This is no life,
Ev'r being invisible.
Our shadows know each other not.
Every night we arrive here,
At top of hill, under owl's secret bow'r,
To ****** her ancient, solitary reign,
Near imagin'd tow'r.
We dance around our fires,
Some singing, a few braying,
This is our noon-night dance.
Some great secret hidden among the folds of the hill.
We here, we shadows, are a rather strange coven.
We come here to feel,
Every individual among the hidden.
We all are numb before this hill,
We radiate sameness in the fake world out there,
But here we are as different as the Moon from the Sun,
Our two personalities no longer clashing.
As the little sparkle of freedom,
The untainted, dark-light finally shines through,
As it spreads and ensnare our senses,
We feel,
We feel the light-heat soothing numb limbs,
We feel the heat-light caressing strange, blue hearts.
And here we are,
Fully, finally, awakened.
                               -MoonFirefly

I saw thee once- once only- years ago:
I must not say how many- but not
many.
It was a July midnight; and from out
A full-orbed moon, that like thine own
soul soaring,
Sought a precipitate pathway up through
heaven,
There fell a silvery silken veil of light,
With quietude, and sultriness and
slumber,
Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared to stir, unless on
tiptoe-
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these
roses
That gave out, in return for the love-
light,
Their odorous souls in an ecstatic
death-
Fell on the upturned faces of these
roses
That smiled and died in this parterre,
enchanted
by thee, and by the poetry of thy
presence.
Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
I saw thee half-reclining; while the
moon
Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses,
And on thine own, upturn'd- alas, in
sorrow!
Was it not Fate, that, on this July mid-
night-
Was it not Fate (whose name is also
Sorrow),
That bade me pause before that garden-
gate,
To breathe the incense of those slum-
bering roses?
No footstep stirred: the hated world
all slept,
Save only thee and me. I paused- I
looked-
And in an instant all things disap-
peared.
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was
enchanted!)
The pearly lustre of the moon went
out:
The mossy banks and the meandering
paths,
The happy flowers and the repining
trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses'
odours
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
All- all expired save thee- save less
than thou:
Save only the devine light in thine
eyes.
I saw but them- they were the world
to me.
I saw but them- saw only them for
hours-
Saw only them till the moon went
down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie
enwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
How dark a woe! yet how sublime a
hope!
How silently serene a sea of pride!
How adoring an ambition! yet how
deep-
How fathomless a capacity for love!
But now, at length, dear Dian sank
from sight,
Into the western couch of a thunder-cloud;
And thou, a ghost, amid entombing
trees
Didst glide away. only thine eyes
Remained.
They would not go- they never yet
have gone.
Lighting my lonely pathway home that
night,
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since.
They follow me- they lead me through
the years.
They are my ministers- yet I their
slave.
Their office is to illuminate and enkindle-
My duty, to be saved by their bright
light
And purified in their electric fire,
And sanctified in their elysian fire.
They fill my soul with Beauty (which
is Hope.)
And are far up in Heaven- the stars
I kneel to
In the sad, slient watches of my night;
While even in the meridian glare of day
I see them still- two sweetly scintillant
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!

Mine eyes look upon the heavens with tears,
The sunlight soothes the large ravines on my back,
And the delicious winds does not sting.
I have been eclipsed,
My feathered wings viciously ripped away,
At the height of pleasures; the end of the ride.
A long fall followed, with many changes of the sky,
Flames surrounded me and open air, then the embrace of Earth,
Where I am to be eclipsed in the dance of moonlight,
And find onyx wings;eclipsed wings,
So I may run through the golden wheat fields at the end of dusk each day,
Picking up speed, I will go faster and faster,
And finally I'll fly.
Fly again, and find joy after misery and sacrifice,
After I spend each day in agonizing anticipation,
Of the freedom of flight.
I will never return after I've felt such things,
I will walk this earth, for eternity, free,
I will love and try not to hate,
Laugh, and only cry for joy,
I will not be oppressed, depressed, nor impressed,
By cruelty, and hurt, and pain.
I will be forever and always free,
Always and forever an eclipse.

Billy's hand lay on his hips,
Little honey swaying,
Twirling his string of pearls, puckering his lips,
Winking for blue jeans on James Dean,
Stomping in his neon green pumps,
Giggling, jiggling his belly lumps,
Chelsea Hotel #2 playing ov'r Old Gran's radio,
Over the rain outside.
Little honey swaying,
All drssed up,
Sweetly, innocently, wonderfully distracted,
From careful; from fear.
Billy was alone, and this is what happens,
Except for this one time, Daddy came home,
Afflicted by *****,
Saw Billy and screamed,
Squeezed his very bones,
Dragged him down the stairs,
His missing strap he mourned,
Knuckles rejoice; curses slurred.
Billy was ****** and crumpled in a corner,
Daddy passed out over the hall toilet,
*** staining his pants,
When momma came home.
She saw her boy, her little ***** baby and screamed,
Mother ran outside,
Rain adorning her skin,
As her mind facing every sin.
Billy could no longer cry,
He now wanders as another,
All but his true self, his heart is dry.
It hurts, it tears, it bleeds,
Once was enough,
Was all it took.
Masks! Liars! Liars! Fools.....

[Hellcat]

By the bubbling stream,
Lay your head down,
On my lap of reeds.
Oft the lyre was struck,
Flatt’ring music,
Ne’er ceasing, ne’er circumscrib’d.
My horned boy give in,
Sleep in this lea,
Under secret bow’r,
Beside stream,
Under imagin’d ivy-mantled tow’r,
“It’s time.....for the rite,” I whispered,
“Sleep shall bring you no pain.”
Come, leave thy clothes here,
To be washed, like the tow’r, by the rain.”
Your lithe body was warm,
Rub’d against my chest,
Creating a ling’grin feeling,
Sweet,delicious friction,
Sending my eyes reeling.
My sweet catamite,
Still unfathomed are your feelings,
No revenge shall you be granted,
Oh yes! I know, but we may not tarry,
Mis’ry awaits,
And glimm’ring moon,
Welcomes us, th’inevitable mates.
                                                          ­      -*Firefly

I am but a horned boy,
I need no compassion,
Still afraid of shadows,
Still quivers in the wind.
The jersey devil called me brittle,
“A brittle, crumbling fool you are,
“But don’t worry Lucas,” he said,
“I’ll be with you forever,
“Under Mother Moon’s stars.”
I trembl’d at that,
Hoped he wouldn't notice,
‘Twas the Fates who cruel,
Me, the Hellcat.....and shadows.
Seething silhouettes,
Wielding daggers,
Squeezing thy pulsing heart.
Mine own fears fill thy mountain stream,
Brittle, now timorous,
Struck with afflicted dreams.
Confusion, rapturous, the wind whispers in a niche,
Tales of vengeance to remember,
Conceived I a plot,
Look out Hellcat!
Fear I, and the word: dismember.
                                                      ­       -**Firefly

Yea I found a flaw!
You like meats ****** raw!
We go to sleep in the crypts,
Hungry like black holes, like pits.
We saw magic on the trees,
Made by yellow bees.
Then you took a fall,
I ran to the tree,
To cry and call.
You fell to darkest torment,
Your back was crook’d,
Depression and anathemas I cooked.
The jersey devil took me away,
The ***** promises sounding like a horse’s bray.
I laid in his arms on the way to his lair,
Stepped with him into his hole,
Ready to forget the dreaded lighted air.
He preyed on me, A parasite to a catamite,
My eyes drooped,
A lonely boy sacrificed to a woeful rite.
                                                           ­                   -*Firefly

Sneering at the flicker of fear in my eyes,
You made your way to my side,
You kissed me, your lips stained with lies.
Your blade you raised,
Glinting in the moonlight’s daze,
Slowly swooping down to me,
The air now a crumbling maze.
A mysterious, quiet, cool danger rained down,
But he made a sound,
And into darkness you had grown.

