Be still, my obstinate heart
For in the silence present
Between pairs of parted lips
Your cacophony will be my ruin
Desist in your perpetuous clamor
For in the peace of dreams
Given life and limb
T'is only you who will wake me
Lean upon my feign-ed strength
With your thunderous cries
He who will not mind thee
Is thee to soon become
Countenance is made weak
Beneath the percussion
Of heart meeting
Tender embrace
Breath rendered purposeless
In heart's response
Within my being
When he speaks
Be still, my obstinate heart
For amongst the calm of my nature
Between its silence and wanting
Your cacophony will be my ruin
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 10:51 PM UTC
I've been hunting
In the forest of dreams,
Getting drunk and
Listening to Jefferson Airplane
For the very first time.
It's a night for dreaming I suppose. I've just broken the barriers of love for a man I've known so long that I've nearly forgotten who he is. A piece of furniture in my strange little room.
I'll make a list
Of the things I see here
Apart from his lingering eyes:
A musc stand
A jewelry box
A chair
A dress - Not mine, though it was once
Young girls and their blues
Come to me from the feather in the meadow.
Listen for the ticking of my footsteps.
That's poetry.
God that's poetry.
Why can't I write like that?
It's like looking my enemy in those bright, tremoring eyes
And facing my envy with my ego and my ahmmer
That's beauty.
God she's beautiful.
Why can't I be beautiful like her?
Why can't I appreciate Jefferson Airplane like she does?
I've convinced myself that I hate her for her moral depravity.
For so liberally spreading her character and her legs.
I know I hate her because I hate myself.
And because everyone loves her, not me.
. Ad were I half the human being I portray, none of this would matter.
Understanding is a virtue hard to come by.
You could teach me how to love if you try.
My husband will sleep with his head all buried down and at the foot of his bead.
I'm certain I'll abuse him, emotionally at least
He'll have to be the hardest or softest poor ******* tht ever lived.
I tread on everyone's good emotional graces with my obtinance and determination in being obstinate.
It is, as it always will be, about my happiness.
I'd rather have my country die for me.
Stream of confidence:
Consciousness and the problem with it is that my mind moves faster han my hand can crsft
Door, bell, whistle, heart, ***** therapy, tea, love, mint, ice cream, mother, father, ring, matrimony, and there it ends.
Matters only of the heart.
I'll eventually ***** all of the rest of the things that I haven't wanted to say to anyone anyway.
I feel as though someone is in this room with me
Maybe that's just the distortion pedal talking.
Listen to those drums
Like a heartbeat
Like a war cry
I swear the Earth just moved from beneath my soul.
Once, I bet, I;ve had that kind of primal instinct
A hunter
After his dream game
A drunken huntsman never misses his mark
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 10:40 PM UTC
You are
The puckered kiss
Of lemonade
On an August afternoon
You are
The sunset
Watching me fall prey
To the same August moon
You are
Well-spent hours
On the telephone
Sweetly sighing
You are
The gilded lilies
In their valley-bed
Gently lying
I am
A love like a river
That drowns
The dreams of hope
You brave
The troubled waters
Daily
In your little love-boat
And when
My soul will leave me,
Unburdening
Its load
You are
The other end
Of my life's journey
To you
I am owed
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
I saw the Shepard in the meadow.
I drew his crown from the thorns.
I plead on my knees before him:
Give me the strength for the morn.
I'd wake the sun with my sighing.
I'd put the rain in its place.
Oh, were it not for that Shepard!
Kissing the pain from my face.
I wish my soul would wash away.
I'd leave my cares upon the shore.
Had I life my heart's own way,
I'd sail on through my Shepard's door.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 11:16 PM UTC
I had almost forgotten
The unhappiness of my memory.
The wind caught word
Of your scent
And lifted me onward
To a future in which
I could still hold your hand.
I kissed your lips once more
In the tears of a dream.
I felt departure
As a meaningless journey
On the basin of its river.
I have taken so literally
The strong arms of time
As they've held us apart,
Giving way
Only to memory and ashes.
Loneliness cradles me as a mother
And I,
As a child,
Sleep.
Dreaming of saving grace.
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 8:22 PM UTC
I recall the August sky
Alight and dripping
With the waxing candles
Of the poet's holy flame
And by this nectar
He scribed his desires
Impermanently
Upon the shore:
"Libera Nos A Malo"
And by his own command
He shed the garments
Bound to his skin
And laid them upon the earth
Blinking and weeping as though birthed
By the force of the ocean
By the love of his Father
By the light of the poet's holy flame
Reveling
In the newness
Of life unbound by the husk
Of becoming civilized
Marveling
Alongside the moon
At the wonders
Of the earth
And by this nectar
He scribed his desires
Permanently
Upon the dust:
"Libera Nos A Malo"
And by its celestial command
He shed the skin
Bound to his soul
And laid it upon the wind
Grinning and dancing
Creating waves in the sand
As though reborn
By the light of the poet's holy flame
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC
I am
Spilling
Out of myself.
I am
Of the greatest kind
Of human being -
Emptied.
Though only of self
And,
Thankfully,
Never in practice.
Am I
Only made human in time?
Death is the definition
Of living.
Otherwise
I am made of blessed scraps
Of Divinity's table.
Which,
From my fingertips,
Fall to the earth
In a blanket of angel mist
And words -
Spilling from my
Soul
As God
So carefully
Spilled
Dust upon oblivion
To create Adam.
Out of my heart
Beats the fires
Of my unspeakable passions.
Scorching images
Of desire
Seeping from this soft,
Human
Exterior.
Of my eyes,
They've withered away.
By the liquid nectar
Of my sorrows,
I am blinded.
Though only of reality
And,
Thankfully,
Never of optimism.
My self
As a whole
Emptied into
Whatsoever is beyond
The Great Barrier;
Fragments of legend
And air.
I am
Spilling
Out of myself.
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 12:06 AM UTC
If a man exists
And no one
Takes note
Of his life,
Does he exist
At all?
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 3:16 AM UTC
In all of the struggle
To achieve substance
Before death,
A grey in the darkness
Reminds me
That I've yet to escape
From this inexorable path
And discover self
More than I knew her last.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 9:42 PM UTC
Autumn
Removes his golden hair
From
Winter's ashen cap
Your lips tasted
Of raspberry wine
And we toasted
To the fact.
I think I loved you
- Rather -
The Yule Log
Sung flames
Into my heart.
And I was tempted
By that romantic
Siren's song
In evening's passing dark.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 9:39 PM UTC