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Mar 2016 · 539
To Lay & Lie
SY Burris Mar 2016
Last night, after I had lain down, I lied.
I sat, saturnine, basking in incandescent rays
Which impinged upon the back of my eyelids
Like the warmth of her smile.
I lay in the miry blankets and in myself,
Allowing the weight of my mind to wisp away
With slender traces of white smoke.
The room dissolved around me with the bar beneath my tongue.
I laughed.
Three years had passed since the last time I was truly happy,
But, still, I laughed. If only for a moment,
I had found a place where quotidian pressures couldn’t follow.
Unfortunately, it was only a moment before a thought occurred:
None of this is real.
Or, perhaps, this was the only part of my life that was real,
That is real.
Maybe the scripted days spent toiling away
Behind the particle-board walls of my cubicle are the dream—
A recurring nightmare.
Apr 2013 · 1.4k
Morning Rose
SY Burris Apr 2013
Each morning as the dew slowly builds up
And gently tumbles down my bedroom window pane,
I wake to find you slipping away. The summer
Shade has robbed your leaves of green,
And I can but watch you wilt and lilt into the grave.
These past two weeks have felt like dreams
That fade in and out of each other during the throes
Of my unending sleep, but I know that this desire
To paint your petals the dark red of your youth
Would only make me mad like the hatter.
Our queen, however, did change her surroundings
As she saw fit, and with, or without, a second thought
She shaped the whole of her kingdom into an arid oasis
Of thought and fancy; a land where lives the Jabberwocky.
So as I dive down this rabbit hole, I do not fear
What I might find below.
Instead I save my anxieties for what is known,
Like that one day you will no longer be my rose,
But a pile of memories about my bed.
Feb 2013 · 3.3k
Winter Bloom
SY Burris Feb 2013
An early bloom has split the air
With the subtle scent of azalea
And jessamine, the fragrance
Of a youth lost
Between the vines of honeysuckle
That suffocated the boardwalk.
I remember the night we last
Sat together beneath the summer sky,
And the purple torrents that crept,
Like death, ever closer.
We used to watch them and wonder
If the drops would reach out to kiss
Our troubled heads, or if the wind
Would blow them south to Savannah
Like lost balloons.
And when we walked out
Onto the dock to watch the reds swirl
Just beneath the salt marsh skin,
We saw Hydra rise to the surface
And swallow the day as easily
As time swallows an instant.
But the dark never bothered you-
No, you seemed to prefer it,
At least to the flashes of lightning
That oft slipped between the evening clouds.

But this winter bloom, soon, will fade
Leaving nothing left for May,
And only these memories of life
And love will last.
Feb 2013 · 1.5k
Flash
SY Burris Feb 2013
Have you seen the flash of green
That sits above the setting sun?
It fades away like every dream
That ends before it has begun.

But every night the sacred light
Returns again to speak to me,
And every night, the sacred light,
Reminds me of how things should be.

We all should laugh, or have a gaff,
At the day and what was done
And every grain of blessed pain
Should fade away with her, the sun.

But as the stars begin to shine
Above the murky atmosphere,
Our thoughts begin to turn to time
And how the end is almost here.

So grab your lass and fill your glass
And drink away the night with her,
If time should pass, as in the past,
At least you’ll spend the last with her.
Feb 2013 · 1.5k
KLW
SY Burris Feb 2013
KLW
Lately, I've noticed how light lingers,
Like sound caught in empty space,
Above the dim horizon long after the sun has set.
And as it dances in the wind with dark clouds that hang
Like morbid thoughts above the Earth,
I can't help but yearn to see my sun again
If only for an instant.

I fear the truth-
That when these last traces of her have faded from the sky
I will be resigned to wander and weather
This, my final winter, without her in the dark.
And should I look up and see the stars,
I may admire their beauty, but I will know it not real.
For they are only shadows of her,
Whose light only reminds me of the love I've lost,
And they could never be enough to illume my life.

