there you lie
spanning vast distances
white arms stretched
a thousand miles
in both directions
one foot anchored
on either shore
those golden scales!
such a precise balance
an ounce on either end
and you would come
crashing down, like
galloping gerty
and the pieces that
fell would drop
silently into my arms
nobody can stay
like that forever
patient winds erode
your willpower down
to a fine copper dust
to be carried off to
the edge of the world
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 7:19 PM UTC
I am hiding under a sheet
like a child on Halloween
as always, you cut to the chase
everything I am is before you
pages of a tattered book
that you know oh so well
rustle in the warm breeze
hopping from one
leaf to the next
if I was a tree, my arms
stretched and growing
in all directions
you’d come to me
and pull away my bark
just to find out more
your insatiable curiosity
comes at a terrible price
in exchange for my life
you want a place within it
forged by your own two hands
blackened with soot
like that one long moment
when I put my glasses on
wide-eyed recognition
of the position you hold
with such sweet relish
those eyes tell me so much
fixated on the horizon
I can’t help but look back
you’re in too deep now
a part of you swims through
my bloodstream and
enjoys the ride every time
my heart beats
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 7:18 PM UTC
shut the bedroom door
the lock clicks as it throws
the room into darkness
lying on my back I can see
my index finger trace
a satellite’s trajectory across
the smoky black curtain
spread above us
my eyes scan the horizon
searching for Saturn
after all, it is my
favorite planet
a sudden flash of light
the tail of a comet screams
past in the silence of space
tiny bits of rock, born on
the other side of existence
paint bright red lines
through the atmosphere
and land on your pink cheeks
ripe from the sun’s caress
they’ve come all this way
to become the freckles
below those perfect eyes
we are floating quietly
beyond all we’ve ever known
for an eternity and a half
just so that we can return
and see the world
come to ruin
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 7:18 PM UTC
I remember when we first met
my eyes carefully admired your
delicious curves and lines
ten fingers delicately graze the
fine hairs on your skin
I knew that I wanted you
so I took you home, made you wait
until I was ready, until I wanted it
and you did not disappoint
with each layer I remove, you
became even more beautiful
until at last, that first taste…
so sweet I could hardly believe it
each bite was more sumptuous
than the last one, so much so that
I was sad that you had nothing
left to give to me
few things are quite as satisfying
as a good peach for breakfast
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 7:15 PM UTC
The first chime
a man beaten by time and weather
waits at a silent bus stop for the last
chance he’ll get to see his kids
before they’re gone
The second chime
a woman on her back, wearing
nothing but a smile she doesn’t mean
feeling human again with a man she
doesn’t even know
The third chime
noisy commotion around a bed
the doctors saved the baby but
mom paid the ultimate price
who will tell the father?
The fourth chime
a million questions race through
your head as you try to fall asleep
what will tomorrow hold for me?
only time will tell
The fifth chime
as the last customers leave the
manager of the diner walks out
tonight he will make the decision
not to drink himself to sleep
The sixth chime
a little boy, tears rolling down his
face as he hides under the covers
he always hates it when mommy
and daddy fight
The seventh chime
a priest sits at his desk in the house
of the Lord, weeping with guilt
how can such a sinner lead any of
God’s people?