I laid and watched for shadows on the wall,
He laid, scratched my skin,
O’er my neck his tongue crawled,
So tired,
My hope to fall.

‘Ere at the break of dawn,
Uhtceare,
Recalling the cool, iron feel of his fangs,
Mountain stream,
Blue-black, heartbeat,
Fell thirst,
Unexpected my lust, his cold desire.
Wishing for thorned skin,
Torn,
Desire-hate,
Distraction serves evil.
Vengeance I beg hither,
Clasp my heart,
Chase away desire.
                                   -**Firefly

He lay spent,
Beside me,
Under our canopy.....or tent.
I cried and watched the spaces between stars,
Seeing you,
Beautiful,
Coveted flowers of war.
Regret was like a most fearful murrain,
Troths as deadly as poison taking root,
Where it hurts most,
The misery of the brain.
The pity, and beauty, and power of my death,
Lay as a teasing indecision,
An untouched mystery, whispering, almost out of breath.
The firefly light flickered,
If he was awake,
I’d have bet a wish he’d have bickered.
An old shadow appeared on the wall,
As familiar as sleep,
The forbidden memories I keep.
Your shadow, determined to haunt,
Came to our bed,
banishing the warmth.
My tears choked me, blue and unyielding,
You, now a misconceived pain in my heart,      
Stabbed at his neck, with a silver dagger you were wielding.
                                                       ­                                                  -**Firefly

The ink crawled down my throat,
Mixing with the blood,
Without a boat.
They sneered at the dare,
Cruel friends,
Open-mouthed stare.
A fire kindled deep within,
They still laughed,
My eyes watered,feelling a sting.
Foam at my mouth,
Stupid urge to pout.
Distracting the feeling of fall,
Shouts all around.
Abhorrent playground.
No one continued to notice the frail,pale boy on the ground.
Ardor of death,
Feeling of dread,
Tasting someone's cold breath,
My soul,wispy,fragile threads.
Suddenly my eyes closed,
Devoid of feeling,
My end fate chosed.
                                   -**Firefly

Children of the Mother Dark, the Mother Light
Born to grow as the river flows,
Sweet, deadly, O’ mockers of crows,
Born in slivers of flame, burning light,
Inevitable,
Dead by unholy night,
‘Ere thick dark,
They suppress the wind as they burn,
Blood, angst, depression rites,
They tip their heads,
Singing to their ashes,
Magic and torment contorted in dread,
Withered their dance,
Like decaying life,
Crawling souls, deathless prance,
Silence, thick and cruel,
Edge of noise,
Modulation of moonlight, Breath Fuel,
With the change of light, change of form, change of life?
Death’s children took flight,
Wings’ hurricane,
Reflection of misery,
The dark and light of the moons,
Screaming the awaking mystery.
                                                        ­  -**Firefly

I am who whispers to the stars,
For the little stream,
I cried to replenish everything now down-wind.
Many saw me,
Playing sweet lyre, my fingers blue,
Under pale moon, my hair silver.
They all stood a ways away, watching,
All seemed lifeless statues, grey in the moonlight,
Solemn and austere, blue and unyielding.
The cold never seemed to bother them,
Standing there shell-shocked, eyes-locked,
Lo the wonder in their eyes.
I now slowly begin to enjoy myself.
'Twas easy to pluck the strings of their hearts,
I'd give them a gentle caress,
Then suddenly a catatonic strum.
But as it always turns out, I am the one truly shell-shocked.
It's just the way the indifference mingles with increasing fear,
As if this is all okay, but there is something wrong,
Something sneaky and dangerous,
And that their minds are nearing th'inevitable conclusion,
To near-see truth behind their mindless crave,
The truth of how beauty creates such awe,
And leaves them all in such dire, treacherous need.
                                  -MoonFirefly

Depression has finally turned around for me,
Picked me up from mine broken spot,
Shattered heart, the cage my soul lay trapped in.
Pretty butterflies were left by me to rot,
Thine song has ended, the violin crumbling, my dance crooked,
Don’t pull me in,
Let me be.
Thou sweet decay, this paradox on my sun burnt-skin.
Depression and I, woven tightly, as if in a tin,
Now I dance like this,
Song for myself,
Don’t pull me in,
Let me be.
Awaiting mine lovely, silent day,
When mine own breath is free, the last, single, rotten breath,
And when the salty tears no longer wet my tongue.
The air has lost,
Forgotten, the wetness of thou lips,
Eyes closed, still, lo the frost.
Standing, no longer me,
Thus a ghost,
Muddy silhouette,
Always in the background,
Always trying,
To appear less and less.
                                           -**Firefly

Shadows of blood pooling below,
Echoed in his eyes, far above,
Fears lay on the land, blue-black crows.
He takes in mem'ries of the feelings of men,
His unfortunate creations, conceivers of sin,
Breeders of the evil, breathers, 'o lungs broken!
Hot tears on his golden cheek,
So many fell, the evil grows,
He cries for the fallen, the robin's broken beak.
In this time of the rise of the fear,
Uplifted evil, earth-thick dark,
Clashing cries of sorrows, no silence to hear.
Blood seeps from the earth,
The mother weeps,
Black pits' mirth.
Unholy the heart's abode, smoke-fire,
Brimstone ripping the skies,
Broken, ******, decaying bodies,
Lo the wolves of dire!
Carrion, Fear's black teeth imbibing flesh,
His eyes clouded over,
Black dawn, unconcealed gore.
                                                          -­**Firefly

Fireflies fluttered past my window,
Silhouette the moon,
Unable to resist, I crawled out,
Moist, night-covered grass flattened beneath me,
I looked about,
Trying to spot light in this dark, tree-filed space,
A tickle behind my ear,
A loud giggle threatening to erupt,
I spun around, not wanting to stop.
How amazing it is to feel this free.
But suddenly there was an orange glimmer,
And again no resistance surfaced,
To spin again, taste freedom.
I am no longer trying to catch fire-light.
Nearly all disappeared at once,
Except one, staying afloat head-high.
'Twas afore my eyes, alluring, being of night,
It flickered on and off, a living switch-light,
Then it began to lead me on,
Confident I'd follow,
Of course, there was no resistance.
I'm a silhouette now,
Moving between the trees,
Tiny light leading darkness on,
Both appearing less and less,
Dark and Light,
Both parts of night.
                    -MoonFirefly

The sky boat floated just beneath the moon,
Just above imagined ivy-mantled tower.
Gold-flecked, ivory clouds just out of reach,
Like the firefly,
Suspended just ahead, pale then gold-light,
Beautiful against brilliant 12 O'clock blue,
Blue deep as overwhelming sea,
Tear-jerking, snare of senses,
Lo this sight of feeling,
Mem'ry of freedom livid,
Warming; caressing once stone-tight grey
face.
Entranced by a sudden breeze,
A taste of grass, scent of ocean and sand,
Feeling of spirit, sounds of heavy moth wings,
As a whole, finally, an image of embodied freedom.
Suddenly something bubbles up, crawling along skin,
Dragging along newly heightened expectation.
My Firefly glows ever brighter, deep fire-light,
But still a little less than Moon Mother above,
So bright, capable of ling'grin behind closed lids,
Permanent, like this new hope,
A hope like a wish newly formed,
Warm and vulnerable and free.
                           -MoonFirefly

Fly not yet; 'tis just the hour
        When pleasure, like the midnight flower
        That scorns the eye of ****** light,
        Begins to bloom for sons of night,
         And maids who love the moon.
        'Twas but to bless these hours of shade
        That beauty and the moon were made;
        'Tis then their soft attractions glowing
        Set the tides and goblets flowing
        Oh ! stay, -oh ! stay,
        Joy so seldom weaves a chain
        Like this to-night, that, oh! 'tis pain
        To break it's links so soon.

