You're not created only to write epistles of sad poetry and use too many metaphors,
Devoting them all to an address that won't write you back.
You're not made to be here to be held back.
Or to wait around for a call of your name from a voice that'll never bother to come around.
But you're made to love and to be loved,
To see things and to be seen.
To capture beauty in every way that is possible.
You were made to be.
And this is your call,
So be it.

Well met by moonlight we, like painted birds
Wing through the winking dark. In the half-light
Of looming streetlamps, and a bond, cast new.
Birds of a feather we, skipping in our
High heeled boots, songs dripping from our ginned tongues.

Fledglings; two young things painting the sky, and
It bends around us. Together we fly.

Since that first blue night of scrabbling through the
Waning light, you’ve been a strong branch, an
Essential part of my wavering nest.

All I have is gratitude, lay it at
Your feet. A hand to hold your spirit up.
My preening blackbird, you will always be
A poem-tongued and twilit queen to me.

i wish i were something else

her name still rests on his lips
and i taste her when i kiss him
he tells me she's dead but
her ghost is in our bed
and i can't even **** it.

she sleeps between us,
eats at his heart

and he won't even touch me
because i am what she's not.

he tells me she's gone
but i know the harsh bark of her voice
better than i know my own song

i keep singing
and singing
and singing
hoping to cut through what's wrong
i keep singing
and singing
and he knows the words now
but he won't sing along.

no, he won't sing along.

Chewie hasn’t touched his food
I hope he’ll be o.k..
It hasn’t been the same for him
Since Leia passed away.

He’s a melancholy Wookie
as anyone can see.
He mopes around the ship all day
And he’s molting terribly

Twas bad enough when Obi-wan
was struck down by Darth Vader.
But it’s no surprise when an old man dies
That’s expected, now or later.

Our Princess was a force you see
Bringing gales of laughter
which is why we want her here
and not in the hereafter.

He’s a melancholy Wookie
as anyone can see.
He mopes around the ship all day
And he’s molting terribly.


I hope one day we’ll meet again
In Mos Eisley’s Cantina
That gold bikini may not fit
But we’d still be glad to see her.

Land bewitched by the breathy ash,
Which falls, unreal, around me,
Subdues my inner ticking
With a single, ringing note

Or the dulled sepia mufflings
Of distorted joy and feeling;
An amber pool of flickering light
and blind entertainment.

The bright, unfocused conversation
Drifting in lazy circles,
Gold silk stretches between us
And smiles become light

My limbs slow, and my mind speeds up.

The fading world echoes these
Surreal rythms, softened life.
Yet panic blinds and cripples me,
As the grey fogs take hold

And the
Snow is gone.

The cram of stars in the navy-night
blue-light of summer solstice.

The majestic zodiac sprawled
across the ever-stretching sky.

Ancient definitions of myth
star-stories of pre-determined fate

mapped in the moment and place
of our birthing; such fantasies

such imaginings of stellar systems
and mankind’s significance.

Heavens and humours; rules and rights
from Gods to kings and subjects

All settled in an ordered Universe
until, curiosity, ingenuity and invention

observation and record, rigor and Science
with its license to question freedom.


© M.L.Emmett