Jesus wept.
c o l d . . .
the feeling that permeated the heavens.
not an angel's heart beat as the light flickered
just in time to hear a whispered
y e s . . .
and gunshots.
Thursday, November 21, 2013
intravenous
for C.A.W
Je t’aime et
tu me manques.
i.
it’s a cold day in hell, and i
am running out of steps.
dites-moi porquoi
la vie est belle;
dites-moi porquoi
la vie is gaie.
the children singing in the street
should go fuck themselves,
life isn’t beautiful
and the gaiety is dead;
smooth and shiny,
like my skull,
but dead.
ii.
i like to sit
and watch the roses die
because I,
then, am not
the only one dying
at youth’s zenith.
if you could call this,
youth--
ithinkthe
CHEMOburned
each drop of childhood
out of me--
and i saw the catheter
drain it away.
iii.
the doctors left me
dead; don’t let
frankenstein’s monster
fool you.
Je t’aime et
tu me manques.
i.
it’s a cold day in hell, and i
am running out of steps.
dites-moi porquoi
la vie est belle;
dites-moi porquoi
la vie is gaie.
the children singing in the street
should go fuck themselves,
life isn’t beautiful
and the gaiety is dead;
smooth and shiny,
like my skull,
but dead.
ii.
i like to sit
and watch the roses die
because I,
then, am not
the only one dying
at youth’s zenith.
if you could call this,
youth--
ithinkthe
CHEMOburned
each drop of childhood
out of me--
and i saw the catheter
drain it away.
iii.
the doctors left me
dead; don’t let
frankenstein’s monster
fool you.
Labels:
death,
dedication
Saturday, November 9, 2013
walls
the walls were compacted sponge; harmless should she desire a concussion, but lethal to any breathing soul; for light and hope were sucked in, like bad chakra to a dream catcher.
strictly business, limbs were bound by hydrocodone chains and thick restraints. They feared her ability with the plastic dinner knife; looking at the carved ridges in her arms rather than the fresh ink on her heart.
it made no difference. cancer won the coup d'etat; her soul was fading like the paint on the walls.
strictly business, limbs were bound by hydrocodone chains and thick restraints. They feared her ability with the plastic dinner knife; looking at the carved ridges in her arms rather than the fresh ink on her heart.
it made no difference. cancer won the coup d'etat; her soul was fading like the paint on the walls.
Labels:
prose poetry
præ dolore dolor est
for c.
because i miss you
more than usual tonight.
there is something painful
in the recollection of i love yous
said and unsaid,
an exquisite agony
that somehow coats my ribs
in mother-of-pearl and my heart
in gold.
the world says that i
am more beautiful
for having loved you
in the new moon's night,
but reason says this ache
is not to be desired
and i am a goddamn fool
for having ever loved.
i wish i could see your face
in the glowing constellations,
but i survive on smog
and forgetfulness.
i do wish it worked.
but it doesn't.
because i miss you
more than usual tonight.
there is something painful
in the recollection of i love yous
said and unsaid,
an exquisite agony
that somehow coats my ribs
in mother-of-pearl and my heart
in gold.
the world says that i
am more beautiful
for having loved you
in the new moon's night,
but reason says this ache
is not to be desired
and i am a goddamn fool
for having ever loved.
i wish i could see your face
in the glowing constellations,
but i survive on smog
and forgetfulness.
i do wish it worked.
but it doesn't.
Labels:
dedication,
title:latin
Friday, November 8, 2013
elle volera par des arcs en ciel
She crawled
along a branch, looking
for a protective shell, a pupae,
something or somebody to keep her
body warm during adolescent twilight, a time
where we need love, hope, and a kiss of true love,
from family, from friends, from a lover here and there.
Like so many of us,
she didn't get what she needed.
Even without a diet of sugar and smiles, one can grow;
a diet of bitter water and stale melancholy,
watering her shell with tears and lies,
(for that is all that fell, by grace
of God or unknown fate,
who knows?)
All I know is that she's a butterfly
with wings of rainbow steel, able to
fly upon her own two wings.
along a branch, looking
for a protective shell, a pupae,
something or somebody to keep her
body warm during adolescent twilight, a time
where we need love, hope, and a kiss of true love,
from family, from friends, from a lover here and there.
Like so many of us,
she didn't get what she needed.
Even without a diet of sugar and smiles, one can grow;
a diet of bitter water and stale melancholy,
watering her shell with tears and lies,
(for that is all that fell, by grace
of God or unknown fate,
who knows?)
