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 Apr 2016 B Irwin
The Dedpoet
How long I have been in the dark....

A fate less holy,
A mission undefined,
Heart that cries,
Tears that bleed,
The abysmally charged traveller
That I have become walking
Until tendons fade away,
So my knees have scraped
The fugitive hope of the ravine.

        The space of loneliness
        Between these shoulders
        And the tunnelling that
        Devours the necessity to seek
        Out a hope,
        Something to fight for.

Saving grace within the dark,
Because dark is not dark
Without the light to show
Its depths,
its attachments to the misery,
This Earth, home of humanity
Trampled by the inner search,
The strength of hope is the light
Of the world.

Oh but the ravine does not falter,
Its crescent flow like a carving
Knife to cut away any luminous
Idea, the idea that cannot die,
And we are all formed in the light
As we leap into the abyss
In a battle for the sanctum of the soul.

     Where is the philosophy?
     The ideal that love can conquer
     Love, faith of the child
     In the blind advent?
     From the origins of water,
     Many drown in the depressing
     Motion of the blind lights that
     Surround them.

Hope is not sterile,
The idea cannot die,
Familiar to the dark,
Because we overcome,
The obliterated redemption
Is but the whole of the world
Saying you cannot.
Confronting the sea as a rock
To the crashing waves,
Bewildered by marches on the darkness,
Battered and bruised,
At the edge of death,
Purpose is here as we open the light
And reveal the eyes we always had.

     Deep, deep into the dark,
     We have been thrown as swift
     Grenades of light, the explosion sudden,
      The sight revealingly hopeful.

And God is watching the children
He made from dust to confront
Ourselves in a battle of reflection,
Every mirror needs the light
To see the truth of themselves,
Here the nocturnal night
Fights for every soul,
Dancing at the depression,
The sadness of menacingly
Prideful elitism.

    Sweat, these deep meanings,
    Who wants to think on them?
    Ignorance, blissful warrior
     Of the dark,
      Death to the fire inside
      That fashions the sleep or hope,
      The individual loses that which makes
     Them, and here in lies the ravine
     And its war.

Outcast, fighter of the dark,
Depressed warrior,
there is a form of light
In the confusing shadows,
Away from that voicelessness
That does speak,
Shed the ancestral burden,
Leaping from one horror
To the next horror,
Reveal that which is hope,
When you from before when God
Molded you as a form of light,
And though you may think
That you are just a flash,
Remember that every star twinkled
Its light before the last gasp.

Come out and reveal
The fire that yearns,
Feed the hope as a fire
That swells, a fire that burns.
You are the instruments of new
Beginnings, that which
Was rejected, that which was cast
Away like falling winds,
Winds that bkew you to another day,
We pass daily from the darkness,
As if from sleep,
We battle now in the void.

And though we are small
In the vast darkness,
We shine as cosmically gifted
Luminaries, shining as
Fragments in the night,
Eternal hope, a form of light.
 Apr 2016 B Irwin
Rotten Meat
I messed up again
Why, I'm just a big flaw

Slowly, degrading in meaning
Losing the 'significant'

Like a word with no definition
It's just me, messing up again

Rolling back to old habbits
Never learning
Written on 4/12/16
 Apr 2016 B Irwin
A Lorraine
When you look at me, what do you see?
I see a transparent body, outlined by bold black
ink, a distant reflection of me


You see nothing, yet you see me?
I see nothing but those behind you and those walking through
your outline, yet I see who you should be


If I were to disappear, what would you do?
I do not know considering, you are not there.
You are like air


If I am like air, can you feel me brush against your skin?
You are not as strong as the wind; you are like the air I breathe in

Why are you the only one who hears me?
I hear you because I am the mirror of your outline, I respond by showing you the truth of what you only choose to see

How do I fill myself in? Become visible and whole?
You find your true colors and escape into your soul

*A.L.W.
 Apr 2016 B Irwin
Katie
sitting underneath her knee was a lent book of entymology
something about butterflies being caught and pinned
preserved in stasis for the sake of beautiful things
cold crisp leaf wings smoked behind the glass
of a cyanide bottomed killing jar
and in that half read book all she could glean
amongst the bones of writing so lean
was the feeling that you could lie flat and cold
and be a redolent beauty despite the lack of life-

days earlier
the talking therapy had been all right.
hey, there's a ton of treatment these days
medication and conversation and there's no need
to burrow yourself away.

so they talked about feelings
as if they were quietly observing the to and fro
independent little embryos growing opinions of their own-
the indignant insistence that these things,
these emotions have names, signs, triggers
and they begin and they end and curve again-
rising up from the flat of a typeset page.
first one in a while, i'm not sure if i'm even writing poetry anymore or if it's just drivel haha.  was i ever writing poetry anyway?
 Apr 2016 B Irwin
SE Reimer
~

like water-colored rivulets
her ringlets drop and fall,
wisteria drips and pours,
in hues of lavenders and mauve,
adds aroma to this palace,
awaits her turn to
loose her blossoms too,
to spill her paint
onto this palette
and the fresh mown grass below,
where her sister’s cherry petals
like confetti scattered;
bits of pink and white,
strewn by unseen hands;
like connecting stars,
each one random lands
upon this grassy space;
the barefeet they await,
in hush... anticipate,
as if with longing sigh,
this their preparation,
purposed hours lived;
to hear the children, sweet;
listen to their laughter,
and feel the dance of
lover’s grass-stained feet!
blossom only for this moment,
like amethysts in strands,
her chains of violet
drape the trellis,
release into the twilight
perfumes not made by man;
and slowly evening fades,
the children's calls
grow ever distant,
as one by one,
they're summoned home;
and lovers draw
each other close,
as they find
themselves alone;
immersed in silence,
amidst the fragrance,
as softly flowers
drift to sleep,
dream in vespers  
whispered song,
of the coming day,
of star-kissed dew,
and the light
of early morn,
to begin it all
...anew. 

~

*post script.

one needs no further
inspiration than creation;
where her blossoms beckon,
her fragrance soothes,
her colors set us in the mood;
the cherry and wisteria blooms
in my front yard being
the perfect place to begin!
this is for good reason
my favorite time
and season here
in the pacific northwest.
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