When the dusts settle from the last wheel
and the sickle moon stoops on the bamboo grove
the dead rise in the whispers of the southern breeze.

You may hear them splashing the canal's water
beneath the hazed halo of one quarter
by nocturne music of barn owl and crickets
in lights of glowworms from darkest thickets.

If you stop on the Rotwood Bridge
can hear them sing in gay abandon
though we're now all dead old spirits
the night can't make us anymore forlorn.

The twin moon may from the ripples broken
beckon you and if your spirit awakens
take a plunge for a joyous down go
amid cheers from the watery hollow.

~

when all is dark,
hope seems to fade;
yet life exists
within this grave.
'neath cold cruel stone
my hope feels lost,
yet midst this storm
all 's not forlorn.
i find this shelter
from tempest torn,
though death has cut
its sharp divide
life yet still lingers,
stirs deep inside.
though in his path,
his far from mine,
his walk toward light,
this, my comforting,
'tis my ev'ry hope
in His eternity!

~

*post script.

someone told me once, nobody gets out without any scars. loss is all around us.  yet when loss comes home to roost it bites and it brings with it bitter tears, of sorrow, of regret, of hopes dashed.  that being said, there is a knowledge that death is not the end; hope that resurrection is just around the corner.

religion should be about hope
not putting fear in other people's souls
should be about about peace
not about starting wars
about forgiveness
not about punishing innocent hearts

imagine all the people living life in peace

but how can one do this when bombs are thrown
instead of love
when moms cry
and children die
peace is impossible to be seen
when music dies and we hear only desperate hearts
praying
begging
wondering why.

we have different Gods and rules
our prayers sound different
our holy books are not the same
and
there are many sins in our souls
but
you're not God, nor am I
and none of us should play
the game of washing sins away
with spilled blood
and shed tears.

12:02  in the night
and I miss the other 12:02-s
with you and Dylan’s blues
and no words sometimes
just with the drinks in which we were drowning, but we wouldn't let
each other die.

12:02 in the night
and I am trying to hold your voice somewhere
in the corner of my mind,
but it fades away with every second.
I'm trying to remember the way your left eye would smile
everytime after I’d kiss it,
the way you used to write my body down on random pieces of paper,
the nights in the bars,
the smoke of cigars,
the tissues on which we would write our love,
the morning coffee,
your body next to mine,
your dreams, my tears, your trains,
the station where I've waited for you
so many times,
the way your fingers would touch my skin,
the words,
the flowers,
your shirt covering my body in the morning,
your heart,
that night at the beach,
or the sunrises.
I'm trying to remember
the “you and I”,
the we

I'm trying to remember when did we give up
saving each other
from drowning to death.

The way the world ends...*

All birth a seed of mortality. The reason we come and we go is the same.
Parrots lose speech. Scarecrows attract birds. Zucchinis forget their meaning.
Clay pots yearn for earth. Everything inverts. Love> indifference> dislike.
Melting paragraphs. Pedestrians looking downward. Undelivered mail.
Fruit shrivels into donuts. The fix is in. Short everything. No tomorrow.
Empty Greyhounds ply apathetic Interstates. Nowhere to go. Not magic.
Frames without pictures. *** but motion. Carelessness abounds. No worries.
Cracks in the concrete. Death by delay. Rusted arteries. Repairs unmade.
     London Bridge is falling down, falling down
     and into the torrent we plummet and drown.

  ~mce

Poetry is plunder. Ages provide words. Dig.
An immense temple to pillage. Random pieces. Mine.
Fit them to your hands. Create in you what is new.
Craft, not magic. Become a better maker, Strive.
Content created hound snaps. Only ignore. Cur.
What will you do with these little fragments. Frown.
Camels have seductive eyes but remain ugly.
Difficult metaphors in bow ties, black swans, duchesses.
Screaming trees fuse with sound. Crows. Funereal fowl.
Dancing butterflies darken sky. The chairs are leaving.
Piece together fragments against your ruin. Futility.
On other mornings, seek silence. You won't find it.
What you loveth well remains. Of the heart. Be.
You are an artist. Shut the **** up. Do your art.
     Most of the time you will fail,
     but sometimes, your poems will sail.

  ~mce