All I know is that she's a butterfly
with wings of rainbow steel, able to
fly upon her own two wings.
Labels:
title:french
For the Muse-Touchèd Souls
It seem’st that from the stars, he shines ‘pon thee,
O gentle chann’ler of the poet’s muse;
a halo ‘pon thy brow -- by most unseen
for dusty words do oft their minds confuse.
Them -- I speak of groundlings, eas’ly captured
their minds enchanted by patches of skin,
with children’s charms their minds lost, enraptured,
simple minds not comprehending sin.
Dear poet, artist, I beg’st thee -- still shine
and breathe God’s love into the agèd words;
Shut thine ears when the unenlightened whine,
thine thoughts are rich, not fodder for the herds.
And, perhaps, when beneath the sod you lay
thy dusty words will see the light of day.
for K.H.
Ms. Condor Pride 2009
O gentle chann’ler of the poet’s muse;
a halo ‘pon thy brow -- by most unseen
for dusty words do oft their minds confuse.
Them -- I speak of groundlings, eas’ly captured
their minds enchanted by patches of skin,
with children’s charms their minds lost, enraptured,
simple minds not comprehending sin.
Dear poet, artist, I beg’st thee -- still shine
and breathe God’s love into the agèd words;
Shut thine ears when the unenlightened whine,
thine thoughts are rich, not fodder for the herds.
And, perhaps, when beneath the sod you lay
thy dusty words will see the light of day.
for K.H.
Ms. Condor Pride 2009
Labels:
dedication,
sonnet
Thursday, November 7, 2013
& j'aime tes beaux mots
Love is whatever you can still betray.
Betrayal can only happen if you love.
-- John le Carre
The way you kiss my inner ears
and evanesce my garnet fears;
the chords you strike, on strings so thin;
a tender melody within;
the key that melts my secret cave
and leads to death the frightened knave;
the warrior who tries to shield
emotions that would try to build
and blossom brightly, sun or rain;
believing both will summon pain.
This onion’s heart does know the truth
that you; so sweet, but so uncouth
have screens of smoke before your heart,
a spider’s web -- we’re split apart.
But this is love? So I’d believe --
this friendship does naught to relieve
the hours I spend counting time,
nor does it make my heart sublime
from toxic gas to trusting gold,
nor does it make these new wings bold.
Labels:
title:french
coup de râge
still,
an iron lake in my heart
that swallow the fisherman
who try to catch something of worth.
I'm cold.
My bed is empty,
the other pillow is cold.
Midnight again,
I watch stars, sleeping;
tracing constellations that never were,
dreaming dreams that will not be.
Hot once, now cold,
the iron lake devours all.
an iron lake in my heart
that swallow the fisherman
who try to catch something of worth.
I'm cold.
My bed is empty,
the other pillow is cold.
Midnight again,
I watch stars, sleeping;
tracing constellations that never were,
dreaming dreams that will not be.
Hot once, now cold,
the iron lake devours all.
Labels:
title:franglais
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
eighteen going on forty-five
dearest angel,
our eyes met, somewhere on a street corner. Blue and green met the same wavelength; and I could see hearts rise spontaneously from cracked concrete, rising above the white clouds, where Jesus smiled brighter than the pearl gates.
i'm an old soul, spontaneous and sad, in love with stagelights and braced staves, but unable to carry a tune in the bucket, even though the well overflowed with quarter notes. my ears and feet resonate with old tunes, preferring Rodgers and Hammerstein to Rihanna and Rap; life is too short to hate the world and slander Fate.
my soul is a window, shattered by an errant baseball thrown by miscreant children who simply wanted a game. Baptized by the chronos shock wave that bled the Columbine flower; I celebrate two birthdays, with August brighter than October.
i'm young and learning, but aged and weary; eyes fixed on heaven but learning to love life. I'm an foundational paradox, beauty and ugliness playing tug-of-war over my very flesh and soul.
but none of that matters anymore.
our eyes met, somewhere on a street corner. Blue and green met the same wavelength; and I could see hearts rise spontaneously from cracked concrete, rising above the white clouds, where Jesus smiled brighter than the pearl gates.
i'm an old soul, spontaneous and sad, in love with stagelights and braced staves, but unable to carry a tune in the bucket, even though the well overflowed with quarter notes. my ears and feet resonate with old tunes, preferring Rodgers and Hammerstein to Rihanna and Rap; life is too short to hate the world and slander Fate.
my soul is a window, shattered by an errant baseball thrown by miscreant children who simply wanted a game. Baptized by the chronos shock wave that bled the Columbine flower; I celebrate two birthdays, with August brighter than October.
i'm young and learning, but aged and weary; eyes fixed on heaven but learning to love life. I'm an foundational paradox, beauty and ugliness playing tug-of-war over my very flesh and soul.
but none of that matters anymore.
