False Lines
What is the point
Of all these poems, these stories
They're not me
I try to weave
A spiders web
To reflect my shape
My silhouette
But it's grand
And I'm not grand
Or it's offset
And I'm not offset
Or it's majestic or beautiful
Or compelling or fascinating
Or off-putting or clunky
Or awkwardly-phrased
What it all is
Is shades and signs
It's art
And I'm not art
I'm me
Ode to a Horologium
my wrist at all times just look a
glance tells me five minutes fast
more like five and a half now round my wrist
at all times except sleeping and showering
and when I write. It's uncomfortable
leaning against the laptop so I take it off
lying facedown limbs up dead blink
closed eye my fingers wriggle freely
gargoyles over tomb or baby blanket
passed away but only now I wrap it
resurrection of blue plastic seeking sun
round black iris lines when I
white buckle hugs blue azure veins
matches lifeblood snug breaths settle
into my skin like lipstick mark
Who’s There?
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Written with lines from CypressTheSacred and Macey
The fireplace burns
Pictures s m i l i n g on the mantle
an old chair, an older dog
sleeping in a bed of pillows.
Gods are said to inhabit houses
Lingering just above the rimey fire-smoke
Pēctārēs, family eyes spirit through velvet fuzz air
The comfort of a blanket, the coldness of a bronze plate.
Violet tapestries fall from unwaked stone
Ghosts can see gods but not each other
Inhale the scent of home in the dark
Nose twitches, head is raised to meet the eyes
Of white pictures in the sky, the mantlepiece
Holding up the world over two heads alone
Red-heat bleeds from a half-open eye.
Petrichor Lyre
Clouds have always appeared like silky tressed waves rolling ‘cross the sky
The Egyptians thought it was a sea stretching east to west
Spit of artificial smear from across the bay. A paper factory.
Cold water never smelled so good - morning is little different
Brushing against the bushes, reach out my hand and flick the branches
Trimmed back by janitor shears. Imagine the road overwhelmed.
Back at home the air was fuller, slung its arm across your shoulders
Trees are thicker, dropped a crystal in a puddle, turn it amber
Call it suburbia like the green doesn’t own the place.
I wish I could float away. Drift back on the
clouds and
sing softly to myself, drink the rain
like crystal drops, a blanket
for my wingéd feet
Ascend the stars. Climb piece by piece, hand over hand
Over the fence like a secret garden
Of unknowable wonders
Velvet, thick
Not floating, dancing
rock’s blood
Ghosts of the pine night
Never really was afraid
Of its mystery
Inhale stardust. Replace the air in my lungs with Celestial Fire.
Flesh evaporates, shadow swirls, become a sylph cyclone ~
Take my bones, take my bones away
My eyes are water and see gloria, gloria in excelsis
miro θαυμάζω
Drink deep water, and relief collapses over you like a cloak
Drink light tea, and your tongue laughs without joke
Early morning the aurora of the sunrise greets your eyes
Lie on the heel of the windstorm, see the valleys above you sway
Hum without noise, tilt your head, dig your heels in the grass
Lost, lose yourself; metahumanize
Dance when your bones start to stir; sing when your lungs fill with air
Cry clear when you read your books, and your soul is stronger for it
Only nothing is more important!
Span
I step into a shadow and
Find myself awake
I drop my burdens and
Find my feet carry me away
I wander in soft trills of silent beats
Find the music of invisible air
I drop like water onto a cave lake
Find my breath will merge
crackles and growls, what surrounds me?
murk and solitude. i do not fear.
Find my catch and
I wind my fingers through the silk water
Find a silence that speaks and
I emerge from some deep-grasped cocoon
Find the soft light and
I know it’s just as profound as what I left
Find not a story but a peace and
I seek what is already within me