The eighth chime
out on the rocky beaches
a man and a woman are wed
by the sultry light of the moon
and nothing more
The ninth chime
six men carry the casket of
a seventh, a man they all called
father and sir but never
just Dad
The tenth chime
high in the Cascades, the light
of an emergency flare finally dies
along with the last hopes of
the stranded hiker
The eleventh chime
night is still young for most
but for some it is only the start
of the hardest day they will
ever weather
The twelfth chime
the bus comes, and the man
sighs with relief to know he
will be able to see his sons
before they’re gone
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 7:14 PM UTC
What began as something quite unfamiliar
Has now evolved into one quite peculiar
A collection of orphans, born into existence
And not all are resembling real substance
With the unique perspective of creator
I feel with each piece that I am a traitor
Somehow I never wrote something that
I’ve intended to go back to; and that’s a fact
Each one an entry from some long lost past
Never read twice, they are designed to last
Beyond my feeble years to hide and collect dust
So I’ll take the rare chance to show that I must
Return to my work, my children, my thoughts
Let them resonate and appreciate their plots
And since it’s my poetic resumé I’ve described
I’ll always make it new, as Pound prescribed
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 7:13 PM UTC
I died once,
just to see what it was like
(it doesn’t matter how,
so I won’t bother saying)
my curiosity had bested me
and so I did what I had to
in order to see
Like Thomas,
my dying eyes were flooded
by white mice and roses,
all in constant motion as my
eyelids finally shut
although the darkness had
embraced me absolutely,
a kind of clairvoyance
unknown to me picked me
up and swept me away
still blind, I found my footing
and I waited
and waited
Silently, a light broke above me,
falling thickly onto my shoulders
like condensed milk
and then, from somewhere
a voice spoke, tragic and booming:
“YOU’RE EARLY.”
I winced at the reverberations
echoing into nothingness
I couldn’t muster any reply
beyond a half-trembling shrug
There was a quick snap,
and the peculiar feeling of standing
on a trapdoor that’s about to drop
and, at last, I was back;
returned to my mortal coil,
gulping breaths of air
cold and deep and new
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 7:12 PM UTC
The unmistakable smell of wet grass
sunshine trickles through the cloud cover
bathing a sweeping meadow in a golden hue
up from the weeds stands a small figure
two legs made of fallen branches
and arms of leaves and moss
upon his head was an old bird’s nest for hair
and a cracked smile of bright green thorns
mother nature’s son, he was
everything she had hoped he could be
at his waist was a sword with no sheath
crafted from a single blade of grass,
it glistened with the dew around him
for three whole months, he played in
that sylvan meadow and poked his head
in and out of the shadows cast by
the trees around his home
he knew his boundary, and yet
the curiosity of the world outside
became too much for him to handle
the prospect of other meadows served
as the lure for his insatiable desires
his mother watched quietly as he took
the first steps into the forest, and alas,
those were also his last
for when he stepped from his paradise
he began to unravel; slowly at first
but then so fast that he hardly knew
what was happening, until it was
far too late to stop it
carving a path out of the meadow
there stood a trail of parts, each
blossoming again in the spring air
what he had paid for with his life
was the hope of another being
to continue outside the meadow
living on a lavender hill, his mother
sighs contentedly and twists
flowers and vines together
and starts on her next child.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 6:59 PM UTC
It must have taken courage
to fight the way she had;
the problem with fighting yourself
is that you’ll always end up losing
broken glass littered the floor
of the hotel balcony
crunching underfoot and
leaving specks of blood
on the railing where she leapt
And she did leap, that was certain
there was no one else around
and that was the issue
there wasn’t a note to be found
the front door left open a crack
so that a curious soul might
put two and two together and
realize that the body which had
plummeted eleven stories
was the one that belonged to
this room of things
her story eternally tied to
a ratty armchair and a kitchen
full of unsolved problems
Upon closer inspection,
the only thing out of place
in the whole situation was
her face, covered in paint
not the kind you’d redo
your living room in but
rather the apache kind
designed to strike fear
into the enemy in war
broad white and red bars
emblazoned across her
cheeks and forehead
a simple reminder of
her ferocity in life
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 6:57 PM UTC
Sometimes, I fancy myself a bird
not just any bird, mind you, but
a swift bird of prey;
the auburn and grey plumage.
I am a kestrel, a thief of life’s goods
the hunter of the open plains
razor sharp eyes spot movement
talons clutch the still moving prey
as I take off again for heaven
soaring above the city,
I take no notice of man’s ardor
or his creativity or construction
the only thing my mind focuses on
is what shall be the next target
I am no eagle, the king of the skies
to be fair I have no noble blood
instead, I bear the incomparable
position of having all and being nothing
such freedom it gives me!
savoring each morsel of life
between every beat of my wings
the north wind whispers
its most secret desires
that all may live like this
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 6:54 PM UTC