Labels:
prose poetry
the first night
With heavily stilled fingers, a stream of fragrance and light is invoked in this room. My flesh, coated with pitch and viral repulsiveness is sighing; weary after a day at the circus; listening to clowns in white gowns play mathematician; trying to find the combination of three numbers to be branded on my flesh. Breathe.
I call upon the name of the Father, the blessed Son and Mother; the Beloved Apostle, and the Protomartyr, whose story has rested on my mind heavily of late. The spirits of the holy Little Bear and her beheaded ladies, all five-hundred fifty score, are already in my in my mind, singing hymns in pure harmony while tidying the mess of scattered thoughts; little Post-Its now to be discarded, because this tree will not fruit again, only wilt.
I would sell my soul to melancholy, and let the Fallen Angel reign; but all of Heaven and the most precious of the world refuse; drawing crosses of me; standing me upright. I would set these moving lungs in a coffin, but none would hammer in the nails.
This coal heart shall change to diamond, with the promise of Jerusalem, brilliant and reborn. But even the caterpillar requires a moment to accept his new wings.
Tonight, every last cell of my being shall deprive itself of liquid, watering the pillows that support this burning head.
With time and grace, I shall smile again; Home beckons.
I call upon the name of the Father, the blessed Son and Mother; the Beloved Apostle, and the Protomartyr, whose story has rested on my mind heavily of late. The spirits of the holy Little Bear and her beheaded ladies, all five-hundred fifty score, are already in my in my mind, singing hymns in pure harmony while tidying the mess of scattered thoughts; little Post-Its now to be discarded, because this tree will not fruit again, only wilt.
I would sell my soul to melancholy, and let the Fallen Angel reign; but all of Heaven and the most precious of the world refuse; drawing crosses of me; standing me upright. I would set these moving lungs in a coffin, but none would hammer in the nails.
This coal heart shall change to diamond, with the promise of Jerusalem, brilliant and reborn. But even the caterpillar requires a moment to accept his new wings.
Tonight, every last cell of my being shall deprive itself of liquid, watering the pillows that support this burning head.
With time and grace, I shall smile again; Home beckons.
Labels:
prose poetry
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
she flowers on the hillside of her heart
to pick a pretty flower is divine,
the rosy hues that blossom quite sublime;
the way she reaches gently 'round this vine
to share her fragrance where the shadows shine.
She grows as light -- her petals though are pulled
her heart remains wide open -- never folds,
her colors sing out steadfast; bright and bold.
Her spirit never freezes despite cold.
In winter still she shouts the joys of spring;
the fire in her voice makes flowers sing.
The passion in her voice makes everything
in shadows fade away; they pain they bring
is gone forevermore by acts of love;
o precious little flower from above.
the rosy hues that blossom quite sublime;
the way she reaches gently 'round this vine
to share her fragrance where the shadows shine.
She grows as light -- her petals though are pulled
her heart remains wide open -- never folds,
her colors sing out steadfast; bright and bold.
Her spirit never freezes despite cold.
In winter still she shouts the joys of spring;
the fire in her voice makes flowers sing.
The passion in her voice makes everything
in shadows fade away; they pain they bring
is gone forevermore by acts of love;
o precious little flower from above.
Labels:
sonnet
ilvangurë
for Amanda Todd
i understand
the need to find
a way
out
of this mortal coil
to find
a fucking way
out!|away
from the smell
of pain,
the miasma of
desperation,
to avoid
lacerations
spoken by idiots
that aim to kill.
i know
that deer-
in-the-headlights look,
facing the medicine cabinet
and serving as judge,
jury,
and executioner.
though i
cannot understand
the universe of
your choices and thoughts,
i can
wish you on at godspeed.
may you find
light in the æther
and hope, somewhere.
"and i got you, i thought that
i got you. now i'll ruin it all.
feeling helpless, acting selfish,
being human and all.
& they're jumping, & they're jumping
but they'll never get out.
just keep touring, just keep ignoring
be a good little trout."