So as I sit alone at dusk
And watch the world fade into night,
I wish that I could see my sun,
I wish that I could make things right.
Oct 2012 · 1.6k
Carolina Wind
SY Burris Oct 2012
Tired branches of an old oak loom
Like torrential clouds—
Those distal bruises on the peach
Sky of May— above as we
Wait and watch the dust lilt away
In the breeze.  I would envy their freedom,
But I see that they are only vassals
Whose lord, the wind, guides them like marionettes.

Stars split about the twigs and leaves
To lick our eyelids.
You hesitated as you asked if I heard them too,
But my ears were filled with Carolina wind.
You knew I had lied before I spoke.
Still, you told me their stories as if they were your own,
Or maybe they are your own.
Now, I slip back to that night for an instant
When I close my eyes beneath the old oak,
Only to open them and find orbital songs
Written in black between the seven sisters.
Oct 2012 · 1.4k
Catalyst
SY Burris Oct 2012
White raveled feathers lie
Scattered about broken wings
Which sweat bluer than blood,
And distal eyes sit low in their sockets
With an air of indifference that I admire.
How can you remain so calm
As the life slips out of your breath?
I expect you don't know,
That nothing can be known,
But as your neck snaps between my fingers,
Like a twig beneath my boot,
I wonder whether it's right-
And what is right?
And do trees grow up or do they run from the sun,
Deep into the ground for fear of smoldering?
I cannot trust what I've been shown,
For my eyes fail,
But I have confidence in the sounds I see painted about me,
A cacophony of blues, greens, and greys,
Every color from Pissarro's palette
Or Picasso's dreams.
Oct 2012 · 1.3k
Chattahoochee
SY Burris Oct 2012
Wax myrtles slip
Sideways on bodies-
Their brothers, 
Buried beneath fresh soil 
Of an ancient Earth,
Mixed amongst
The loblolly pines
That caper with the breeze.

* * *

Sad nights shift
To dreary days
And ashen clouds 
Soak in the light
Until they all 
Ignite in flames
And lose their strength 
Or will to fight.
They lie alone 
In sheets of wind
On beds of air 
And thoughts,
And, patiently, 
They wait to end
Their lives 
And be forgotten.

* * *

Long after,
We sit and wonder
Whether palatial skies
Will fall like rain
Away from us,
Torrents of dreams
Abandoned
For to sleep.
Oct 2012 · 7.3k
The Letter
SY Burris Oct 2012
To whom it may concern,

