant resounds, the portraits speaks
its crown, robbed of maven grace
defaced by scorn... reborn in
a pyres burn, a pianos key
and the composer's fear
of obscurity
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 3:34 PM UTC
a year secures its legacy
as the moon veils her phase
with light facing inward, reflecting
the passing of life's days,
and an aura
surrounding morning
its all to fated hand
that I often think about, but can seldom
understand - the love
you imparted with the waxing
of a tear - faithfully
a promise, the gift of but one year..
of days and nights as
lovers
an all to fatal vow... now
ending as you take your leave
along with goddess
and her throne, shrouding me
in memory - and standing
all alone....
Dec 20, 2010
Dec 20, 2010 at 7:15 PM UTC
*I fell in love between seasons
and lines upon the page
of a "Pride and Predjuice"
that held me at its door...somehow
you wanted more..more
than autumn,
could itself hold - and less than winter,
chilled to warmth, yet not its bitter, icy cold
and with the last of nights candle
burning, you took it from my hair,
the ribbon
and its pleasure, pressed it to the page
closing the book on what would come -
between seasons and a flame
that slowly slipped away, as did
reason, pride, all shame
bkmackenzie*
Dec 19, 2010
Dec 19, 2010 at 2:12 PM UTC