        Fly not yet; the fount that play'd
        In times of old through Ammon's shade
        Though icy cold by day it ran,
        Yet still, like souls' of mirth, began
         To burn when night was near,
        And thus should woman's heart and looks
        At noon be cold as winter brooks,
        Nor kindled till the night, returning
        Brings their genial hour for burning.
         Oh ! stay,  -oh ! stay,-
       When did morning ever break,
       And find such beaming eyes awake
         As those that sparkle here?

His finger tapped the book,
Encouragingly and gentle,
That old finger,
That had pulled triggers in the war,
That had touched his girls in tender ways,
He gave me a smile and tapped again,
Sunlight shining in his grey hair,
In his beautiful eyes,
I haven't looked down yet,
And he was still tapping,
I was thinking of his many crinkles,
Smile creases and frown wrinkles,
The day was ending,
I should leave soon,
I should look down,
But mesmerizing, was his teeth,
And I stared and counted,
And I observed his ear hairs,
And nose hairs, and beard hairs,
But the old man tapped again,
On the blank strathmore page,
I haven't drawn him yet,
His green eyes fail with the falling of the light,
I hurriedly drew him,
He paid for my work,
A work that dissatisfied,
So I went home,
And wrote about him,
Filling a page and a half.
                           from firefly

He travels in scarlet,
A scarlet shirt for all the fears.
He would go around and smile at all of you,
He may shake your hand,
And hope the tremors beneath his skin are hidden from your dry palms.
For even though he looks you in the eye,
He is afraid, always, since whenever,
Frightened, petrified, secretly exuding panic.
But this little boy, the one in red,
Was brave enough to face all of you,
For touching you may mend,
That part inside his mind that chokes,
At every bit of human contact,
Ever since that first night of contamination,
When red had become bad on his sheets,
When a candle was lit, slowly,
And he was made to watch as it burns,
And feel, and see, and scream,
But as the flame, over the years, slowly fade,
Another creeping memory,
Edges long since frayed,
A battle raged inside him,
And he told me,
"I will fight,
For tommorow and hope,
For the sunrise and heat,
But of all things,
I will fight for that smile you'll give,
When you see me cured,
I will fight for that hug,
And all our nights."
I have our hope,
And I will wait and watch,
As he touches you and grin.

It took him awhile,
To decide to dance,
He was always the first,
To roar, to prance,
Nevermind his sweaty palms,
As he pushed off the wall,
As he bowed,
Before her cotton dress in a graceful fall,
His hand hung for eternal seconds,
As she decided; looked around,
But, ah! Lo! His eyes, they beckon,
And as the entire room gawked,
At the bold, beautiful ****,
As he bowed before an ugly, pimpled nobody,
As if she were a queen; the most beautiful in this here, his flock,
And as the ugly, pimpled nobody,
Dared to consider, to frown, to appear unsure,
Of this, what was sure to be pure allure,
Finally, she ended his wait,
With hesitant nods, the innocent wide-eyed child,
He smiled beautifully, leading with a mesmerising gait,
They alone swept the floor,
She was surprised at this happiness,
And he was relieved of disappeared nervousness,
For he thought himself lucky,
To dance with one such as she,
The people they can stare,
He don't mind it, he don't care.

He is thick night,
Earth-dark.
He crawls, whimpers, scratch,
He bites at my throat,
In frightening dreams and out,
A thrill to hear me scream,
Heart beats faster, pushes him over.
He is the cold that creeps up my toes;
The broken, ****** fingers feeling me;
The cracked lips scraping against my neck,
As his silver fangs scratches my vein.
He was the straight jacket,
Reassuring my insanity.
Can I please him?
Can I scream that high,
Scream till I give him goosebumps?
Scream till he begs me to stop.
I'll make him writhe,
Make his toes curl,
Make him buck and grind.
Can he scream my name?
Can he please me and my dark desire?
I'll run my burnt nails along his thigh,
I command him,
The King Disaster.
For he is mine,
My fear,
My fear that makes my heart race to ecstasy.
I'll make him feel all night,
Before the cold,
Before he returns to your world and the...
Fright, screams, the cold and dark dreams.
I fear he must go,
And I must await its return,
He is it, not a he,
Fear is a thing, a wild thing.
He is fear,
And I,
I am fear's master.
                                -MoonFirefly

Heat,
Epic fires exploded behind me,
Giving my greased-up hair more shine.
The look on his face, horror,
My limbs stretched, strings of flesh holding together,
He screamed,
My head flung back, smile,
Contorted dark desire.
He screamed again,
This time one of high ******* proportions
Scream, lust, fear, urge!
Moonlight  now dancing among light-fire,
Space burning,
Limping, backbones growing to Earth.
Growing smile.
"Wider! Wider!" I screamed,
Growing smile, lengthening, graying hair,
Blueing heart, ashy bones, growing smile.
He screams, seemingly forgetting feet,
He screams, real mis'ry melting his face.
He screams...... Awake now,
Alone in his midnight room.
I stand in the darkest of the shadows,
Waiting to be washed away,
By the light of dawn.
                                        -MoonFirefly

I see hands,
Around throat,
Claws digging into skin, scratching pulpers.
Moans; sounds of ecstasy.
He likes pain,
He wants you to cut him, kiss him,
Shrugs, doesn't matter.
He dreams of razor kisses,
Dark bars,
Pool and wild darts.
Giggling in the blue, fluorescent corners,
They lick, nip, nibble, taste!
He is on the edge of phenomenal feeling,
Leaning over; falling in.
Perfect time to cut his throat,
Tie a noose in imagination's eye,
He would love that,
If you gave him pain,
So he can moan again.
Now you know his world,
What he likes.
He is fire,
He is pain.
                     -MoonFirefly

It shatters,
Into tiny green shards.
Peaceful garden turned rubble.
He is like dirt, he likes the ruin.
When he felt the pain of seeing,
He knew,
He saw it all happen.
Lithe form merging with rough hands,
He sighs now, remembering,
All that happened before,
All he had seen,
It didn't happen twice, thrice, nor six times,
Times are more, his mind has grown more,
His heart pumps rage more.
Rue, crumble, contort, free!
All he felt before,
And all that came now, he let them be.
The rage, blue-flames, wrath,
His unbecoming and rebirth,
Then ashes and flames,
Now sin and woe,
Next tears and rubble,
And finally silence,
Terrible silince, terribly wrong.
He is effluence
Effluence is wrath.
                                    -MoonFirefly

To stare at the ground and wonder when,
To prance about looking for the wring'd necks of wrens,
To die, but wake a next day,
‘Twas how the Hellcat lived,
Up in the mountain garden,
All alone,
His face broken.
He sings each day,
Until final light,
When he drowns with a bray.
The tears streaked from eye to lilac sodden ground,
Where he curls into a ball,
Skin wrinkled,
Grey hair falls.

