I have yet to bare my soul to you.
I've seen some of yours,
beautifully ragged and torn and patched,
but still strong, gentle.
Like the old quilts my grandmother made.
Only you're not half so old as they.

Our souls are old, regardless of our mortal age,
they've known much, seen much,
staring through copper eyes into a spectrum
of past, present, future.
Mine linger in the past,
yours glance back now and then,
but always know what's behind.

He was born on Bastille day.
Very fitting, really.
The rag tag rebel with a thousand causes
worn down by hard life,
filled with an eternal fount of passion
that somehow renewed itself
after every failure and defeat
(and they were many).
Courageous heart, leathered and layered by scar tissue.
You'd storm every Bastille within your reach
If you thought there was even a sliver of injustice in it,
you'd even invent your own cause,
charge the windmills with a rusted sword,
screaming battle cries you once screamed over true battlefields.

The poetry is coming back.
I can feel it.
Maybe because home is so close,
and the bitter-sweet taste of leaving
is closing in.
Home? Which is home?
Some wandering blood in says wherever my head rests,
clinging to the heart-strings
I've tied round the trees here,
Or the ones I left unraveled
far away.

I move through the woods in ritual
The trees have shed their leaves like
Third sons and eldest daughters,
They cling bravely until the wind uncurls their hands
and bears them away from home.  
A scavenger, I search them out, hold them between finger and thumb,
Their last embrace.

Sometimes I will pluck a fading life from a branch,
melded amber and crimson,
the dregs of sun in their veins,
offered in the last vibrance of summer’s heat.
At home, I press them between pages,
tiny spells of weight and gravity
cast to keep their color.
I know this magic,
Autumn and I are kindred in this,
Our eyes are the same soft green and sepia of hiraeth
cradles of remembrance,
nets always cast back into memory.
Like all memories
There are a thousand useless,
The umber of old blood, trodden underfoot,
the seconds that dripped by unmarked.
But we hold the fragile, happy few,
High upon a shelf
the glowing phosphorus of laughter
The currant red of a last kiss
Returned to and returned to
Like an unanswered prayer.

The moon is too high for earthly alto
Below her silver parenthesis  
The pause of a half-note North Star
North and north,
What direction is up?
There is so much beyond our crude compass crosses
We are fond of our straight lines
When the world is round, round
Round as clasped hands, a red mouth
Overflowing with sound that runs down the chin like blood
Round as a helix cupped by fingers, by lips, by teeth,
Round as a dancers hips, circling their core as slow and sweet as the turn of Earth in gravity’s arms
Harm is angles,
The blade of a broken plough
A razor deconstructed
Lines drawn in sand by silver spurs.
When we have carved the trenches
When we have shoved the soft, stardust beings of us
Into corners, into cells,
When concrete replaces clay under our feet
And we have forgotten the feel of mud between our toes.
What have we
after this?
When we have forgotten
The rounding beat
Of our own heart.

Our epilogue is a grey sky
beneath it are the small plants I care for and bring to bloom
lavender, vervain, rosemary--especially
that anchor me to your memory.

You knew it meant remembrance
How the lathe of time reshapes, shaves
mud from my eyes
on the small abrasive moments
the little thrip-like wounds we never meant to inflict
and how they siphoned the spirit from us.

In the throes of want
I was hungry for more than arms--
there were times I could almost taste your soul
but even on the doorstep
when I caught the key from around your neck
it would never fit into the rusted lock,
despite all your honeyed words.

I have known men with varicolored souls
with wounded souls
with starving souls,
yours-- silver, mausoleum still
a ****** eating snow
to hide any sign of life.

Loving you, coaxing a stag to drink
holding water in my hands until
it seeped from my fingers into the earth, undrunk--
At my feet grew anemone and yew
living things
that do not have a soul
that want only what I can give
and never
promise
more.

You are growing.
You sound  
more like the man
I think you always wanted to be.
You emerge from this crucible
brave, unfurled, determined
and I am truly  
happy for you.

