I will this thought into reality:
The ecstasy of your smile close upon my own.
A dream, first folded by a blush, raises me off the floor.
In the night, a brow is illuminated from the shadow,
And like a wild huntress, there is strength enough for the unknown.
You appear far and near.
I can almost feel you press my shoulder
And turn your hand into mine.
In this reverie, your touch is seraphic.
There is fulfillment in it, and yet, we are awake and apart.
What substance can negotiate as mellifluously with the heart as your eyes do mine?
You are the first thought to nudge me in the morning
And the last face to shine upon me as I fall asleep.
Some Poems
"Give us a wink and make me think of you."
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Saturday, March 24, 2018
Thursday, September 29, 2016
Autumn Is Silver and Shy
Down comes a lady
With auburn hair
Falling to her side
Brown eyes alike
The embers of quartz
Burning around her neck
From grave lips
Silence speaks
The story on her mind
Dirty boots come
One at a time
Upon the steps
To meet everyone
Who cares to look
And be still
Those who breathe
To reflect and recall
Her name and place
Those who care to see
The flowers hiding
In her tangled lace
Those may call out
For a fresh glass
From her shelf
Those may reach out
For the rich wine
From her hand
Those guests know
How to love her
And when to leave
With auburn hair
Falling to her side
Brown eyes alike
The embers of quartz
Burning around her neck
From grave lips
Silence speaks
The story on her mind
Dirty boots come
One at a time
Upon the steps
To meet everyone
Who cares to look
And be still
Those who breathe
To reflect and recall
Her name and place
Those who care to see
The flowers hiding
In her tangled lace
Those may call out
For a fresh glass
From her shelf
Those may reach out
For the rich wine
From her hand
Those guests know
How to love her
And when to leave
Monday, December 1, 2014
Our Singleness
There are not many of you
Just one in fact
If you look hard enough
It will tip your world
To think that one can only be
Without you or exuberantly with you
I saw and went
Now knowing no other one
The you in your absoluteness
How awful is that without
Gone and spent spinning
Raw and of want for you
For something of you
In a space too large and separated
To be left in that without
Too far across for words
To be apart with the thought
Of only you exclusively
Too weathered is the world
To grow in separateness
Knowing there is only you
Sunday, November 30, 2014
Where I Go to Die
Where I go you may not be able to follow
Beneath what makes a man only hollow
I will take in a breath and break within my thoughts
Only here does a path of chaos end
Then laid by light layers of beauty draw no crowd
As sky pours upon us through tangled cloud
Beneath what makes a man only hollow
I will take in a breath and break within my thoughts
Only here does a path of chaos end
Then laid by light layers of beauty draw no crowd
As sky pours upon us through tangled cloud
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
The Silencing of Grim Demands (The One Where You Cut a Dead Man’s Face Off)
He lies still and his
breathing dries,
Up into the air, cries and
despair.
You forget what you are doing,
Where you are, what you did.
Your heart thumping, stops.
He parts, it drops.
His head in your hands,
You cover his ears,
Hide the truth
And fears of lost youth,
Silence grim demands.
Your breathing is frantic.
You’re struggling to stand,
So you kneel over where he
lay,
Back and forth, you sway,
Holding your head as if the
weight
Could turn the earth the other
way.
Cold tears in the night air,
You take the weight home and
into a chair
Of dizziness and blindness,
You sleep and you stare.
Like an animal hit by a car,
Helpless, amazed, wide eyes
dazed,
Bleeding, as thoughts race
into the distance,
Hiding as death is ushered in.
Waking up to the sun bringing
noise
And noise taking peace,
Your mind contorted by the
careless crease.
He lies still on the kitchen
table.
You closer stand, inspecting a
hand.
The fainting of the eyelids
and tips of finger
Could not in the least bit,
love, deter.
Turning from, spurning what
fashes
Of such a beauty, foreign as
ashes.
Wave-spirits ride through your
shirtless side,
You open and close the
cupboard doors,
Searching in darkness for
yeast's loyal bride.
A jar of white flour and
dampened cloth,
Fully to oust phantom Goths
creeping in,
Upon his skin seeps
discoloration.
Flour shrooms into the air
And helpless, stands,
As you cover with care
The eyelids and hands,
Silencing grim demands.
