I built a throne,
in the darkest parts of me,
where the light wouldn't reach.
I wasn't ready to wear the crown,
or own my royalty.
The vines grew over my name,
tangled in my mane,
until I was caged
with shame.
I knew I was worth more,
but I could not remember,
what it felt like to roar.
I was muzzled, muted,
from sheathing my claws
to stay inside their box,
against the paradox;
trying to fit in
while my soul knew I was wild.
It is the act of a child
to deny the lineage we are given.
Purple is the cloth
I was made to live in.
I pruned all the kudzu,
determined to find my throne,
polished the coronet
whispered "we're far from over yet"
until it gleamed.
Now when I glimpse my reflection
I finally see
a Queen

I've been smoldering

since the flint was struck.

In the bellows, caged only by my ribs,

enough hot, dry, salted air

to stroke the tinder with every breath.

Softwood amongst the dry grass,

I was kindling.

They kept trying to smother me,

kicking dirt,

throwing their solo cups full of

boxed wine,

all over my intention,

aiming to ***** out every ember.

So I picked the heads of dandelions,

laid down among the cattail leaves,

wrapped in poplar cotton,

and magnified the birch of my bones,

begging for a flame

that refused to come.

I tore the words from sodden

paper promises,

tied them with the ragged hem

of my once white dress,

blistered my hands with the bow drill

until I found the spark.

You'll try to say you were my kerosene,

but the pines know I was enough fuel.

You can't see the forest now,

for all the char;

the ash laughs along with my fire,

wild and free.

I died a thousand tiny deaths,
buried in doubt, shoveled under shame,
but now I rise,
my only burden, the pressure of becoming,
and the poundage of resurrection.
Digging through the scraps,
the discarded refuse, the forgotten waste,
finding bits of tin
that could be reshaped into stars.
I held the heat of them close,
let it melt the lead of my bones,
gathered up the pieces of me
they'd said were better kept in canopic jars,
forged them together until the plumbum
began to shine with gilt.
Now I no longer tire of pushing
the light across the sky.
Even the smallest, quietest soul
can carry the sun.

Crimson Skies,
flooding rivers with violent tears,
swallowing innocent hands,
still clutching sidewalk chalk,
with gluttonous hunger,
taking what was never his to hold.
Crimson is my throat,
raw from screaming, cheeks flushed,
washed with fury
at the black mirror reflecting:
empathy - three likes
cruelty - trending.
Hashtag tragedies,
hot takes smoldering with self-righteous blame,
They forget,
over their brunch,
the crimson blood is still warm
in the muddy water,
pooled around broken sticks,
puddled beneath bent dumpsters.
WHO deserves that?
NO ONE deserves that!
Crimson breath in my chest,
sharp, stabbing, clawing at my ribs.
It is what remains when silence
must be the loudest voice.
A washed up note,
a prayer for help,
a plea against bullying,
now drowned in raging streams.
Irony, red-lipped, ruthless,
strongly typing out your cyanide,
taking away hope with thunderous words,
destructive, hateful, lightning.
I pray you remember your humanity,
and then,
remember them.
Remember their names.
Until Crimson means something beautiful
again

The languid breeze tunes the trees,
rustling their emerald leaves,
their limbs whispering ancient lullabies
to the bees
that hum along in honeyed harmony,
drunk on nectar
and daylight.
Cicadas buzz, syncopated techno electrics,
a tireless refrain that rises,
falls, rises again,
never rehearsed,
their scores born in the heat of noon.
Birdsong floats,
loose threads stitched
across a cerulean sky,
sparrows riffing jazz from telephone wires,
crows clicking bones to the rhythm,
gathering what's been dropped for rhythm's sake.
Even the grass joins in,
the dry scrunch under bare feet,
a soft, raspy cymbal
played by the soles of wanderers.
Spanish moss dances,
swaying lazily,
passing longing glances
towards the willow's limber ballet.
Crickets bow beneath dusk's curtain,
stringed legs chirping,
plucking gracefully,
a twilight metronome counting beats
between firefly flares.
Beneath it all,
the steady hot breath of the southern wind,
the exhale of the earth at her zenith,
drawling backroad red dirt prayers,
steady as a Sunday morning hymn,
summer, lowing it's own hallelujah.

July's sun lingers in the cobalt sky,
caught mid-sentence,
slipping golden syllables
onto the lake's reflective, glassy, skin,
making clones of dragonflies and clouds
that float above the inky mirror of it.
The trees lean in,
eavesdroppers, branches entwined,
hands held in anticipation,
like breath caught
before diving into the murky unknown.
The breeze waits with me,
the hovering humid haze
wrapping warmth around my forearms,
lacing my neck with diamonds of sweat,
the slumbering stillness of it
a cat basking in golden beams
that break through windows,
a welcome intruder that never
needs to ring the doorbell.
I peer into the black, skating the surface
with long seeking gazes,
depths of knowing just beyond the cover.
My fingers long to thumb through pages,
and let my eyes skim past the tension
and measure the density in the bottom
which doesn't hold oxygen.  
The world softly exhales,
reassuring hushes that dance in the willows,
rippling soft breaks into the lake glaze,
and I remember myself,
not as the ever unsettled silt,
but as a shimmer,
the quiet light
that pirouettes atop the breaks,
skating the undulating surface,
a daylight star, sparkling,
that never sinks in.

When the midnight oil has waned,
and the candles waxed,
puddles of sage-scented sandalwood
pooled on oaken tableaus,
the scent of sulfur and kerosene
all that remains to show that something,
anything,
had burned here.
-
When the moon has hidden his face,
to shine upon some distant galaxy,
forgetting the steady, long-loved sun,
the tides pulled out and away,
no longer holding the sand,
leaving it to shiver in the damp of forgotten froth.
-
When the camp fire dies,
and the last of the hopeful dancing embers
shrivel,
their pirouettes curling into gray streams
of unrequited smoke,
fresh logs lay dreaming of pyres,
as orange fades to black,
marshmallows piled, unroasted,
in bags that won't be opened.
-
what is left,
once everything has died,
but... to make new light.