     I am alone.  Although it may never quite seem that way, both night and day I am confined to solitude.  These past six years hitherto have been filled with nothing more than the fictional characters in my texts and the short pleasantries granted in passing by dismal men, women, and even children that occupy my days.  Each morning, as the dawn breaks, I wake up disgusted with myself in that same manner which sundry men and women have.  It is not the loneliness, however, that disgusts me.  No, I do believe I have grown quite fond of the residual silence.  Instead, I believe it to be the dull monotony of my routine that has left me truly disturbed.  The days have begun to fade in with each other, along with the nights---especially the nights.  I cannot say, for instance, whether or not it was last evening or that of a day three months afore that I was seated at my desk, much like I am now, finishing the latest draft of a poem in my journal.  Nor could I tell you the present date, although the heat of the day, still trapped in the rafters, is so persistent that I am obliged to say it must be one of those blue summer nights when children run, squealing, through the streets, like plump pigs to the trough.  I have become somewhat of a hermit, secluded in my small, run-down apartment above my bodega.  My mind has grown as wild as the violet petunias, bridging the gap over the narrow, brick walk which separates my garden--- as the myriad of dandelions that have invaded the surrounding lawn.
     Throughout the day I work the till in my shop, observing the assorted physiognomies that populate the three small isles.  As they walk up and down, deciding what they most desire, I, too, contemplate to myself, deciding the few whom I might admire should I get the chance.  I often attempt to strike up conversations with my customers, much to their dismay.  I comment on the weather, the soccer scores from a recent game, or perhaps a story from the local section of the Post & Courier, only to receive terse responses and short payments.  However, I never let these failed attempts at congenial conversation discourage me.  Day after day, I persist.
     The nights are easier.  Although I do not attend the boisterous bars spread out amongst the small restaurants and boutiques that line the narrow city streets as I once did, I often drink.  Seated alone, armed with a liter of Ri, two glasses, one with small cubes of ice and one without, and a pen; I waste my nights scribbling down nearly every thought that leaps into my inebriated mind.  My prose has yet to show any real promise, but my thirst to transcend from this pathetic, pseudo-intellectual literature student struggling with his thesis into something more drives me to ignore those basic desires, defined by Maslow as needs; venturing out and exploring the community that I inhabit or talking to another person as a friend.  So I sit, night after night, at the foot of this large bay window, looking out onto the tired faces of the busy street below.  I sit, night after night, tracing the streaks of red light from the tails of passing cars, imprinted in the backs of my eyelids like sand-spurs stuck in a heel.
     I can recall a time when my flat was not the dank, dimly lit hole in the wall that it has become today.  A time, not too distant, when the rich chestnut floorboards glistened beneath the fluorescent pendant lights, when champagne dripped like rain from the white coffers in the blue ceiling, and music shook the walls and rattled the windows.  Men and women alike would wander through the rooms, inoculated by my counterfeit Monet's and their glasses of box wine.  When not entertaining, I wrote.  At long length I sat beneath my window, proliferating prose or critiquing a classmate's from workshop, but those days have passed.  The floors no longer shine; instead they lay suffocating under piles of fetid clothes.  The halls no longer echo with the rhythmic chorus of an acoustic guitar or the symphonies of men and women's laughter;  the lights are burnt out, the paint is peeling off the walls, and the homages are concealed beneath vast fields of mildew and mold.  Puddles of whiskey sit unattended on the granite countertops around the bottoms of corks for weeks, allowing the strong scent to foster and waft freely through the air ducts into the store below.  The dilapidation that ensued after I stopped receiving visitors was not just of the home, however. Worse yet was the steady rot of my own mind.  Although I have often been referred to as "a bit eccentric," and often times folks would inquire if I had, "a ***** loose in [my] noggin," I have only recently begun to find myself walking about the neighborhood garden in the small hours of the morning more than occasionally.  Further still, it is only recently that I cannot remember how, or when, I came to be where I am. Whenever I do happen to roam the night, it appears as if I do it unbeknownst to myself, throughout the throes of my sleep.  Similarly, I have only just begun to notice that, often times while I attempt to write, I sit, talking feverishly---yelling at an empty bottle, until I find another to quench my thirst.  Luckily, there is always another bottle.
     Needless to say, these past few years have left me very tired, and, after much consideration, I have decided that it would be best if I were to "shuffle off this mortal coil."  However, much like Hamlet himself, I could never bring myself to act upon the feeling.  Though I often wonder about what awaits me after my last breath warms the winter of this world, the coward that I have become is in no hurry to find out.  Alors, I am left with one option: leave.  Though I am not yet brave enough to slip into that, the deepest of sleeps, I have gathered courage enough to walk throughout the day.
           Charon Solus
Oct 2012 · 1.7k
saudade
SY Burris Oct 2012
A light flashes behind my eyes, and shadows,
Which only I can feel, are cast before they vanish
Without fear, but still I fear for them⎯I fear for
Light that eats away at night skies
As the hidden moon smiles.

Before the clouds part, his heart is heard
Breaking beneath the beaten pavement
That lines your garden.  Salt marsh mallows
Can taste the blood and dip low to lick
The soil, but their September shades fade from pink.
Oct 2012 · 1.6k
Trees
SY Burris Oct 2012
Two rows of towering oaks
Line the water.
Stronger than concrete,
Their trunks spiral up,
Supporting a labyrinth of limbs.