I watched you in your savage beauty
wild and untamed
You sprang from here to there to here
your garments rent
in splays of silk
trailing like wings behind you.
Your talon hands
they grabbed for mine
digging in deep and drawing blood.
I was no longer watching you
I was with you,
in this savage beauty.
Ignored pain drove through my hand
as you guided me through
your dance macabre.
How I loved you as I bled
my hands about your waist
You kissed me with the kiss of death
And dead you fell within my arms
My deadly, lovely, savage thing
with splays of silk
enveloping you.

The terrain of your loneliness falls under my hands
soft as cinders in a snuffed fire
We have both burned, in our way
and under my breath
Embers ignite, the soft glow
And incandescent heat of our palms, tenderly met
Lanterns in a grey sea
we light as beacons
For our lost ships
calling them
To safe harbor.

I sewed my mouth shut with broken heart strings,
A shard of bone to pierce the lips.
A sliver of rib, I think.
My voice was never worth hearing
unless it was channeled in ink.

His touch was
like sunlight on my skin
the sweeping skim of kelp across marbled coat
his webbed fingers tracking their rough edges
through the sand.
In the storm's howl he was calm
the chaos of waves in my belly slowed
an unearthly peace
of tide-pool eyes that stilled the seventh stream.  
The waves roll out and the waves roll in
and out my love rolls with them.
Seven tears shed at Spring tide
for love of a man
whose heart
is sea bound,
sealed.

We hovered in wounded silence
our briefly exchanged words drifting
around our ears
whispering themselves over and over
in our minds,
and even when the whispers faded,
the furrows they dug in our brains remained.
As our arms unlocked,
arms that had melded over such a short time
But still found release a struggle
And when their bond had broken,
we walked away, shattered.
The last remnants of ‘us’
being swept away by rivulets of rain,
that ran down our faces.

Born to the veil
peeled out like a peach with the old iron knife
rose quartz, slow flesh, thin newness in January air.
His grandmother kept the caul for luck
pressed between the pages of her bible
and the old ways.

His silvern eyes mirrored the tarnished coin his mother slipped in to his fist
at christening.
Droplets of hope, heavy on small lids
and when he lifted them
he saw his first ghost
over the priest’s shoulder,
her gauzy lips grazing his cheek.

His luck was the vaporous three-legged dog that followed him everywhere.
Its dusky warmth on his feet,
the comfort he could not sleep without
for there were too many nights
his dreams had the flavor of ash and mire
and he would wake, panting,
the heat of his fear snatched by the cold nights.

In the village
the girls asked him who they would marry
until he told the raven-haired her sailor floated somewhere in the Atlantic,
the ring he bought her in Portugal
resting on a finger of coral.

The white heather his mother tucked in to his cap
stayed green, even past the dream of her prostrate in the market square—
He warned her against buying apples In autumn,
but in September, he felt the tell-tale jolt of loss,
keen as raven’s wing through cloud
dropped the plough, sprinting through the fields of winter wheat.
His gasps matching hers
the viscous pump of blood through ventricles
one stream running dry.

At the apple stall
the copper eyes of the butcher’s wife
burned holes in his heart
as he watched his mother’s soul
drift from her breast into the ether.
It slipped by his hands, goose down through fingers,
formless, aimless love that would spin itself into grief
the cloak woven from its threads
one he would wear
for the rest of his days.

She dreamed of pomegranates among lilies,
red orbs glowing among the white,
water beneath, black as soot and death,
while life drifted just above the surface.

She thought of Catherine of Aragon,
forlorn loves, starved dreams,
desolate, but beautiful, on the surface of death.
The most lovely thing about life,
is that it ends.

I don't want to be more.
I want to be less.
So much less that I disappear
shrink, fold
rendered
to the tiniest sliver
indiscoverable.
So minuscule,
my hands are rendered too small
to do any more damage.

Signposts

The signposts at the end of her life
Swam in watery fades
I don’t know if she had time
To forget how to read
But there were no books in her room
Just the echoing call of an uncertain bird
As we pointed the feathers out to her through the dusty blinds.
And later
When she was gone
I could not cry—
everything I knew of her
slipped beneath a frozen surface
Running like the sound of water
In underground caves
Unburst and unfelt.
I asked for a blood letting,
For him to stay with me
While I found something sorrowful enough
To bring the memories to the vein’s surface
And he held me while I sobbed
At a mother feeding her starving daughter
Trying to save her from herself.
I do not know
If my grief stays buried so deep
To keep the surface waters calm
Or if it had dried, and isn’t there at all
And I am digging a well
For an imagined thirst.