Mother Moon’s light comforts her child.
She bid the tears away,
Strong-willed, she watches his soul sway,
Her hand extended, catching light,
Warm, kind, soft it felt in her hand,
She smiled, tears well, swallowing fright,
The soul entered his mouth, when her hand came hither,
The light returned to her child’s face,
Very bright, growing, without fear,
Too bright even for her.
Mother Moon took flight,
Not looking back, hearing baby’s first laugh,
Good, true songs of night.
She sat in the dark clouds,
Resting, awaiting the morrow,
Waiting for his tears, his songs, his death, all dreadful sorrows.
                                                        ­                                             -**Firefly

His feet was crunching snow.
The dark was thickest,
Battled only by a single light.
The snow crunched beneath his feet,
But the doe made no noise,
She passed,with confidence,through the trees,
For she was nothing but light.
Deeper and deeper into the forest she led him,
And he walked quickly,
He was sure that when she stopped,
She would allow him to approach her properly,
And then,he assumed, she would speak,
And the voice would help him understand.
At last she came to a halt,
She turned her beautiful head towards him,
And he broke into a run.
A question burned against his cold,
But as he opened his mouth to ask,
She vanished.
He was tired and confused,
There was wetness somewhere,
But everything was muddled,
He only thought of his doe.
He was descending into a dark pool,
His head swung to and fro,
He seemed to forget he couldn't see through dark,
Nor did he realize properly the depths of his dementia.
Waves lapped his chin,
He seemed impervious to the cold,
He walked on,still searching,
A madman's errand.
A sliver of fear penetrated his mind,
A trickle of doubt,
A pinch of awareness.
He was fully submerged and wondering at the burning in his nose,
"Where is my light?"
Lo the doe appeared,
'Ere eve of death,
A ways ahead,before him,
Big silver eyes watching,bitter eyes,
She started deliberately stepping backward,
Wickedly leading him on.
He tried to follow,
His body contorted,
He struggled for breath fuel,
For the poisonous air,
His heart skipped into his mouth.
The doe grinned,
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
He still didn't recognize danger,
He was staring at his doe,
Mesmerized,his eyes confused, his face reflecting fear,
His mind cracked with cold,
The surface of his consciousness broke.
He was withered and shriveled,
Falling into the cold,darkness beyond,
Every pore of his body screaming in protest.
He looked at his doe again,
Somehow remembering,on the threshold of death,
Her face was indifferent,
He tried to force his eyes closed,at least look away,
Her face then changed,
A cold,cruel,contorted mask.
She sneered,
Loving to linger, craving agony, she likes to put her hands in death.
                                                                                                          -**Firefly

Where best to hide?
Where shall darkness and death abide?
Where to curl up and die alone?
To close my eyes,
Feel now.....more.
Dance as darkness embraces,
Spin the golden thread,
O’ thin despair.
Gravelly moans, pain streaked face,
Can I hide from this dance?
Backbones slowly bending,
Growing to earth,
Crawling soul,
Dread’s painful prance.
Sliver of flame,
Enveloped me, as a wreath,
Cries muffled,
Murmurs:
“Close eyes,
Feel now.....more,
Take this rite,
Bleed, feed me forevermore”
Overwhelmed, I close my eyes,
Overwhelmed, by that second,
That second my heart bursts and bleed,
That second my last, perfect breath is freed.
My crooked jaw,
Hangs free,
Sinister smiling,
At dread’s painful prance,
Thin despair,
Now this is how I dance.
                                             -**Firefly

How lonely would you be,
Sitting on the only rock,
Above water in a lake?
Can you cry,
If I were to die,
Drowned beneath these waves?
Listen to the flying shadow,
He cries, he screams, he travels with ******,
Foreshadowing awaited end, floating up,
Out of the water,
I can no longer touch the border,
Of water and earth,
And the transparent evidence of my life,
No longer does it irritate me,
No longer does it sparkle in this underwater sunshine.
How happy would you be,
If I were to rise?
How happy would you be,
If I appeared alive?
                             -from firefly

How very lonely HP is,
In the middle of the night,
Reading long ago poems by friends,
Tapping little red hearts,
Only time I'm available,
After dusk; hours before dawn,
Reposting poems, my fingers just as assailable as Moby ****,
Or Hansel's and Gretel's witch,
I stare at blank, gray suns,
Wishes I, I had some to use,
To uplift; to free,
All the beautiful poetry,
Even the ones with coquetry,
I rapidly kiss plusses with my right thumb,
Adding to worthy collections,
Of addictive confections,
'Till 2,
When alas I sip hot coco,
Scratch my ****,
And fall asleep beside my cat; momo.

He begs to die bathed in moonlight,
Dry heaves, blood,
"Murrain of feeling," he says,
His eyes looking dire.
Convulsions, white-hot pain,
Wandering to death's end,
Can't trod off the path.
A final kiss,
Heated desire.
Spreading pain,
Pleasure Disease's lovely rain.

I swat away flies,
Knee-deep in swamp mud,
Gore covered grass.
I beg to die with him,
Mingle our blood! Take two,
"Put me through hell again-"
Wavering voice, eyes met,
"-I miss the fire."
**** me too, let us both die.
Both refusing to live without the other.
Wish granted.
Lovers' gnarled limbs,
Entwined, dried blood,
Severed bonds,
Wing's cracked.
                             -**Firefly

"Leave me be."
Scrawled in blood these words,
Red Blood, now brown,
How long ago has he occupied these stone walls?
Tearing at his veins to form three words.
Three mysterious words,
That hath grappled my heart,
'O the unspeakable thing!
This hill taken over by crows,
A dreary place that held my love.
I ran as fast as I can.
This place, envisioned by me, as a clasp over my heart,
Land I can see for miles,
With only the wind whispering
A barrier to strangle all light.
Unbidden tears fell now.
Fear I, that I've come too late.
"Leave me be." Reverberating echoes.
I am daydreaming
"Beware the air"
So clear!
Fell to my knees,
My tears grew towards the mud-caked ground

Five Days

Hallowed his eyes,
He walks in the woods,
Blind but feeling.
Then on rock and sand he stood.
Encased in dementia.....fear,
So lovely his mask,
Blue-black with tears.
On the verge of corrupted task.
Moonlight whipping his silver hair.
Blood playing on the waves,
He heard wind echoing through *****' lairs,
Rocky beach, site of death's crave

She hurried past trees,
Making her way by moonlight,
Hellfire at her heels.
Images clouding her mind, the dark closing in on him,
Lo thick night!
Bound by his clasp on her heart,
Making her melt, out of breath.
Eve of his death pushing tears,
Blinding and hot,
Conceiving fears.
She saw him,
Taking a step unto empty air,
A daydreamer, never here.
She pulled him back.
Embracing lips, spell-broken,
Once whole,
The darkness rolled away,
Like a wagon over a bridge.
                                                  -**Firefly

