Fettered by syrupy curves
of well-handled prose. Exposed,
prone. Bound to bleed
maraschino in free-verse.

You saw into the very depths
of all that I rarely share;
all of me, bared before you
yet you didn't even care.

Cold, icy, penetrating,
eyes that could freeze
molten lava - bitter, morose,
but underneath a spark did tease.

A playful glimmer, deeply hidden,
true warmth radiating with the word
of love you so rarely spoke, leaving
me to wonder if it was ever heard.

I used to long with desperation
for you to turn those eyes on me,
to really know me and to care
that my love ran deep as the sea.

Until finally one day I came to know that
hid behind your eyes was a barren soul
And so I left, to somehow find a way
to make my broken heart whole.

You looked me in the eye
And told me you loved me.
I saw nothing in yours,
But all the hatred I have for you.
We’ve danced our last dance
And it’s time for the clock
To strike midnight
So I can disappear from your life
And you from mine
Because I see nothing in your eyes.

The air is a mill of hooks --
Questions without answer,
Glittering and drunk as flies
Whose kiss stings unbearably
In the fetid wombs of black air under pines in summer.

I remember
The dead smell of sun on wood cabins,
The stiffness of sails, the long salt winding sheets.
Once one has seen God, what is the remedy?
Once one has been seized up

Without a part left over,
Not a toe, not a finger, and used,
Used utterly, in the sun's conflagration, the stains
That lengthen from ancient cathedrals
What is the remedy?

The pill of the Communion tablet,
The walking beside still water? Memory?
Or picking up the bright pieces
Of Christ in the faces of rodents,
The tame flower-nibblers, the ones

Whose hopes are so low they are comfortable --
The humpback in his small, washed cottage
Under the spokes of the clematis.
Is there no great love, only tenderness?
Does the sea

Remember the walker upon it?
Meaning leaks from the molecules.
The chimneys of the city breathe, the window sweats,
The children leap in their cots.
The sun blooms, it is a geranium.

The heart has not stopped.

If we could watch our memories fade
Like dying flowers shrivel
We could see the years be paid
And desert this empty vigil.

I’ve sat alone the restless night
In search of buried skill
But I hate most of the things I write
And lack the vital courage still.

Eventually, I need the sleep
And drag my meat to bed.
I close my eyes to count the sheep
But curse my life instead.

And though there could still be hope
I give up hoping altogether.

Oh little one you were created to live

not knowing the pain of

rejection

humiliation

misunderstanding

would come upon you.

You were soft in your mother’s womb

growing and feeling safe

waiting for the moment

to know the one who carried you

and thinking of all the things you would be someday.

But as the merciless poison filled your
warm world
the pain of
rejection

humiliation

misunderstanding

filled your mind

And no one heard you saying, but
“I want to live”

“I want to live”
You were discarded in the dump ground

of others just like you

who cried just like you

who hoped just like you

Oh little one you were created to live.*


Allison Ashton

What would happen if we tore them down
All the walls that keep us apart
What would happen if we threw them to ground
those masks that hide our true heart

Would it not be in our interest if we forgot the tales,
what our fathers told us about the 'other'
and looked for ourselves, with bright new eyes
upon the faces, into the hearts, of one another.

Would we not find there something good and kind?
Could we not discover we have a like mind?
If we look around we just may find
that cord encircling, those ties that bind

Will you see the beauty of this fine garden?
Do you feel the strength of these branches strong?
Can you sense the waves of our connection?
Do you hear the notes of this new song?

open bright new eyes and see

we are made for one another

we are family


--bruised orange

It started with a fire
built with young leaves
and the ink from my pen.
Whether it is your fault or my own,
our lives are intertwined
in the flame.
Still, the breath of our moon
carries a message
to us both;
never offer up the slightest wave
of shame.

Calling from the ground is the rain
that found the wind
that blew paper from my hands.
A wind that practiced
the religion of picking up pieces
of broken hearts
and throwing them back down,
only to kiss their cries
with a stampede
of what they cannot understand.

A well thought out plan started out
with a fire built
with young leaves
and the ink from my pen.
It is not your fault,
nor is it mine.
If we can we ever stop listening
to the winds
that kiss the cries of our broken hearts,
from the flame, we would come
unentwined.