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Beth Ivy Oct 2015
radiant sun gleams
through buttery golden leaves
bitter wind bites bones
found this from last november, digging through my journal to see what's worth keeping.
Beth Ivy Oct 2015
its a cigarette singeing the fingertips
sirens crying to a deaf ear
a hammer smashed against necrotic flesh

can’t you feel that?

                                                      you are a wind that rails against the moon:
                                                                                    thousands of miles away
                                                                  she cannot hear and cannot feel you
                                                                                she can see but never touch

                                                    how do i feel after so much disaster?
                                                                         what world could we have?
                                                                                              what could we be?

old callouses thicken and spread
but the blood inside is dead
and the feeling fades
pressing again draws no special ache

bruises blooming like
lies from your lips like
nightshade in the dark

tell me the truth that i might feel the wind
the burn, the pain, the blood.
chip off the callouses and expose my skin
melt my heart to feel your infirmity

                                                    or else entomb me in the stone
                                                                                            of my own making.
i love most of the words in this. whether or not i like their order or the sum of their parts is another thing entirely.
Beth Ivy Oct 2015
I came to You carrying a bowl:
white clay set with tourmaline
and green beryl like the sea

A silvery glaze you poured
over cracks in the clay--
mistakes I have made
                ­                             scars.

Swirling in this vessel,
as I stumble toward your hall,
is a liquid dark, seething:
fire and ink
filth and steaming sludge
and something
                                                       ­           slithers
                                           ­                                     just below the surface

living pollution eking out its existence in a putrid potion.

I can hardly lift it anymore.
with weakening arms I collapse,
but strive to hold the basin yet
my hands crushed beneath its weight.

With a shattered voice I call to You
who crafted the bowl:
                                                                     Mercy! mercy...

Desperate for rescue
before the evil lurking within
drags itself out to consume.

                                                      ­                                            *What You made
                                                            ­                                                 I poisoned,
                                                       ­                            And what in life You gave
                                                            ­                                    I filled with death.
                                                          ­                                       Empty the vessel
                                                                ­                        and unmake the beast.
                                                          ­                                     Renew and restore,
                                                        ­                                              Maker of All.
Beth Ivy Sep 2015
Oak Tree, she loves Thunderstorm:
His booming voice ignites desire-
When he lightens the sky and pours down drink
This ancient mother dances like fire

Her bows she waves in gladness,
Her core shivers at his touch,
His winds and torrents she counts caresses
While flowers tremble: his love too much.

Moon winks through the tempest's mantle,
Spying curious revels in the wood,
She tucks herself back behind his shroud
Leaving the dancers to their own good.

                                                 But carousing be it raucous raging as the sea,
                                                    Or gentle as the morning bells' lilting chimes
                                                          ­                All must eventually cease to be

Proud Sun calls out at dawn
To the wood on the edge of the glade.
At his voice Thunderstorm recoils
Sun's rays pierce with blazing blade.

Sun holds no reveler's understanding.
Perceiving Storm the usurper here,
He shines with mightiest will to drive
Away the love of sweet Oak Tree.

Sun turns back to comfort her, gleaming
But her arms show their age in his beams
while flowers rejoice at the dawning
Of him, the object of their dreams.

Now a sweet wind comes blowing
rustling the hair of Oak Tree's leaves,
sends tears showering: dew of last night's dance.
Oh to be a rainstorm! Oak Tree breathes.

The Sun is dazzled by the drops
Who never stood before his face.
Amidst her tears, the Oak Tree laughs
At this morning's strangest grace.
watched the oak in my yard the morning after an excellent thunderstorm. a more traditional style and structure. not my usual, but a fun experiment nonetheless.
Beth Ivy Sep 2015

windows down.
open road.

stark night, moonlight contrast.
stars: the watchers: no passing cars to block
the path to oblivion.
                                                       ­                             /fly/

arms spread wide, wind whipping
unfurled fingers cutting
ribbons in the fabric of the atmosphere.

acrid scents of city pollution fuse
with mown grass and night dew and waking trees:
a cocktail served through the nose over the breeze--
                                                        ­ fresh air in a dead man's lungs.

here is life lived on high
giddy wheeling 85 and 90
not a soul in sight
enveloped in the music
dazzled by the starlight
drunk on speed
dizzy to

*this is release
Beth Ivy Sep 2015
turning leaves inspire
renewal: the beautiful
hope of a good death.
it's finally september.
Beth Ivy Mar 2015
you live in a crumbling castle:
bricks of musty newspaper
mortared with decades of dust
solidified in grease, cemented in decay.
you constructed an impenetrable fortress.

your storehouse is filled with broken plastic,
moldy photographs, crusty nick-knacks.
here you count worthless tin trophies,
shattered glass and empty bottles.
you're drowning in your treasury.

there was a time i knew that castle well:
palace, gaol, it held me fast.
i could be captive or courtier
but your role never changed:
benevolent or tyrant, king you reigned.

but a castle of refuse cannot stand forever;
an empire built on brutality topples.
subjects eventually revolt
and refugees seek brighter days;
fleeing or fighting, the kingdom falls.

yet you remain, clinging to the rubble:
scraps of paper, broken records.
rusted memories and fossilized mistakes.
wandering towers of unread books,
a broken king repents alone.

and here i am, a knight on a horse
to sweep in and hear you, to dig you out.
but when you cry for help i falter--
cautioned, i yet hold out my hand,
but you can't let go and i'm afraid to go back.

it's gone and we're gone and she's so far away.

you live in a crumbling castle:
bricks of words you can't take back
mortared with decades of mistrust
solidified in guilt, cemented by hurt.
you're trapped in your pitiful fortress,
                                                                *and i cannot get you out.
for my father
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