The silence
is too loud here.

Today I want to crawl away and bleach my mind.
A balloon of Worries rises in my chest
compressing my lungs till it's hard to draw breath.
classes,tuition, taxes, fear, nothing makes sense, I don't know what to do                          
I want to crawl back into the recesses of childhood,                                    
To the smell of the house in summer, open windows, old wood,
traipse through the woods to the creek,
spend hours digging under rocks for salamanders,
When I though a quarter was a fortune,
when school was just books and friends.

Sometimes I think I just want to abandon it all,
find a sweet, simple, country boy
settle down in a tiny house,
have children, a boy and a girl.
Elias James and Elaenor Elizabeth          
I will take them down to the creek,
teach them to catch salamanders,
and crawdads without getting pinched.
Wash their muddy faces and feet
when they come in for supper.

Then I'll send them to bed, with a kiss and a story,
and my husband and I will sit on the porch,
hand in hand, staring at the stars,
talking about God and Man and all that is.

They tell me I would regret
not having a career besides that of motherhood,
but days like these sure make me think twice.

One day I will find the words
One day
But not today.

Today the words scamper from outstretched hands
I, clawing for one syllable, one sound
as they melt into the camouflage of boredom
Unreachable.

One day I will find the words
pluck them from the branches of my mind
gather them into the basket of a pen
and take them home,
lay them out to dry on a blank page.

I will paste them down,
thought by thought
verse by verse, dactyl, measure, line,
Till they've made a sentence
a phrase, a page.

One day, I will find the words
they will be simple, beautiful, soft
as I take their dry hulls,
and line them up in ranks
on the field of an unwritten page.

One day I will find the words,
but it is not today.

I am guilty of the sin of luck.
Serendipitously born into wholeness.
My head was filled with stars,
the sun placed in my hands.
And I never wanted more.
Who decreed me the fortunate one?
What stroke of fate, what hand of God?
I am grateful.
but why should I be whole
when so many others are broken?

Sit nos quibus pacem

Let us have peace,
tonight of all nights.
I know Time will not stand still,
I won't waste breath asking him to,
But, if, for the few hours,
till the break of day,
the guns could fall silent
the sharp tongues fall quiet,
and hate be taught for an hour, tolerance.

Sit nos quibus pacem

I know morning will break,
with joy for many, and with pain for more,
those to which this night,
is the same as the last, clanging with the hollow pains
of hunger and heartache and war,
but if we might,
for just one silver night,
have the peace
which you meant us to have from the start
I should be forever grateful.

Sit nos quibus pacem

I skip that song again.
Too many memories still hang on the words,
the notes clang like old glass bottles
the woman with the red scarf tied to the oak tree,
they knock in the wind, fragile whiskey ghosts,
of times to sacred to be remembered now.
So I'll skip that song
till the bottle strings break,
and my someday-daughter asks
about the snowflake shards of glass
beneath the old oak tree.

There are only small pains, now.
Paper cuts, hangnails,
sore arms from trash bags too heavy.
It is strange to be so free.
One grows used to the darkness,
the light, blinding.
I blink, my eyes dry,
I feel my pulse in my lips--
it feels strange.
I stare at the ceiling,
your memory resting on my chest,
lining the gap I want to fill,
but my hands lie empty.

I just want to see you grow
Stronger than  were before
I know it’s hard to trust a hope
But your heart was always stubborn

Hold on my darling
Don’t you let go
For don’t you remember
There are flowers beneath the snow

Well the path is may be long
To find again your soul
But I know it’s still there breathing
Your inner child knows

The walls you built were safer
But every wall it must come down
There is pain with all things beautiful
Your mind will come around

Hold on my darling
Don’t you let go
For don’t you remember
There are flowers beneath the snow

I see you in these fields of green
Your smile broad and true
The light it has relit your eyes
A stronger, prouder, you

Hold on my darling
Don’t you let go
For don’t you remember
There are flowers beneath the snow

I was going to write a poem
asking parents
To raise their daughters not to be soft
To warn that their honey covered lips
Draw flies.
That the sweetness we have had
Shoved down our throats
Is choking us
When we want to scream for help.

