Monday, November 27, 2017

Burn

Ever held a dying candle in your hands,
The light a flickering breathe of life
Burning away at… something
Something you can't see
And oh so dearly
Want to
Touch
But if
You do
You
Will
Burn
Into
No
Thing
At
All

...

Monday, November 20, 2017

You are...


You are a perfect little angel with the flaws of a human
The gentleness of a giant
But the sas of a sprite
The good looks of an elven prince
But with the knowledge of a human scribe
With the delights of good morning dew
And the shining greatness of a sunset
The beauty of a woman
And the mental strength of a man
The comfort of a silver lining cloud
And the warmth of a softly dying ember
The intrigue of an alien from another cosmos
But the familiarity of my own human touch
And I love the hand that melds with mine
And the heart which rings with same tone
I love you

Lullaby

The moon starts to rise
As I wipe the tears from my eyes
Why must the stars shine so bright
As I stand here missing you tonight
The sun passed by me
pulling me into reality
No matter how much I dream
It's harder to see you and me
Though we are together we are far apart
As the time causes my heart to drop
I miss you so
Oh don't you know
I'll sing for you
Until the end
Even as the night
Closes its self
I will sing my lullaby of love and sorrow
Hopes mg to see you tomorrow
lock arm and arm
Hand and hand
Love still there at a first glance
Though here I wait holding my fate
Missing you
Through and through
As the moon sets
I rest my head
Dreaming of you today

Thursday, November 16, 2017

Ode to Dissonant Chords (A short composite)

I

For the beauty of the interlacing,
Dissonant and blissful calls of the wild-
Each tune for subtle ears an embracing.
Grasping the hands of both old and kind child.
Whimpering voice of how you chill the world-
Singing sonnets of both home and exiled.
Grasping the oaken woods of the old gnarled,
Kissing the broken waves of the new tears,
Holding each suckling sweet babe up curled,
Riveting up each maidens windfilled hair,  
Embodying the core of  crying men-
Even the joy can be heard in despair.
The dreadful calling of your holy sin,

Can be withheld in a winterfell wren.  

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Dear Self

Dear Self,
You a whispering light.
Hidden and overcoming by the layering velvet moans of the world.
I may not know where you are then-
But now you are here.
You soul, in these words.
The powerful light that cares about everything and everyone-
One cannot keep a wave upon the sand,
Nor a cloud still in the sky...
Though we can capture a memory in ink, in paper, in letters of poetry.
I, myself, by now might just be a memory to you.  
Where you in the future could be places I never imagined today
Dreams lost and forgotten
Old wounds sewn shut
New lenses to prosper through
I may not know who you will become
And you may not know who I was
But we have the same every glowing solace moonlight of a heart
A kissing beating lamb of a soul
Ancient anxiety scriptures of a mind
And the beautiful birth marked bird of a body
And you may not remember me
But I dream of you
And I say…
Be strong
You are beauty
Be proud
You are laughter
Be faith
You are raw emotion
Be you
Because I believe in you

With Love; forever more,

yourself

Honey

I remember honey mornings
Sticky, warm, sweet between the covers
Slow moving
Sunlight tar
Mellow
Roll, twist; stretch

Sugar sunrise on my tongue

Monday, November 13, 2017

Chasm of Lost Treasure

One man’s trash is another man's treasure,

all of beauty and worth is held in the eye of the beholder.

Without which, the self value of gold and diamonds lay not more in the heart of the viewed-

than the mind that grows dark and withered,

living and passing the days away, counting and selling the copper of worth. To cover

the limited self expectancy. Leaving all, by shattered crystal tears and torn silken hearts-


To love her.

Lost in sinking, rippling piano keys; a symphony drowning her breath and her music.

Cutting her skin and bleeding ink, gagging on professor’s literary vaccines; making her sick.

Screaming out into the void before her

Her back turned on all who adore her

Tears and raindrops pooling at the chasm two-hundred feet below

A rippling irrational river to drag her under-



If, only she jumps.


The chains and ropes of people's words holding her in place,

As she dips over the edge of being displaced.

All because…  her aspirations and doubts turned to knives
and cut the chains to ropes.

The ropes, by lost dreams
skinned away to ribbons.

The ribbons pulled taunt
into threads
by the expectancy in herself .


One day the string will snap…

And she will fall.



Hold on… to your treasure.

Friday, November 10, 2017

Golden Tears

If I was to cry golden tears,
upon the molten sentiments of my memories
I would find that I was alone on a sodden ply wood park bench.
Drifting through the avenue of some crisp city's name I couldn't remember.
Where squirrels had golden teeth and crows were caped in faux fox pelts.
It was in the single sweet tree, that stood above the koi fountain,
which was coated in brooding duckweed-
where I laid my head to rest in a forgiving nest.
Of last year’s forgotten newspaper clippings,
small elve’s common yarn knittings,
and the brambles of unpicked raspberry bushes.
That was where I settled my head to think.
The tree was none of either world-
It was beautiful. It was cold.
It was something else.
Its leaves strung together as musical spider silk
containing me in the safe hollow of the bird’s nest
and there I asked:
where would I one day raise my wings of paper-mâché and clay
to rise above the flooding storm beneath my stationary talons?

I do not recognize this overcrowded town.
Nor the cracked cobblestone street.
Or the masses of faces that go and buy nondescript bread each evening.
I wish I recognized these apathetic faces;
-that would feed the crying pigeons,
-make fresh strawberry jam,
and parachute from the fifth floor windows to the first floor.
I wish I could rise in a stuffy hot air balloon, above it all.
To see down the shining chimney stacks of burned hopes,  
past the aging gospel choirs
that pray to some sentience I do not feel for myself.

I wish the warm fireflies would stay near to me-
light my hidden world in a swift, dim light that reminds me of a birthday candle's glow.
Where the smoky air itself is my sky,
and each breath I take goes to the lonely moon.

This world is not permanent.
The sun will not shine forever on the lasting glow of young honey hair,
while the moon and its face lessens its white frosted skin
and shields the beauty. Lost upon our eyes
forever.

I'll have to lift myself from the silken home of amiable gossamer
or else I have slept in ignorant hibernation.
And not learnt for myself that flying
above these molten tears is not as painful as I had once condemned myself.
But instead- it's about having the courage to accept that not
everything
is a philosophical daydream as I experience it.

Instead we have normal baked tar roads
and sultry willow trees with common misunderstood spider webs and abandoned, adored robin nests.
With picky strangers who buy whole wheat bread,
sell strawberry jam at the monthly farmers’ market,
and little, ambivalent kids;
who lept from the tops of their winged bunkbeds to the floor.
Pretending to fly stuffy hot air balloons.
Crossing over brick chimney stacks and trusting choirs
that proclaim to the world of what they believe.
And not as they see.  

The solemn tree continues to grow
with me inside of its only heart.
Each ring growing around and around me;
as each layer of warming history
is combated to me as light sounds and meaningless memories.
In faces that I will never see again,
and melodies that will never be the same.  
The golden, molten tears of my sap drip from my leaves and then my branches
back
to the nursing mulch below
because I know where I've grown from;
this earth.
Next to this path.
Next to this city;
where I never knew the name of.

But I know it means something to me.
If no one else can realize it at least-
I know.
At least-

I know.