"threnodies" poems
I can see myself wasting away
and
drooling on the carpet,
playing guitar
in empty rooms,
sitting in old bones.
no one is there to hear it
but it still plays,
it still comes through
like that—
with or without an audience,
with or without reason,
with or without permission,
as if it was more important
to be born than to be noticed or polite.
if I make it
to those old bones
and empty rooms,
to that guitar,
what will it sound like?
will I hear melodies of connection,
threnodies of yet un-lived sorrows,
interludes of foggy nobility?
I am deaf to the music of my life
but if I listen closely
I can hear death
playing music in another room
behind
a closed door.
Aug 23, 2025
Aug 23, 2025 at 7:54 AM UTC
There is one who is sunlit
Potent as the jade-green sea
Inhaling blissfull birdsong
Exhaling ancient threnodies
Years of headlights, rainsoaked
Highways: miles under desert
Sun. copper-skinned she's spells
To sing with lips love letter soft
She writes cataclysmic sonnets
Without using words.
Unabridged Resolute
Her asthetic purely Lunar
He tries to match her
Inhale to inhale
Exhale to exhale
But he is a corpse
Buried in black soil
Roots to wrap and swallow him
Crushing the soul from his bones
Cursed then to wander mountains
And watch her rest weary legs as she
Drinks deeply from Aquarius
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 3:32 PM UTC
I want to write such words
That can reach out and teach,
And share with the world
What I have found on beaches
And mountain passes, in cities
And the countrysides, like music;
Lilting songs without tunes
But such that please any critic
And help them learn to sing
Even when there is no melody,
Experiences that changes them
To symphonies from threnodies.
I want to help everybody hear
The jigs and tarantellas here
Made from words that keep
Their lively memory very near,
That we may subtly hear it
And love it and treasure
Every beat, rest and thought
In every verbal measure,
So they can ride along with
An orchestra often unheard:
The precious gift to us all,
The magnificent spoken word.
I have set my sights on this,
The mission I have chosen
And shall make it my quest to
Insure my stride is not broken.
Not everyone is given the gift
To say what they deeply feel,
It falls to those who can speak
To show others what is real,
Or what may just be tinsel
And what is golden, or wrong.
Thus is the fate of our poets
To parse it in poetry and song.
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 10:47 PM UTC
I poured the milk out
For its only hope was you
Unwanted by me
Aug 21, 2024
Aug 21, 2024 at 10:13 AM UTC
Little bits
A Lego, a crayon
The small reminders
Of how I let you down
Aug 23, 2024
Aug 23, 2024 at 5:26 PM UTC
spread the word
we, who you shall never see
have landed on your grieving
and poorly sculpted land
we, who you shall always seek
have taken our mighty tools with us
a humankind worth
to patch up the bursted leaks
from the excess bloods
that you have spilled for us
to stomp down the shielding walls
that you have built for us
against all those infidels
no more impotent convictions
you may ring the bells
now that we are here
the indomitable truth shall be proclaimed
for every single cell
of you chapped skins
will bow down, knee-deep
among the carcasses of the self-appointed saints
and deeper and deeper
until you hear the wind of desolation
rampaging over our seas
and your ridding threnodies
in the hallways of the earth
Jul 20, 2020
Jul 20, 2020 at 5:59 PM UTC
A slowly suffocating fire
Turning fuel to charcoal
No bright flames of light and warmth
Until stoked by disruption
it sputters to life
A final intense burn
that falls into ashes
Aug 23, 2024
Aug 23, 2024 at 2:17 PM UTC