After the Spring’s renaissance,
Thousands of leaves wave
In the salty, summer breeze,
Protecting the cool park below.

Ripe with age, he walks beneath,
Never venturing out.
Across the asphalt, down the sidewalk,
He tastes sweet sea's salt
As he forgets to breathe.

Gray fluttering strumpets, those winged rats,
Fighting for what’s left as he follows stale crumbs,
His from yesterday. Once, twice around,
Through the middle, the garden’s heart,
The white gazebo, the painful memories.

He climbs the stairs, pausing every few steps.
Grinning at the top, he lights the corncob.
The moment fades quickly and deliberately
Into the next like frames of a movie.

He sits across from me, I get a look.
Deep eyes, hidden behind aviators;
A rough grey beard;
His father’s green jacket.

“Son,” he says,
A small plume of smoke rising from his lips,
“I’ve walked this park before,”
His tired eyes shut,
“And I remember more shade.”

His eyes open for the last time.
Slowly rising, he fades away.
I taste the sweet sea's salt,
And I forget to breathe.
Oct 2012 · 2.4k
Puddle Jumper
SY Burris Oct 2012
Her feet were balloons and her toes were the ties,
And her shoes were a way of life—
Boots to splash in puddles and heels to catch an eye.
Her legs were the ocean and her arms were the moonlit sky
And her hands were binoculars and her palms were maps,
And her fingers showed him the way.
Her nails were chameleons that changed when they liked
And her skin was tan in the fall and pale in the spring,
But her cheeks were always rose
And her shoulders were turtles, lifting the world,
And her neck was only a scarf
And her stomach was empty but her chest was full
And her hips spoke for themselves
And her golden hair coiled like silk snakes before the killing strike.
Her ears were the willows on the edge of the lake,
And she could hear but never liked to listen,
And when she did, you knew,
And her questions were stupid and her answers were not
And her thoughts were clouds in the morning
And her voice was the wind
And he was lucky.

Her eyes were blue and hung like Neptune in the dark,
And her gaze could cool the sun,
And she was beautiful.
Oct 2012 · 1.9k
Back Room
SY Burris Oct 2012
Soon after the sky had cast off
The tattered cloak of night,
And the midnight sun had set,
Helios himself climbed above the trees.
Dancing across the tops of dueling oaks,
Those primordial brothers between the ponds
Who, over time, grew up and into each other,
He sat spinning madly.

Shedding his golden rays,
As a lab shakes and sheds the water from his back,
They fell deliberately onto
And through my open blinds.
And I, stirred by the small streams of light
Cutting through the dark as if empty space,
I opened my eyes, only to close them again.

Lying, silently, I wait,
Tracing shadows as they slowly shift,
Dancing across the dull, white walls.
Fetid clothes lay protecting the floorboards.

The stale smell of smoke lingers,
Trapped in the soft cottons and polyesters
Of the cream throw pillows,
The blue waves of comforter,
The vast canyons of the corduroy futon.

Wine, fresh on my tongue,
Tells tales of the evening,
Lost of late in a world so distant.
My memories slip away like slack tide
Beneath rotten planks of a dock.

Twin cities, London and Paris,
A cold Christmas morning in Montmartre,
The warmth of the café we shared,
All hung up neatly on the wall.
Maps of emotions I never knew I had.

Only the breeze may speak here,
Whistling through the fissures in the wall.
Oct 2012 · 1.0k
Something
SY Burris Oct 2012
I can hear the cold air
Slowly moving through the vents,
The warmth slowly slipping away
Through cracks in the door,
Racing up into the atmosphere.

I can hear the persistent humming,
An air-conditioning unit hidden away.
Why not control what we can?
Does He not control?
Are we not made in His image?