Flowers to drown in the pond,
Frogs to make a blood bond,
Hysterics and cruelty,
I laughed, making it echo in the tree trunk,
Forgetting classes I just flunked,
I rolled in the grass,
smelling the green and powdered glass,
Ignoring cuts on the nose,
Went to frolic in the pink garden rose,
‘Ere I saw a red-black, lovely beetle,
Snickering at me,
Showing it’s needle,
Curiosity, red-sight,
Taking it in my hand,
Marveling at innocence,
I closed the trap, feeling the beetle decay to strands,
Despite my mind, my blue heart shed a tear,
So lovely the beetle,
Without a blue-black fear,
So quickly the light rolled away,
Murrain of regret, the cruelty that once was disappears,
Inside me lays moths and trolls,
And now,
The lovely beetle’s soul.
                                           -**Firefly

The stone, cold sidewalk lay below,
It's getting closer,
I bid the last breath to blow,
Flames, heart-racing,blue-black,windless night.
Tears forming, evaporating.....evaporating.....ditto,
Depression made clear,
Behind eyes,the devil's motto.
Confusion at my right hand,clarity disappears.
Firefighter's water,
My beloved abode no more,
Tears of men,hellfire licking the walls.
I stood,staring from afar,
Drowning in the torment that has come to call,
The world hushed,my vision torn to fragments,
Heat of salty tears.
Everything frozen in time,
My fears forever mine.
Confusion lays unsettled in the bowels of the soul,
Wreathing thick murrain,
Screaming at the misery of the brain.
I was startled,whimpering with bewilderment,
Everything before me in a trance-like state,
Then began awaking.
The men with sweet water,dear,
Starting surging backwards,
Their faces devoid of thought,without fear.
Like rewinding a record,
Time flew backward,
I stumbling,stunned,steel-cold.
Boom!,
Explosions,
I'm unable to move.
Then suddenly I stood up,
Walked unwillingly to the fiery effulgence,
Led by a teasing indecision,an untouched mystery,
Depleted of resilience.

The world stood still once more,
Froze me in place,
I fell into dementia's eye,
Nothing beclouding the gore.
Then regenerating,
Time modulating from cinders,beautiful phoenix,
Reality it began disseminating,
Blurry images flood my sight,
Blood,anger,depression rites,
Recapitulations,I beg for light.

My husband stood before me,weaving misery and woe,
Cursing me,making me small,
Shoving me under,way down low,
He stands as cold as ice,
Yet he burns inside,
He swings,hits,spits,
A love forgotten,
Dead inside.
He cuts me with the knife,
Watches my blood run,
My reality decaying,he's having fun.

Deep in the bathroom tub,
I lay fighting back shivers,
Making in the water red ripples,
Release my body's crave,
I uncovered in my mind a mystical grave.
Such dementia to see him flailing in my hands!

The daydreamed lust seemed inconceivable,
For the fiend still lives.
On our bed I saw him lay,
I remember how me met,
I fell into his arms,
Addicting,like to a powerful drug.
Conceived for evil,hmm,I might've found my way,
The idea came quickly,
I marveled at the absence of my active conscience.
I now creeped down the stairs,slithered!
Choking on hysterics,
On my spine angst lingered.
The kitchen door swung open,I stepped in,
Looking for th'inevitable tools,
Fury flared,kerosene and match I fumbled,
Feeling the arctic love as it crumbled.

So quickly I flew up the stairs,
My,my,my someone's anxious!
Ready to sear him,ignite his cold,fringe his hairs!
I fed my pain with venom-bitter hatred,
Stood ready to fry the *******,
My anticipation was sacred.
I stood before his bed,
Banishing the now present,dark,heavy,penetrating conscience,
The dream inside instead,I fed.
The mind picked up outside,
Midnight blows in through the window,
Dances 'round the room.
The kerosene I quickly threw,
Exiling any regret,
Ready to add the final ingredient to my dark,dangerous brew.
I striked,threw,watched the match,
Spinning through the air,
Waiting for the flames to hatch.
He awoke with the arrival of the fire,
Dark screams I like,
My cold desire.
Mariticide committed,
I tried not to laugh,
Joy was a pain,
Then my shrill scream was echoed by his bones,
Everything fell,the chains of the brain.
I smiled,now a black widow out of her cage,
Beaming at the empty hole of mis'ry,
Finally made satiable,the sin's wage.
Freedom came then,
Shattering,a worthy phenomenon,
It came into my crazy world,
Like a cool and cleansing rain.
                                                      -**Firefly

It seeped through my bones,
Made me a sputtering heart,
Lo this numbness,
See it in my eyes,
Touch me now!
Feel it inside,
This burning, white-hot cold.
I know you mean to tell me different,
That I may be over-reacting,
Over-imag'ning.
Thou skin has gone deaf to my calls,
Dead.
But tell me,
Lest thou eyes deceive you,
Do you not see mine own pallid skin?
See this now!
Dare not to tell me different,
Never mind, hold your tongue!
Thou face has already given away thou intentions.
Fix me dear therapevtees,
Take away this old lady's ailments,
Do not ail me.
Give me the Nepenthe,
Help me chase away my sorrows.
***** could be good,
Do you think?
I'll take anything you have,
Black Henbane, even Psilocybin.
Mend me please,
Stop this cold,
Make my days less dreadful.
It won't be long now.
Let this old lady go to death grinning,
However stupid it may seem.
I shall laugh in the face of death,
This old, sagging face shall laugh,
Just me and death,
Very old friends.
                                -**Firefly

You may be old, but you are not governed by fear,
Death comes and you welcome it,
You laugh at the few who cry,
Your heart still wanting to be alone,
I want to be just like you,
But is that wise, Old Man?
You hate the wind,
Is it because you can't be free like the winged?
You think love is a foul word,
You embrace resentment,
I want to be just like you,
But is that wise, Old Man?
Have you ever had a friend?
I bet you don't need one,
I bet you never had your heart broken,
I wonder if you have one,
I want to be just like you,
But is that wise, Old Man?
                                              -**Firefly

I'm still quietly rotting away,
I hope no one notices,
I hope no one prays.
This old soul requires no pity,
Ancient soul of no regret.
Dying mind, but still thoughts of fluidity.
I see the flakes, flying visible every sunset,
My skin is tearing away,
My heart fails too,
I hear less throbs each day.
Grateful am I, of the absence of tears,
The absence of fears.
I can willingly walk 'till the end of the light,
I can walk happily to the dark at the end of this tunnel,
Thankful, that I am not that old I'd have to crawl.
I feel, on this day, my last,
As if I was sixteen again, spending my first night right here, under the wooden bench,
'Lo how quickly 16 becomes 60,
How quickly does 60 become 0?
I know there is no one I've left behind,
No sentimental article of comfort; of value,
Except, perhaps,
The cold, wooden bench at the south side of the park,
Or that beautiful bluebird that sings from his fountain,
Or perhaps,
The stinging, black spots I see when I look at the sun,
Or the feel of warm earth under my fingernails,
Perhaps I'll miss it all,
And imagine I'm back at the park,
When I'd truly be emflammed; burning,
Or perhaps, hopefully,
I'd just be moving from one park to the next,
One life to the next,
Nothing between, but death,
A small, trifle thing,
The largest of fears that is to be overcome,
If I am to be rewarded,
If I am to finally be at peace, true peace,
If I am to belong,
Anywhere, but this park.
                                             -firefly

The double moon, one on the high back drop of the west, one on the curve of the river face,
The sky moon of fire and the river moon of water, I am taking these home in a basket, hung on an elbow, such a teeny weeny elbow, in my head.
I saw them last night, a cradle moon, two horns of a moon, such an early hopeful moon, such a child’s moon for all young hearts to make a picture of.
The river—I remember this like a picture—the river was the upper twist of a written question mark.
I know now it takes many many years to write a river, a twist of water asking a question.
And white stars moved when the moon moved, and one red star kept burning, and the Big Dipper was almost overhead.

