so many choices, I am riddled with doubt
eight of cups, which one is the one

so many chances, I am riddled with dread
eight of pentacles, build myself up again

so many crooks, I am riddled with trepidation
eight of swords, I feel powerless just waiting

so many critics, I am riddled with consternation
eight of wands, I knew you were coming all along

Brought the 62
Eight of Swords burned in carpet
Told me you'd bound me

Words can strike like swords,
leaving wounds that time can't heal;
They scar the heart and soul,
more so than iron or steel.

Flashes of steel and
Whispers of sound
Tramping of footsteps on
Rain- muddied ground

Pounding of heartbeats
And gasping of breath
Small sounds of life under
Shadow of death

“Duellem” (The Duel)
by Charles Baudelaire
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Two combatants charged!
                                             Their fearsome swords
brightened the air with fiery sparks and blood.
Their clashing blades
                                      clinked odd serenades
reminding us: youth’s inspired by overloud love.

But now their blades lie broken, like our hearts!
Still, our savage teeth and talon-like fingernails
can do more damage than the deadliest sword
when lovers lash about with such natural flails.

In a deep ravine haunted by lynxes and panthers,
our heroes roll around in a cozy embrace,
leaving their blood to redden the colorless branches.
This abyss is pure hell; our friends occupy the place.

Come, let us sport and spurt here, cruel Amazon;
let our hatred’s ardor never be over and done!

Keywords/Tags: Baudelaire, translation, French, duel, combatants, duelists, swords, sparks, blood, blades, hearts, teeth, blood, talons, lynxes, panthers, abyss, hell, Amazon, hatred, ardor, furor, passion, fury, anger

The flash of blades across the hall
The cries of “good” that stand for pain
The glint of steel within my grasp
And the smile on my face

These things to me mean happiness

My teacher’s voice soft counsels me
My heart within my chest beats free
My enemy stands across from me
As the marshal calls “lay on”

And I know that I’m alive

The weight of a sword in my black gloved hand
The dance of my feet across the floor
The sound of my blade as it rings it’s challenge
Issued against your own

And I know that I’ve found my home

2/19/20

The sky is old, it is tired.
It is aching.

The sky is bruised.
It is blackest blue and deepest blood purple.
It is tearing and writhing and mashing.
It is molded by someone
who knows not of their own power for desire.

It is being destroyed and created at the same time,
it is being pushed and pulled and grabbed
by hands who have known little of gentleness
and have been overcome by violence
but are trying to be soothing.

Hands made for wielding swords
steadfast give up when attempting to weave flowers together.

But he has not given up.

He is immobilized-
lost in his own despair and pain
as he tries to create.
He is searching through things he doesn't quite understand
searching through himself
and his own power he has left untapped for many a year.

He is trying-
hoping to help build a world
where love knows no bounds
and hate is only as strong as those
feeble hearts who use it.

The End of Time has already passed,
and no one can see past it
no one knows whether he will succeed.
But they do know
that he will continue to try
to press on
until the last whisper of his soul is gone from this world.

I am waiting for the day
when we can all celebrate
as one people
united behind
he who tore the sky
and lifted it up again,
anew.