The little life that rose with
flour
Fades and sours the reason
that grows,
And now in prim rows, like
tears ‘cross the nose,
You wash off the face.
Get a knife with reluctance.
He lies so peaceably,
Filled with expectancy.
Wiping your eyes, feeling your
face
Cold as the knife and spirits
which hover.
Writhing with strife and
dryness all over,
You almost prefer bladeing
yourself to relieve
A thought you conceived,
Then darkly weaved.
As logic leaves,
Fascination grieves.
Atop the table, then carefully
straddle
As if he were the Serpent
himself
And waking what lie, bound you
to Hell.
Darkness befell face against
face.
Now those lovely eyes
Are behind a disguise.
You look and look the wane’ed
face,
Then place the blade on the
temple,
Press, and simple, drag it
‘round
Under the chin to the other
side again –
And then a softer shade.
The blood follows the blade.
The trail leaves you weak.
Death was sheik and hid behind
jail –
A bloodless, pale lore.
Now a few times more
Around before
You've unhinged the door,
Pealing back the skin,
Looking from within.
The eyes are red and restless,
bare.
You turn off the light,
staring in fright
As the bestial creature glares
past present sight
And future existence, leaving
reason and oblation
To instance oblivion's
indignation.
In a gasp, horror falls
through you,
Beyond the darkest cells of
dementia.
The body rises with screams
from inside.
Voices clash and deepen, hide.
Laughter sent higher, into the
head,
Moans as a wench is monstrously
wed.
The eyes, the eyes ever-open,
alive
With fiery scorn for the
steady knife.
You watch as he coils,
withholding aggression,
Thrashes loose in anguish of
possession.
You hesitate, are caught by
the sleeve,
Wrenching away in a horrifying
heave.
The eyes frying, holding you
in,
You lunge back, violently
tearing at the skin.
He catches fire and darkness
thins.
You fall to your knees and
helpless, freeze.
Lines drawn across your chest
with ease,
A cold-blooded claw reaches
into your guts
And up toward the heart, under
ribs it cuts.
You shiver like it all has
stopped
Or soul has dropped into
darkness.
[1] Skadi is the
anglicized version of SkaĆ°i, a Norse goddess who is believed to have brought
the wrath of winter as a result of her father’s death.
Monday, August 25, 2014
The Droilage like Mintruit Flay
Let the frost lay upon the droilage like mintruit flay.
Go trick finthen candle with notley fair play.
Then mine out bintenderline over then say,
Sixteen red huggintry sick as a mintruit tree
Light as tendenrable malice lice flay.
I haven’t yet colorent gloriouslessly droil
Mixed up all tellers wisk bouldering oil,
So lay mine to tricker tree, minding the soil.
I’ll crusholtry topper call with my epply and all,
Tossing gin backwards then thraking the droil.
Crops squeaking hazel threads clouds to cloud joy.
The men grow the women and by poultry toy.
Vegal loss holomoss bandoning boy,
My summering teening thing, go hit a slum ball.
I’ll stall the nature all trigger tree joy.
People tell me to try flaying the suitable earth,
Place sixteen burrow peth straight to the firth,
And make no mistake over thinking your birth.
Her, over ladle twist, mixing what made me a boy.
I, just the mind enough, thift paying earth.
Prost poster shadow most higgendy pride.
Alive but not haunted from thought to thick stride,
Cricketted arm-phone-sent starberry side.
Can’t handle candle late, can’t flay the mantellerth.
Musterplug droil dry Daddy’s old pride?
I sink between audience flow-tinder nest soul.
It’s face after face of light clomb cootle coal
With protacted total as tall as the toll.
Done went crimbenzen sky, bolden strut mute.
Carry mine hinder thread, hazel-black soul.
Monday, June 30, 2014
Old-man Hands
My life is in my hands. They are thin and clean.
They are hairy and worn. I have old-man hands.
They are veiny and they shake uncontrollably.
They like to draw people and write letters.
They like delicate things and putting things in order.
They have to hide from the cold, in pockets or between my legs.
They don't have what it takes to hit someone.
They have each other to hold.
Sometimes they get confused and don't know
What to do when they should.
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