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,
      Say, could that lad be I?
Merry of soul he sailed on a day
      Over the sea to Skye.

Mull was astern, *** on the port,
      Eigg on the starboard bow;
Glory of youth glowed in his soul;
      Where is that glory now?

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,
      Say, could that lad be I?
Merry of soul he sailed on a day
      Over the sea to Skye.

Give me again all that was there,
      Give me the sun that shone!
Give me the eyes, give me the soul,
      Give me the lad that's gone!

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,
      Say, could that lad be I?
Merry of soul he sailed on a day
      Over the sea to Skye.

Billow and breeze, islands and seas,
      Mountains of rain and sun,
All that was good, all that was fair,
      All that was me is gone.

I'm here alone,
As always,
Without another soul,
The clouds felt soft as my fingers touched them,
The moonlight played on my face.
I feel strangled,
Trapped,
From inside my loneliness stemmed.
The effect of laying down and feeling the clouds,
Was as if there was nothing beneath me,
Nothing to keep me from falling.
The creak of the planks was solid comfort,
The hard feel of them against my back,
Reassuring and whole.
I'm here alone,
As always,
Without another soul.
In my sky boat,
One without sails,
But made, still, to travel by wind.
I may not know where I'm headed,
I'm not in a hurry,
I hope it's instant death.
I gotta get out of this place,
My sky boat,
If it's the last thing that I do.
Away from this place where the sun refuse to shine,
Fearing the rot,
Lo the crumbling mem'ries.
I want to get away.
I'm here alone,
As always,
Without another soul.
You can be sure that I wish for comp'ny,
Someone very special,
A person blind to my ugly face,
Someone to keep me from falling.
Punishment done together may be easier than alone,
But my special person doesn't deserve this.
There aint no use in trying,
I may be dead before my time is through.
I looked down now to the void below,
Gold flecked clouds trying to conceal the dark.
A raging curiosity,
One that kills.
I stand up,
Then wavered on the edge of my sky boat,
There aint no use in trying,
I may be dead before my time is through
Loneliness.
I stepped onto empty air,
No one to keep me from falling
I didn't die,
I escaped.
                  -**Firefly

The lonely path I have known,
No comfort sought,
No compassion,
Scorned pity.
O'er the darkened hill,
Patches of darker blood,
To this pen they are drawn,
My heart controls my hand,
Absence of mind.
The draining bond.
Great mountains remember me,
I wound around you for miles,
After where the sycamore grows,
I sat down right there and stretched my bones.
Listening to the wind, lo the whispering flows.
I'm still searching for myself,
I lost I on the morn of darkest day,
Worries about the morrow.
Searching for something to strangle the sorrows,
That something for myself,
To chase away the shadows
                                                   -**Firefly

Look how the pale Queen of the silent night
doth cause the ocean to attend upon her,
and he, as long as she is in sight,
with his full tide is ready here to honor;

But when the silver waggon of the Moon
is mounted up so high he cannot follow,
the sea calls home his crystal waves to morn,
and with low ebb doth manifest his sorrow.

So you that are sovereign of my heart
have all my joys attending on your will,
when you return, their tide my heart doth fill.
So as you come and as you depart,
joys ebb and flow within my tender heart.

“Discipline allows magic. To be a writer is to be the very best of assassins. You do not sit down and write every day to force the Muse to show up. You get into the habit of writing every day so that when she shows up, you have the maximum chance of catching her, bashing her on the head, and squeezing every last drop out of that *****.”
― Lili St. Crow

“What I try to do is write. I may write for two weeks ‘the cat sat on the mat, that is that, not a rat.’ And it might be just the most boring and awful stuff. But I try. When I’m writing, I write. And then it’s as if the muse is convinced that I’m serious and says, ‘Okay. Okay. I’ll come.’” — Maya Angelou

“Suggestions? Put it aside for a few days, or longer, do other things, try not to think about it. Then sit down and read it (printouts are best I find, but that’s just me) as if you’ve never seen it before. Start at the beginning. Scribble on the manuscript as you go if you see anything you want to change. And often, when you get to the end you’ll be both enthusiastic about it and know what the next few words are. And you do it all one word at a time.” — Neil Gaiman

“Meggie Folchart: Having writer's block? Maybe I can help.
Fenoglio: Oh yes, that's right. You want to be a writer, don't you?
Meggie Folchart: You say that as if it's a bad thing.
Fenoglio: Oh no, it's just a lonely thing. Sometimes the world you create on the page seems more friendly and alive than the world you actually live in.”
― David Lindsay-Abaire

“Now, what I’m thinking of is, people always saying “Well, what do we do about a sudden blockage in your writing? What if you have a blockage and you don’t know what to do about it?” Well, it’s obvious you’re doing the wrong thing, don’t you? In the middle of writing something you go blank and your mind says: “No, that’s it.” Ok. You’re being warned, aren’t you? Your subconscious is saying “I don’t like you anymore. You’re writing about things I don’t give a **** for.” You’re being political, or you’re being socially aware. You’re writing things that will benefit the world. To hell with that! I don’t write things to benefit the world. If it happens that they do, swell. I didn’t set out to do that. I set out to have a hell of a lot of fun.

I’ve never worked a day in my life. I’ve never worked a day in my life. The joy of writing has propelled me from day to day and year to year. I want you to envy me, my joy. Get out of here tonight and say: ‘Am I being joyful?’ And if you’ve got a writer’s block, you can cure it this evening by stopping whatever you’re writing and doing something else. You picked the wrong subject.” — Ray Bradbury at The Sixth Annual Writer’s Symposium by the Sea, 2001

“writing about a writer's block is better than not writing at all”
― Charles Bukowski, The Last Night of the Earth Poems

Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite:
"Fool!" said my muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write.”
― Philip Sidney, Astrophel and Stella



“What I try to do is write. I may write for two weeks ‘the cat sat on the mat, that is that, not a rat.’ And it might be just the most boring and awful stuff. But I try. When I’m writing, I write. And then it’s as if the muse is convinced that I’m serious and says, ‘Okay. Okay. I’ll come.’” — Maya Angelou

“Suggestions? Put it aside for a few days, or longer, do other things, try not to think about it. Then sit down and read it (printouts are best I find, but that’s just me) as if you’ve never seen it before. Start at the beginning. Scribble on the manuscript as you go if you see anything you want to change. And often, when you get to the end you’ll be both enthusiastic about it and know what the next few words are. And you do it all one word at a time.” — Neil Gaiman

“I encourage my students at times like these to get one page of anything written, three hundred words of memories or dreams or stream of consciousness on how much they hate writing — just for the hell of it, just to keep their fingers from becoming too arthritic, just because they have made a commitment to try to write three hundred words every day. Then, on bad days and weeks, let things go at that… Your unconscious can’t work when you are breathing down its neck. You’ll sit there going, ‘Are you done in there yet, are you done in there yet?’ But it is trying to tell you nicely, ‘Shut up and go away.'” — Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird

“Now, what I’m thinking of is, people always saying “Well, what do we do about a sudden blockage in your writing? What if you have a blockage and you don’t know what to do about it?” Well, it’s obvious you’re doing the wrong thing, don’t you? In the middle of writing something you go blank and your mind says: “No, that’s it.” Ok. You’re being warned, aren’t you? Your subconscious is saying “I don’t like you anymore. You’re writing about things I don’t give a **** for.” You’re being political, or you’re being socially aware. You’re writing things that will benefit the world. To hell with that! I don’t write things to benefit the world. If it happens that they do, swell. I didn’t set out to do that. I set out to have a hell of a lot of fun.