But it is not your daughter’s fault.
Parents, do not raise your sons to believe
They are owed answers.
The honey on a girl’s lips
Was never theirs to taste.
Her body
Is not a trap, not a vice
It Is her space in the world, autonomous.
Only animals see traps.
She exists for no one but herself.
Sons, if she crosses your path
Leave
Her
Alone.

And I wish that I could write
of pleasant things, of smiles and summer days,
But they would be dull, lifeless words,
that lie limp on the page,
like dusty plastic flowers.
My soul finds beauty in the palms of sorrow,
amid the lines of worry and heartache,
such beauty, that it can, and will,
describe it forever.

The beautiful spirit of life
lives in the spaces between people,
between the interlaced fingers,
of two children
who stroll down the sidewalk together.

Sparrows land on the telephone lines,
tiny scaled feet feeling the vibrations
of clumsy human speech
coursing through the connections beneath.
Come, tiny sparrow, nest in my hands.
My palms were hollowed to fit your wings,
My fingers poised to feel your heart
beat within the down breast.
I rejoice in finding something so beautifully real,
Authentic in your wanderings, your songs.
If only I could be half so truthful.

With moonlight between the earth and her feet
she wanders, shining soul,
the dark of the night
no match for her eyes.

The moon wonders down
at the bright creature,
melds her beams to stairs,
ascend, ascend,
Oh, brightest star.
Ascend to night's embrace.

The wind's fingers reached into his collar,
pinching him with the cold
With another stroke of the paintbrush
The blue mixed with the gold

The walkers who ventured o’re the shore
Stared at the mumbling man
Whose teeth were stained with yellow
And drank to calm shaking hands

The burning lights blurred in the water
Pooling refractions and ripples
He captured the heavenly bodies
As the canvas he covered in stipples

Azure he blended with the indigo,
canary and honey and flax
The cool and the warm melded in one
candle and moon, wane and wax

Soft falls the light in the harbor
The stillness of night overcast
In the river he cleans off his brushes
And turns round for home at the last.

I am of a strange alchemy.
Iron and tarnished silver,
with porcelain hands.
The rest feels like glass.
Fragile.
Vulnerable.
As though the smallest tremor
could send me falling
to shatter.

Sing me your street light lullabies.
The discorded harmonies
Of light that speaks unease.
Wipe the concrete ash from your hands
Fill your pockets full of posies
Of cricket song and tree creaking in lament
Intone the notes that pass my lips
And taste them with yours.
There is an intimacy in this distance
A space filled with questions
Tangled over each other
Unanswered.

Reckless sleep
a car accident dream.
I see red, no, blue?
Someone is panicking outside
the imagined steel.
Big, gentle, I don't know him.
I am calm-- too calm.
They can't get the door open.

She was a child of the forest.
Birthed on a bed of moss
and swaddled in beech leaves.
Her first cries shook the trees,
as they reached branches out
to stroke new infant skin.
They coaxed her spirit into the bark
where it seeped into sap and through her veins.

He was a child of the sea
Born of the waves and rocks
placed in a cradle of sand
still wet with his mother’s blood
the sea winds stole his first breath
And cast his soul to the depths,
he would always return to the sea.

They were sun and moon lovers.
She, the daughter of golden light through leaves
He, the son of silver glints on dark waves, fleeting.
She would find him on nights of the harvest moon,
walking along the shore, stop him from running
into the sea.
He would find her at noon,
lying in the leaf mold beneath the trees
her eyes cloudy with sunlight.
He’d cover them,
afraid she would go blind.

Men have worn me like a talisman
braided my hair with their wants, twined it round their fingers
Kissed me for luck, whispered spells against my cheek
Slipped pieces of me into their pockets
later forgotten in the washing.
Like so many charms,
held me until I slipped from their hands,
into sand, into straw, into grass,
their hazel wands useless
as I watch from yarrow-stained eyes,
how gracefully
they let go
of things not meant for them.