I can feel my breath,
Cold like a mountain stream on a summer morning.
A narrow brick walk,
Cutting through the overgrown grass,
Sprouting between two buildings.

I can feel the tension
Settling into the room
Faster than the afternoon
Storms sweep across the harbor.
I wish I could still see the blue sky.

I can feel the weight of your stare,
Falling onto me like a wall of water
Crashes onto the white corals below.
The dead sand dollars breaking,
Millions of white grains like diamonds illuminating the night.

I can see the fear,
Written on your face
Like a bush with book pages for leaves.
The tremble of your lip
Before the water runs.

I can sense something is not right,
My mouth, my hands, the vents of my mind...
I wish I could see the sky.
Oct 2012 · 1.5k
Death of a Star
SY Burris Oct 2012
Amongst the living,
There are throngs of walking dead
Attempting to wake.

Alive enough to move, but
Not enough to know they’re not.

The students disperse
From long halls lined with classrooms,
Like deer from the corn.

Each fearful of what’s to come,
The mystery of the night.

The clouds, high above
The cold, dark, midnight skyline,
Are full of questions.

Quickly falling into me,
The conundrum of the age.

Landing on my ears,
Caught like rain in a tin roof
On the mountain’s edge.

Je vois le réponse juste,
Mais je ne la comprends pas.

I must understand,
I must know what I cannot,
My Etruscan scrolls.

All the last literature,
Now just embers in the pit.

All of the paintings,
Thrown off their walls to the floor,
Destroyed by soil.

All of their men, deceased.
All of their boys are just boys.

However, in time,
The boys will grow into men
As the sun smolders.

Spinning madly in its place,
Until that final moment.

When time stops ticking
And the cosmos wont expand,
A last kiss goodbye.

Calm and collected, we stand
Staring into the barrel.

Calm and collected,
I must be kidding myself.
Is this collected?

Already segregated
As if the show has ended.

As if we’ve already
Been scorched by solar winds,
Left for dead by friends.
Oct 2012 · 1.7k
aestātī
SY Burris Oct 2012
My lips,
Listless letters without ledgers
Lie—
Loom—
Languish in light of eyes
That hang like Neptune,
Or fall like the Moon
Away.
Still, I remember
The yellow dogwood blossoms,
And what they told us.
Years later we died
Separately, together,
As drops in puddles.
Jupiter followed,
Dipping beneath the Sun’s light
With nothing but fear,
And Cytherea,
Boiling beneath her mask,
Fell into Hermes
While our children watched
With horror from their homes...
And Olympos sank into the sky.
Oct 2012 · 1.7k
After Tea
SY Burris Oct 2012
Did you notice the painted trillium—
The way it freckled the dark sky
Or the hills below the Sassafras summit?
Scarcely scattered beneath the pines,
The blossoms live and die like love,
Or maybe not.
Perhaps the petals live like I’ve imagined after they die,
Boutonnieres pinned to the night’s blue blazer.
But even if they don’t, I envy the way they live
Their lives without wondering whether
Or not they might dream.

Our clothes fed the sweet pinesap,
Rotting with our minds on the forest floor
That night beneath the Lenten moon,
And the cold draped our bodies
In a film of sweat as thick as the sound
Of the falls flooding the valley.
Winter’s fear saturated our bivy’s fly
As Spring drew near, but still we slept.

Your pupils danced behind my eyelids
And God shook his head in disgust
While we sipped silver steins replenished from Lethe,
But only angels died that night in Elysium.
Oct 2012 · 2.0k
gilding the lilies
SY Burris Oct 2012
An hour passed beneath the willow
Before we saw the sallow light,
It slipped and slid between the depths
Of dusk and clouds that own the night.
Still we sat, watching streams
That danced above the atmosphere
Where gravity begins to fade
Along with most of future’s fears
And still we sit and wonder why
We gild the lilies on the shore,
And still we sit and wonder why
We can’t say what we’re waiting for.

— The End —