I’ve never worked a day in my life. I’ve never worked a day in my life. The joy of writing has propelled me from day to day and year to year. I want you to envy me, my joy. Get out of here tonight and say: ‘Am I being joyful?’ And if you’ve got a writer’s block, you can cure it this evening by stopping whatever you’re writing and doing something else. You picked the wrong subject.” — Ray Bradbury at The Sixth Annual Writer’s Symposium by the Sea, 2001

“The secret of getting ahead is getting started. The secret of getting started is breaking your complex overwhelming tasks into small manageable tasks, and then starting on the first one.” — Mark Twain

“The best way is always to stop when you are going good and when you know what will happen next. If you do that every day … you will never be stuck. Always stop while you are going good and don’t think about it or worry about it until you start to write the next day. That way your subconscious will work on it all the time. But if you think about it consciously or worry about it you will **** it and your brain will be tired before you start.” — Ernest Hemingway

“Many years ago, I met John Steinbeck at a party in Sag Harbor, and told him that I had writer’s block. And he said something which I’ve always remembered, and which works. He said, “Pretend that you’re writing not to your editor or to an audience or to a readership, but to someone close, like your sister, or your mother, or someone that you like.” And at the time I was enamored of Jean Seberg, the actress, and I had to write an article about taking Marianne Moore to a baseball game, and I started it off, “Dear Jean . . . ,” and wrote this piece with some ease, I must say. And to my astonishment that’s the way it appeared in Harper’s Magazine. “Dear Jean . . .” Which surprised her, I think, and me, and very likely Marianne Moore.” — John Steinbeck by way of George Plimpton

“Over the years, I’ve found one rule. It is the only one I give on those occasions when I talk about writing. A simple rule. If you tell yourself you are going to be at your desk tomorrow, you are by that declaration asking your unconscious to prepare the material. You are, in effect, contracting to pick up such valuables at a given time. Count on me, you are saying to a few forces below: I will be there to write.” — Norman Mailer in The Spooky Art: Some Thoughts on Writing

“[When] the thoughts rise heavily and pass gummous through my pen… I never stand conferring with pen and ink one moment; for if a pinch of ***** or a stride or two across the room will not do the business for me — … I take a razor at once; and have tried the edge of it upon the palm of my hand, without further ceremony, except that of first lathering my beard, I shave it off, taking care that if I do leave hair, that it not be a grey one: this done, I change my shirt — put on a better coat — send for my last wig — put my topaz ring upon my finger; and in a word, dress myself from one end to the other of me, after my best fashion.” — Laurence Sterne

“I learned to produce whether I wanted to or not. It would be easy to say oh, I have writer’s block, oh, I have to wait for my muse. I don’t. Chain that muse to your desk and get the job done.” — Barbara Kingsolver

“Writer’s block…a lot of howling nonsense would be avoided if, in every sentence containing the word WRITER, that word was taken out and the word PLUMBER substituted; and the result examined for the sense it makes. Do plumbers get plumber’s block? What would you think of a plumber who used that as an excuse not to do any work that day?

The fact is that writing is hard work, and sometimes you don’t want to do it, and you can’t think of what to write next, and you’re fed up with the whole **** business. Do you think plumbers don’t feel like that about their work from time to time? Of course there will be days when the stuff is not flowing freely. What you do then is MAKE IT UP. I like the reply of the composer Shostakovich to a student who complained that he couldn’t find a theme for his second movement. “Never mind the theme! Just write the movement!” he said.

Writer’s block is a condition that affects amateurs and people who aren’t serious about writing. So is the opposite, namely inspiration, which amateurs are also very fond of. Putting it another way: a professional writer is someone who writes just as well when they’re not inspired as when they are.” — Philip Pullman

Fire is inside you,
Inside me,
Little one,
Born at the bon fires at night,
Born of greed; greedy lust.
They all took me here,
Took your mother away,
Flung her sweet face to dirt,
Where she tasted the moss,
And felt the fire;
Pain; pleasure rain.
I used to fear, you'd born dire,
Like,
The cleft lip that marks a sad life,
Like,
Being born with no legs!
How I feel now, legless,
For I am unable to move,
Except for a little cringe,
As fiery rods were forced inside me.
But I must confess,
That I started to like the way that felt,
But that was before,
Before the last of the cuts opened within me,
And a gore and blood mixture drained.
But my sweet child,
You were also born to the sweet scents of night-woods,
Born of the moon and stars; dark and light.
And your cries made me regret,
No! No! Never did I regret you; my life,
I regretted my thoughts,
Those of penetrating myself with cold, steel rod,
A real one, mind you,
And I attempted to pierce your developing heart,
To **** you and end my fears,
I feared in my mind you would be born with the features of sin,
But lo! It is not so, my sweet, sweet baby.
I was not impregnated by those men,
I was not impregnated by the weak trickle of life,
That spews from their desire-rods.
My dear boy,
I was impregnated by the lovely night!
Sweet, sweet night......

Tread softly my dear,
Embrace the shadows,
Snicker at crumbling fear.
Follow I, for I've seen it all,
Yet it still happens now.
They have your love by the Hanging Tree,
He may be dead before the hour after midnight.
Look for the signs,
No need for the light.
His flickering life shall burn like a comet over Earth,
It will burn away,
Come!
Or you'll have to look for bones in the bay.
There they are!
Ready to string him up,
What shall you do?
Leave or you'll hang too,
Remember,
For I've seen it all.
Now is when you decide,
For I shall never believe you are to live alone,
Not live, but then you should die.
Leave or you'll hang too.
Trod the path of life,
Or you can die with your beloved,
Under the glimm'ring moon,
Here under the Hanging Tree,
What shall it be?
I know already,
For I've seen it all,
Remember.
                      -**Firefly

Necklace of rope around your neck,
Cold sparkled your tears,
Mingling in our kisses,
Drawing out fears.
Blood crows' broken beak,
Moonlight mourning the free.
Your glimm'ring eyes,
'Ere eve of death,
Last thing mine heart aches to see.
Strange things happen here,
Under the Hanging Tree.
"String me up!
Lest apartheid influence separation,
String me up love!
Sing me songs of silence, kiss away segregation!"
My voice unwavered,
Decaying church bell tolling twelve,
Cold, cracked fingers fumbling rope.
Moon lighting the way,
The wind whispering,"hopeless,"
Frigid lies hope.
Shuffling of feet in the woods,
Edge of moonlight creatures stood,
Watching the Hanging tree,
Where the dead told his love to flee.
                                                           ­       -**Firefly

The old fool whispers:
“The wind always lies”
His mouth frothing with spit,
Tongue attracting flies.
He pranced around,
As if in a play,
Arms growing towards the ground,
He groped his *****, mottled dress shirt,
Lifting it up to show,
His smirk suggesting a flirt.
In his cloudy gray mind,
He was in an oasis,
Looking on intricate desert, talking to the wind.
The wind,
Wild thief of old,
Wanted to steal the man’s heart of gold,
He wore many faces,
The dancer-prancer, the merchant, the *****.
He danced with the old man,
Tying his brain with laces,
The old man was twirling,
Humming a tune,
Laughing as into the water he went.
                                                           ­    -**Firefly

The Moon more indolently dreams to-night
Than a fair woman on her couch at rest,
Caressing, with a hand distraught and light,
Before she sleeps, the contour of her breast.