I apologize that this is not a poem.
but a simple thanks,
to all my followers and fans
for creating such a lovely community here.
Thank you for your encouragement,
your compliments, your critiques, your concern,
and sharing your own work here, too.
Somehow,
it feels better, safer to share things with you all,
Nearly-complete strangers,
than with even my mother.
However your life goes on,
beyond the screen, between the words,
I hope it goes well.
Thank you.

Does that book still burn on your shelf?
Or have you stuffed it under your bed,
its pages torn, still smelling of cigarette smoke
with a few coffee stains.
(Mine rests next to Tolkien).

Do you flip through it once in a while?
Noting the words you marked,
once full of meaning.
Are they empty now?
(I found empty words in my copy).

Do you take care to avoid
the covert letter under the jacket flap?
Or maybe read it, and wonder
(I regret writing it.)

She viewed the sky as oft before
The dark clouds gathering, grey and dim
The scent of rain hung in the air
And she closed her eyes, and prayed for him.

The rain fell soft upon the field
Where enemies had come to fight
Man to man and sword to sword
Though the sword she knew, helped not their plight.

The dark ash shafts that she had watched
Her man so gently preserve
Drops from hells own thunder clouds
Steel points without mercy or reserve.

The great yew bow of sap and heart
Its elegant curves he’d crowned with horn
The string he’d twined so skillfully
With his calloused hands, so rough and worn.

The hands with which he’d clasped her own
And pledged to love her, as he loved the bow,
And slipped a ring of silver fine
upon her hand, she loved him so.

Her heart now leapt within her breast
As mail clad men shouted hurried orders
“Women to the baggage!” She heard them say
and she turned to join her frightened neighbors.

The men had no time to say goodbye
They took up their bows and off they went
Towards the muddy field below
She knew that most to their deaths were sent.

She took her place with other girls
Beside the carts and extra mounts
A buzzing whisper of nervous speech
Drowned the men’s descending shouts.

Now and again she closed her eyes
The cross was made and prayer began
She murmured to Mary, the ****** Blessed
To guard the life of every man.

She listened hard and heard the sound
Of thousands of throats shout muddled cries
Their words were lost within the wind
And a twanging note seemed to break the skies.

She knew the archers all had loosed
Their fingers plucked at the harp strings of Death
Her man had sent his goose-fledged shaft
On a journey to leave a widow bereft.

The clash of steel and screams of steeds
shattered the note of twanging bows
And she heard the battle rage all the more
As the melee rose in the field below.

The battle seemed to last for years
The noise of combat daunting and loud
Waned and waxed as the day wore on
But her prayers continued, her head remained bowed.

Salty tears fell from her eyes to
tight clasped hands, their knuckles white
Spare him, spare him, was her cry
And then the sun brought forth its light.

The army’s women raised their heads
And watched as their tired, muddied men,
Crested the top of the trampled hill
Warriors come from death’s dark den.

She searched the ranks with pleading eyes
For the well-known face of her lover true
But it seemed that countless men came
Streaming towards her, and none she knew.

Until at last the final rank
In mud and ****** mail encased
Came into the valley, worn and weary
And she saw at last the familiar face.

A cry of joy came from her lips
A prayer of greatest heartfelt thanks
Her feet grew wings and off she flew
Into her archer’s strong embrace.

I am the stream,
you are the dam builder
with gentle, work-worn hands,
you guide my free waters,
but do not diminish them.
You embrace me with
the caresses of smooth river stones,
till I am transformed from placid lake,
to tumbling rapid.

What’s the difference between
Drowning and drinking, adrift?

Between
floating unmoored
body taught drum leather
through the current’s veins and
slipping beneath the surface’s mouth
The brush of its lips over arms
body taught drum leather
And sinking until sand meets skin.

Swallow a drop, scream a wave
Salt-blind eyes, sealess, starless,
The compass spins in circles
Lost.  

Can you tell me what I’m supposed to see
I can’t make it out
from the periphery
I never could judge the distance
Between you
And me

The wise blood pulsed within her veins
First the sixth sense and then the seventh
Her mind was sick of self taught lessons
The clock struck the tenth hour, and then the eleventh.

Her eyes saw colors their’s could not
But names had she not for their description
The tint of wind and the hue of water
They thought it her dumb and idiot invention.

She heard noise when they were deaf
But she could not record or imitate the sound
The music of stones and the language of trees
They would not listen, for they spoke too loud.

