"molts" poems
Tempests may surround
in the worst of times
a storm to level ships
capsize friend and foe alike
waves that change not just lives
but memory
how tragedy frames our desires
as need, rather than options
as love, rather than responsibility
how the quilt of phoenix feathers
that we oft cover us for slumber
molts as we shed our tears
molts as we age through life
and though times do change
and shadows creep beneath the door frame
still we hear the voice whisper,
"The winds of victory are soon to come."
Memories are trinkets we trade for action
we trade for purpose
we trade for comfort
Efforts spent crafting the perfect memories
catch up to our imaginations over time
Snapshots we thought were sublime
Calamities we shut the door upon
In the kaleidoscope of reality
we can see their colors change
what was treasured becomes tattered with use
what was feared becomes power over abuse
As we build our lives from ashes
no longer need for phoenix feathers
as we shatter walls of illusion
fact from fiction
truth from delusion
we come to hear the voice command,
"The winds of victory are soon to come."
And there is a tumult in the cupboards
under the floorboards
in the rafters
an aching shout of protest
a rapping upon the windows of the soul
a look, in the eyes, of horror
a clinging on to the raft of hope
a desperate jump to the cliff of salvation
a plunging fall into starvation
a rushing flight into the arms of the past
a stepping back from its cold clutches
a fervent climbing of the mast
looking out to the distant horizon
seeing how light is carved from darkness
knowing how you were made this way
and that your limitations
are at the mercy of your love
walking forward, proudly saying,
"The winds of victory are here at last!"
And how the winds whirl about you
as you dance in the curls and twists
walking upon the waves of anguish
waves of guilt, love, and praise,
to know they all complete you
and that the storm is who you are
you build the foundations
that will prepare you
for becoming
a guiding star
that leads your loved ones to the noble place
where your dreams would lead you thus far
a place of healing
a place of trust
a place we all know is here
within.
Apr 9, 2022
Apr 9, 2022 at 4:19 PM UTC
Soft shelter
I urge your preternatural
brigades of perspective
to ground my resignation
in some hypothetical
formation of inclined leisure
If I'm treading mere chance
in my hope then I urge you
not to simply humour me with
sly tomorrows assuring
optimism in the brittle molts
of days shrinking to reveal
solar aspirations
I'll turn my back
to the broken weather like
a naked sibling
There is nothing humourous
in humouring
though I've taken it
in self-destructive perpetuity
Tie me to the rack of realism
like Odysseus before the Sirens
I'll sigh and swallow
yet another new medication
one for soft shelter
in compounded sleep
where perspectives hide
and the chemicals of moods
long dismantled
congregate behind blindfolds of
destiny's clumsy executioners
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 10:40 PM UTC
In Africa the lissome eucalyptus leaves
Sharply ovoid, a washed celadon,
Turn their silvery backs, yield, bend with
The promise of on-coming rain.
You taught me this
Sign, this tree-voiced prediction, long ago, among
The tenderly sloping, densely viridian hills
And heavy, somnolent, rolling fogs of Iowa.
And so, I turn my back. I yield, oh, how I yield.
But, you didn’t foresee, didn’t know
How, much later, my heart would
Flake and flay
How great sheets of myself
Would peel, would fold
Would slough off just like
The bark, the back of those massive whitened eucalyptus trunks, you
Didn’t, couldn’t foretell how this long union
Scars, clings, sinks so deep, tattoos itself so that eucalyptus-like, despite
Repeated rain lashings, leaf bowings, droopings and sun decimated leavings
My heart, my soul sheds, molts, reforms, renews itself and just as those
Sharpened leaves arch and curve and arc and sway
So I bend, I turn, I give in, I give in
To the chafing wind, to the scouring hurt, to
The on-coming African
Rain.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 9:18 AM UTC
prickly little amoeba of a person
with no spine & skin that never molts
my passive-aggression falls flat
on dead ears, on dead eyes
this entity so empty, indifferent
nonsense eagerly conquered the front
my projections slept neatly in his vacuole
whilst i spit my repulsion on his flacid corpse
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 11:53 AM UTC
Beyond a wooden door
there is a room
where we sit and grow
three years older together.
Many words spoken,
all ranks broken.
But a thing is always there—
staining whatever it touches.
Blackberry juices fingerprinting
all of my bright white hopes.
A thing molts in the stale air,
trailing feathers
that wean and wane
by the force of our hot breath;
always there in that room
where we denied tomorrow
every credit it begged for.
A thing we gave every other name
aside from its given.
A thing. A simple thing.
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 3:52 PM UTC
Here here!
Time to drink deeper
Life's elegant poison
The distillation
Indifferences
Quasi-Bliss, meaningless kisses
Vows long dismissed
And the distemper in slights
Eyes
Steel piercing loathing
Skull selfish
Pretenses with fake smiles
But feral quick
An itch to pounce
These Strange days's unfair fight
Human-kindness flounced
From talon to claw
I've become a **** lamb
In the fever of their masquerade ball
They're dressed to the nines
The tenth moment glowers
Eleventh hour molts
It's slime and skins
Even by knowing the danger
I'm still In
Life now feels slick
A snake eating its own tail
While Death, a rictus of teeth
Time in its hiss
(They all hail)
And now
I've become a lone buoy,
Smoke in the water / **** / deep
Adrift in this drowning,
Our ocean
Creation weeps...
I am
Raising a toast
To life even tho'
Far from shore,
I still love you so.
Sunk in their potions
Now made as tho' a mead,
Drink deep
Dark elegant poisons
The liars tend to speak
I will float upon every horizon
They cannot defeat
Cheers and Salut!
To this divine comedy...
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 12:59 PM UTC
This is where i needed to be
to understand where i don't want to be
To understand what I could've be more careful about
not everyday
a flower blooms or a butterfly molts
so i must, everyday
try
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 12:39 AM UTC
I am leftovers
disappointing takeout
you spent too much money on
(you're supposed to be saving)
sitting in the back of the fridge
guilt keeping me there long past expiration
though I'm inedible
I like to hope that my stomach aches
and sluggish breath, heavy head
are symptoms of childhood dramatics
turned teenage angst
when I'm evicted from my teens
I'll probably call it a quarter life crisis
even so, I've accepted its permanence
I wish on dandelion fluff
variations of the same thing
that one morning I'll wake
from a night of giggles with people I love
swallow down papaya tablets
and the sickening feeling will actually dissolve
My happy is like hot glue
dripped on fingers - accidental
quick to stick
when it cools it molts
takes my fingerprints with it
leaving my finger tips raw
I can't keep secrets, especially my own
they like to creep up my throat
slither out unannounced
while I'm on car rides; restless
they can't hold still for the four hours
that get me everywhere I know now
I used to be incapable of shutting my eyes
when the cosmetologist rinsed my hair
it felt like a trick
like shed crack my neck on the sink
as soon as I relaxed
instead I'd count ceiling tiles to avoid eye contact
Now I feel proud
when I fall asleep on the train
or with someone else in my bed
I count how long I can squeeze
my eyes shut in the cereal aisle
forcing trust to prove something to myself
Jan 29, 2021
Jan 29, 2021 at 12:18 PM UTC