Upon her silken avalanche of down,
Dying she breathes a long and swooning sigh;
And watches the white visions past her flown,
Which rise like blossoms to the azure sky.

And when, at times, wrapped in her languor deep,
Earthward she lets a furtive tear-drop flow,
Some pious poet, enemy of sleep,

Takes in his hollow hand the tear of snow
Whence gleams of iris and of opal start,
And hides it from the Sun, deep in his heart.

I stroke these flames,
And pat my tail,
Tapping the dust away.
I whisper to these dead flames,
And look above,
Begging for the relieve by day.
No longer do I glow in Night,
It was sudden, this cold,
And the darkness in here scares me,
The flutter of my wings echo in hollowed oak,
Making me jump,
Making me wish to rip them from this back,
If only I could reach; stretch further,
But ah! I cannot.
But as my heart took another leap,
And I saw shadows on my wooden walls,
I looked to the skies with watering eyes,
As seven billon lights floated in the night,
And the world was lit,
As if it were day.
A smile appeared to my lampyridae lips,
I was barely conscious of the wind leading me away,
I was humming a beautiful melody of my forefathers,
A song sung with the restoration of hope,
The world can light itself during dark!
They are finally here,
People! Man! **** sapiens!
And the world has lit the dark for them,
The sun is warm;
The wind is sweet, for them.
And though sad, we are happy to no longer be needed,
We love this world, but others await, dormant, eager to be lit.
So we disappear this day,
Hardly noticing the return of bioluminescence,
Etching in our memories,
Seven billion stars and the Moon's beautiful crescence.

                      Love and Light
                            from firefly

A forgotten poem by Henry Brooke ( Irish Dramatist/Novelist)

Taken from poetrynook.com http://www.poetrynook.com/poem/universal-beauty-book-3-lines-301%C3%B4%C3%A7%C3%B4400

Or cool recess of odoriferous shade,
And fan the peasant in the panting glade;
Or lace the coverture of painted bower,
While from the enamell'd roof the sweet profusions shower.
Here duplicate, the range divides beneath,
Above united in a mantling wreath;
With continuity protracts delight,
Imbrown'd in umbrage of ambiguous night;
Perspicuous the vista charms our eye,
And opens, Janus like, to either sky;
Or stills attention to the feather'd song,
While echo doubles from the warbling throng.

Here, winding to the sun's magnetic ray,
The solar plants adore the lord of day,
With Persian rites idolatrous incline,
And worship towards his consecrated shrine;
By south from east to west obsequious turn,
And moved with sympathetic ardours burn.
To these adverse, the lunar sects dissent,
With convolution of opposed bent;
From west to east by equal influence tend,
And towards the moon's attractive crescence bend;
There, nightly worship with Sidonian zeal,
And queen of heaven Astarte's idol hail.

" O Nature , whom the song aspires to scan!
" O B EAUTY , trod by proud insulting man,
" This boasted tyrant of thy wondrous ball,
" This mighty, haughty, little lord of all;
" This king o'er reason, but this slave to sense,
" Of wisdom careless, but of whim immense;
" Towards T HEE ! incurious, ignorant, profane,
" But of his own, dear, strange, productions vain!
" Then, with this champion let the field be fought,
" And nature's simplest arts 'gainst human wisdom brought:
" Let elegance and bounty here unite —
" There kings beneficent, and courts polite;
" Here nature's wealth — there chymist's golden dreams;
" Her texture here — and there the statesman's schemes;
" Conspicuous here let Sacred Truth appear —
" The courtier's word, and lordling's honour there;
" Here native sweets in boon profusion flow —
" There smells that scented nothing of a beau;
" Let justice here unequal combat wage —
" Nor poise the judgment of the law-learn'd sage;
" Tho' all-proportion'd with exactest skill,
" Yet gay as woman's wish, and various as her will. "

O say, ye pitied, envied, wretched great,
Who veil pernicion with the mask of state!
Whence are those domes that reach the mocking skies,
And vainly emulous of nature rise?
Behold the swain projected o'er the vale!
See slumbering peace his rural eyelids seal;
Earth's flowery lap supports his vacant head;
Beneath his limbs her broider'd garment's spread;
Aloft her elegant pavilion bends,
And living shade of vegetation lends,
With ever propagated bounty blest,
And hospitably spread for every guest:
No tinsel here adorns a taudry woof,
Nor lying wash besmears a varnish'd roof;
With native mode the vivid colours shine,
And heaven's own loom has wrought the weft divine,
Where art veils art; and beauties beauties close,
While central grace diffused throughout the system flows.
The fibres, matchless by expressive line,
Arachne's cable, or aetherial twine,
Continuous, with direct ascension rise,
And lift the trunk, to prop the neighbouring skies.
Collateral tubes with respiration play,
And winding in aerial mazes stray.
These as the woof, while warping, and athwart
The exterior cortical insertions dart
Transverse, with cone of equidistant rays,
Whose geometric form the F ORMING H AND displays.
Recluse, the interior sap and vapour dwells
In nice transparence of minutest cells;
From whence, thro' pores or transmigrating veins
Sublimed the liquid correspondence drains,
Their pithy mansions quit, the neighbouring chuse,
And subtile thro' the adjacent pouches ooze;
Refined, expansive, or regressive pass,
Transmitted thro' the horizontal mass;
Compress'd the lignous fibres now assail,
And entering thence the essential sap exhale;
Or lively with effusive vigour spring,
And form the circle of the annual ring,
The branch implicit of embowering trees,
And foliage whispering to the vernal breeze;
While Zephyr tuned, with gentle cadence blows,
And lull'd to rest consenting eyelids close.
Ah! how unlike those sad imperial beds,
Which care within the gorgeous prison spreads;
Where tedious nights are sunk in sleepless down,
And pillows vainly soft, to ease the thorny crown!

Nor blush thou rose, tho' bashful thy array,
Transplanted chaste within the raptured lay;
Thro' every bush, and warbled spray we sing,
And with the linnet gratulate the spring;
Sweep o'er the lawn, or revel on the plain,
Or gaze the florid, or the fragrant scene;

“A writer is someone who has taught his mind to misbehave.”

― Oscar Wilde
"What people are ashamed of usually makes a good story."

- F. Scott Fitzgerald

“I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge – myth is more potent than history – dreams are more powerful than facts – hope always triumphs over experience – laughter is the cure for grief – love is stronger than death” . — Léon Bloy

A writer never has a vacation. To a writer life consists of writing and thinking about writing." - Anonymous.

“Knowing exactly where he is is as important to a writer as it is to a blind man.”–Ross