She felt what they were too calloused too feel
But she could not weigh or measure the touch
The texture of thought and the surface of dreams
They said it was madness and dismissed it as such.

She smelled the fragrances they could not smell
But she had no perfume or cologne to match
The stench of pain and the scent of hope
They called her foolish, said her mind had been snatched.

Her tounge tasted tastes that theirs could not
But no herb could she find to imitate the flavors
The spice of music and the tang of peace
They said it was merely her tears she savored.

Her heart had taught her everything
Her mind to see, her nerves to feel
She’d wished for a prophet, a teacher, a sage
To show her that all that she knew was real.

But no philosopher would second her claim
No scientist back her with reasearch and facts
Her teachers all mocked her, laughed in her face
And so she fell silent to cease their attacks.

Her newfound knowledge boiled within
Bombarded, her mind was over wrought
She sank into despair with hardening heart
Lost without a soul with which to share her thought

As the clock struck the twelfth with a deafening clang
She stepped to the ledge and looked to the sky
A last sigh to the world, she drew a deep breath
And in silence the seven-sensed girl leapt to die.

Upon the hallowed ground she stood
The wind blew through her hair
A swallow swooped o’er the darkening sky
And the scent of rain filled the air

She heard the voices loud as thunder
Echo o'er hill and down
And warily she watched them
Ride their ghost mounts into the town

The rain now fell in torrents
Upon the hallowed field
But she moved not from her own same spot
As a deathly grip bid her yield

A hand of ice held fast her hem
Though she struggled against its grasp
She begged it there to let her go
Then from the earth she heard it rasp

‘One kiss my bonny sweetheart
the years were long since I saw thee last
It be cold here in the hallowed ground
Though I be but a memory of the past.’

‘I fought here on the battle ground
with rapier high and voice aloft
till down the enemy struck me fast
to lie in blood on the damp ground soft.’

The hand then loosed its steely grasp
And she saw her true love’s form
A cold and bleeding upon the ground
as more furious grew the storm

As the rain then pelted down around
The long lost lovers in their embrace
His bonny sweetheart spoke to him
With trembling lip and heart that raced

‘My own true love, my only
Long waited I for your return
I scorned the suitors who sought my hand
for your memory I would not scorn.

‘I prayed long for word or news
of thy well being or how thee faired,
but none e’re came to me at all
so I waited, hoping you had been spared.’

‘A truer love man never had
that would wait through tears and time
and keep the hope that I still lived
to find that in the ground I lie.

Forgive me, love, I’ve done thee wrong
To make thee wait for me so
Take my hand with one last kiss
And then my love, you must go.’

‘Nay my only, only love,
it’s here with you I’ll stay
I’ll not go back without thee,
I’ll stay by thy side, come what may.’

So upon the hallowed ground she lay
Hair damp and soaked to the skin
And by his side she lay all night
As she clutched his hand so thin.

The town knew not where she had gone
But in the morn they found
She’s gone to be with her one true love
Dead, upon the hallowed ground.

Upon the hallowed ground she stood
The wind blew through her hair
A swallow swooped o’er the darkening sky
And the scent of rain filled the air

She heard their voices loud as thunder
Echo over hill and down
And warily she watched them
Ride their ghost mounts into the town

The rain now fell in torrents
Upon the hallowed field
But she moved not from her own same spot
As an icy hand bid her yield

A hand of ice held fast her hem
Though she struggled against its grasp
She begged it there to let her go
Then from the earth she heard it rasp

‘One kiss my bonny sweetheart
the years were long since I saw thee last
It be cold here in the hallowed ground
And I lie and freeze a memory of the past.’

‘I fought here on the hallowed ground
with rapier high and voice aloft
till down the enemy struck me fast
and I lay in my blood on the damp ground soft.’

The hand then loosed its steely grasp
And she saw her true love’s form
A cold and bleeding upon the ground
she covered him with russet cloak to keep him from the storm

As the rain then pelted down around
The long lost lovers in their embrace
His bonny sweetheart spoke to him
With trembling lip and heart that raced

‘My own true love, my only
Long waited I for your return
I scorned the suitors who sought my hand
They said your love is gone and dead, but your memory I would not scorn

‘I waited long for word or news
of thy well being or how thee faired,
but none e’re came to me at all
so I waited, hoping you had been spared.’

