I dreamt of you
in clouds of blue,
and woke
when the clock
struck two.
I looked to see you
through hues of violet,
standing in the springtime dew.
She was there above you
kissing you softly,
and calming your midnight woos.
She knows your desires,
and pulls at your heart
she is a goddess
to the darkness in you.
I can not compete
for your heart
she does keep
above with the
stars in the sky.
I know how you love her,
her beauty
like no other
I can see it in
your emerald eyes.

I wonder often which side
Of the coin I am on,
The magnificent irony of God
For giving me words;

I am the lightless eyes that see
From the dark what is leftover
From a library of dreams that
Seem dimly lit longing to be.....

Each stanza I vainly write,
Or are they written already,
Insensible scribblings wondering
If I am the poem or the poet,

A book of sonnet infinite,
Inaccessible rhymed schemes
Prewrit as the lost manuscripts
Of Alexandria lost to fire,

I live among the metaphorical,
Gardens of verbs and fountains
Of nouns, the blind word speaks
All that is seen.

Librarian of my days,
The the form is free I believe,
The cosmic universe in which
I write call to me in words,

Who am I?
The poem or the poet,
The twilight of my days have
Come to wonder what's real,

The delectable world I watch,
The words feed into me,
I realise I am a poet
Living inside the poem.

The ease with which you point the finger
The speed that you apportion blame
The bubbling groan beneath your lid
Sentinel of poisoned veins

The furnace crackling beneath the ***
The trembling of an iron lid
The hissing of the noxious gas
The pallor of the body’s skin

The line you walk is steep and narrow
With tumbling crevasses either side
The pack you bear is sharp and heavy
The chance of falling ever high

The dreamers dream of transformation
The torrid churning lavas cease,
Pure freshwater streams will flow ahead
To quash the hate and bring the peace

But I never once gave up, because
I still had a few low lifes to prove wrong.

"Oh Ella, what have you done?"
Must I explain again?
I've fallen in love with fear,
It's made me stronger and
Fuled my brand of fire. Is that wrong?
"Oh Ella, what have you done?"
I'll say it once,
I've learned to slap sour, poetic, spitting lips
Away from my face
With no hesitation, is that wrong?
"Oh Ella, what have you done?"
I can't keep repeating.
I walked through hell with a smile.
Skipping around flames, letting dust
Tangle in my hair. Is that wrong?
"Oh Ella, what have you done?"
Do not judge my strength.
I've raised myself on the edge
Of the lion's backbone,
Now foverever changed, safe, why is that wrong?


"Oh Ella, what have you done?"
Nothing.

I no longer answer to you.

(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)

I.

There are the balladeers,
Working in service of their inner Service,
(Though, despite the seeming impossibility,
Their hackneyed verse is even worse)
Creating tortuous rhyme
Which slows down labyrinthine narratives
Ending up in some deus ex machine
So implausible that it would make Euripides blush
(Most often courtesy of some unforeseen projectile
Or sudden viral contagion;
Would that their creators meet such a fate!)

II.

I come not to praise the so-called sonneteers,
But to bury them.
They are an earnest lot,
(Lord knows that they are earnest)
And they will make their fourteen lines rhyme
(Though sometimes the rhyme scheme screams for mercy)
And hang the cost.
Though their narratives are head-scratching things,
And their iambs proceed with the steadiness
Of a nonagenarian church pianist
Doing her damndest to fight the wedding march to a draw,
They are content, nay, proud of their work
Because babble rhymes with Scrabble
(Though they are not particularly proficient with the latter,
They have the former down to an art.)

III.

Let us not forget the Buk-zombies,
Those apostles of aphorism,
Most of whom speak of their departed deity
As if he were an old drinking buddy
(Never mind that most of them were two or three
Or perhaps not even a bad idea
In the back seat of some mom’s Buick
When he exited this mortal plane, stage left, even.)
One’s mind is boggled whilst considering
The expanse of the bar required to accommodate
Everyone who would like to
(Or worse, have claimed to)
Buy old Charlie a beer, not that he’d stand for a round.
They are a sullen horde, this lot,
Best dealt with by aiming for the base of the skull.

IV.
Ah, the confessionals, Lord have mercy upon their souls
(For they shall have none upon ours.)
They feel so many things so deeply
As such things have never been felt before
(They have not read their Sexton, their Snodgrass,
Their Lowell, their Pl--well, no,
They have all read their Plath.)
It is, from the moment they arise in the morning
Until such time they set aside their fears and let sleep take them,
All too much for them,
And they bravely face the days
Until such time they care bear to take action
And fling themselves from some convenient precipice.
We should, as a service to them and ourselves,
Ensure the soles of their shoes
Are sufficiently worn and slippery.

(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)

We cannot
rush our healing.
This life is a journey,
and darkness
always
holds
a teaching.
Love is the light
at the end
of the tunnel.
She is there.
She is waiting.
She is never leaving.