‘Ah a truer love man never had
that would wait through tears and time
and keep the hope that I still lived
to find that in the ground I lie.

Forgive me, love, I’ve done thee wrong
To make thee wait for me so
Take my hand with one last kiss
And then my love, you must go.’

‘Nay my only, only love,
it’s here with you I’ll stay
I’ll not go back to my old life
I’ll lie here by thy side, come what may.’

So upon the hallowed ground she lay
Her hair damp and soaked to the skin
And right by his side she lay all night
As she clutched his hand so thin.

The town knew not where she had gone
But in the morn they found
She’s gone to be with her one true love
Dead, upon the hallowed ground.

TW: Suicide
*if you or someone you know is considering suicide, please call the National Suicide Hotline:
800-273-8255



My father walked in
Thinking his son was still in love with his life
But the letter
the letter
the letter
The pills
the pills
the pills
Scattered
Like the candy left from the Christmas parade
Da, how do I tell you
It was never because I didn’t love you
I do,
I do,
I do.
How do I tell you
Home is an echo, a smoke filled hazelwood  
Where I cannot put out the flames.
How do I tell you
The day we went Christmas shopping in the city
I cried in front of the window display
Because the cotton snow looked so cold
And it reminded me
Of when I was 6, and you set me on your shoulders
And we went out into the copse
To cut juniper boughs for the table
And came in smelling of wet snow and sweat and the soft, sweet pepper of juniper berries, hands sticky with sap
And Mum smiled,
And I cried because I knew
That was the last time I could remember I was happy
And even it was fading fast,
Flames curled around the charred edges of Mum’s lips,
Her teeth smoldered
And then she was gone into the swelling black smoke,
Curling burnt ribbons are all I have left.

How do I tell you
My fingers have razed the grey matter, amygdala,
thalamus,
cerebellum
Until they hung in charred threads
I dug a labyrinth of fire breaks in my brain
And still the Minotaurian roar of flames
Is eternal.
At night I cannot sleep, they are
So loud
So loud
So loud.
If you ever wondered
Why I am still awake at 3am
Watching late night TV in all its ****-filled glory
It is the closest I can come to numb,
And the fake family’s chatter
Is so easy
They say nothing, talk of nothing
And that is what I need
More than anything
To be nothing.

How do I tell you
It is not your fault
It is just that I am so tired,
So tired
So tired.
And the flames have burned my hands to stubs
my lungs are charred branches
That cannot expand without an exhale of ash
And I am so tired.
I have tried to climb out from under the weight
And I am dragged back in
Every time.

Da, how do I tell you
it is alright,
I have put it out
I  have put it out
It is out.
Forgive
Me.

He stood
chest bared before the mirror
studying
searching
trying to find the heart
that lay within
if there even was one.

He sighed
ran a hand through tousled hair
Wondering
mourning
why he could not see
the heart within
If there even was one.

He sat
on the edge of the bed
sinking
drowning
in his quest and the blankets
He thought he’d lost the heart
if there even was one.

He sank
farther into his despair
wishing
longing
that he had begun his search
A long time ago for the heart
If there even was one.

He slumped
body contorted and limp
feeling
thinking
that he was merely a body
a shell without a heart
he doubted there ever was one.

The letters I'll never send, dear
that shall never reach your hand,
but sit hidden within my mind
unwritten, unknown, and unread.

The words I'll never say, dear
that shall never reach your ear
but stay locked behind my lips
unheard, unknown, and unsaid.

The things I'll never do, dear
that shall never be recalled
but stay beneath a cloak of fear
unimagined, unknown, and undone.

The letters I'll never send, dear
the words I'll never say,
the things I'll never do, dear
because with you, I could not stay.

Youth, my beautiful lie
Forever weaving falsehood’s web
Adding more threads as the years slip by
To cover the frays
Begun by Time
For the work is too delicate to patch.

Death, my painful truth,
You watch my futile fiction grow
Waiting till you can cut
The tapestry from the loom
Your scythe sharpened,
Waiting,
To bring me into veracity.