-- Amanda Fucking Palmer
Trout Heart Replica
i understand
the need to find
a way
out
of this mortal coil
to find
a fucking way
out!|away
from the smell
of pain,
the miasma of
desperation,
to avoid
lacerations
spoken by idiots
that aim to kill.
i know
that deer-
in-the-headlights look,
facing the medicine cabinet
and serving as judge,
jury,
and executioner.
though i
cannot understand
the universe of
your choices and thoughts,
i can
wish you on at godspeed.
may you find
light in the æther
and hope, somewhere.
Labels:
amanda todd,
dedication,
depression,
suicide,
title:quenya
Monday, November 4, 2013
mythrandirs
i.
sonata in f minor, she bleeds
across staves, awakening keys
and chords that lay
dormant for far too long.
the mournlands echo through
in exotic fugues, she knows
exactly what it means
to break and ache and never be
quite the same again.
ii.
sonetto di nuovo voce, he sings
a versified paean to the new morning, he brings
healing and light in his fingertips;
not just for others, but him,
oh battered soul, deprived for far too long.
a lonely girl reads and finds her heart
somewhere in the staves, she slips away
from sadness -- “sweetheart, find your star!”
She’s searching but maybe not
searching anymore.
iii.
to be or not to be, the question crosses
the 30/90 playwright at a junction in his life.
do i matter? do i have anything to say?
he writes and lights the stage
for other stars to shine, but he
wonders if he gets to shine, too.
iv.
weary myth-randirs, their eyes
absorb the world and look beyond;
mapping twinkles in tired eyes,
finding stars in sheltered places.
they write, sing, compose; graft
the divine verse into mundane days.
imagine a world sans sunlight, without voices
to pierce the smoke and smog.
celebrate the song of the wandering hearts.
they hurt and yet create so we might heal.
sonata in f minor, she bleeds
across staves, awakening keys
and chords that lay
dormant for far too long.
the mournlands echo through
in exotic fugues, she knows
exactly what it means
to break and ache and never be
quite the same again.
ii.
sonetto di nuovo voce, he sings
a versified paean to the new morning, he brings
healing and light in his fingertips;
not just for others, but him,
oh battered soul, deprived for far too long.
a lonely girl reads and finds her heart
somewhere in the staves, she slips away
from sadness -- “sweetheart, find your star!”
She’s searching but maybe not
searching anymore.
iii.
to be or not to be, the question crosses
the 30/90 playwright at a junction in his life.
do i matter? do i have anything to say?
he writes and lights the stage
for other stars to shine, but he
wonders if he gets to shine, too.
iv.
weary myth-randirs, their eyes
absorb the world and look beyond;
mapping twinkles in tired eyes,
finding stars in sheltered places.
they write, sing, compose; graft
the divine verse into mundane days.
imagine a world sans sunlight, without voices
to pierce the smoke and smog.
celebrate the song of the wandering hearts.
they hurt and yet create so we might heal.
Labels:
title:pseudo-sindarin
grâce pour elle qui aime le ciel
We say grace, a tired prayer upon our lips, looking for some kind of outlet, some kind of shooting star to bind it to, in hope that it will reach God's ears. We hope. Dear God, we hope.
We have lived through years of acid and wine, of miracles and unanswered prayers. we are confused and lost, and simultaneously found and loved. We are blessed and cursed, and torn between two worlds.
we seek you. through all hardships, through the sacrilege and calluses on our hands, our eyes inevitably seek the unfractured light. in a world of darkness we recognize salvation; though it is immediate and undeniably far off. We live to die and die living, oxymoronic creatures such as we are.
we are no masters of the nuances of heaven, no diviners of holy whims. we simply live. and that must be enough. we simply live.
We have lived through years of acid and wine, of miracles and unanswered prayers. we are confused and lost, and simultaneously found and loved. We are blessed and cursed, and torn between two worlds.
we seek you. through all hardships, through the sacrilege and calluses on our hands, our eyes inevitably seek the unfractured light. in a world of darkness we recognize salvation; though it is immediate and undeniably far off. We live to die and die living, oxymoronic creatures such as we are.
we are no masters of the nuances of heaven, no diviners of holy whims. we simply live. and that must be enough. we simply live.
Labels:
prose poetry,
title:french
Sunday, November 3, 2013
dream catcher
dream catcher
with inversed polarity
letting nightmares
shape the night.
caught fantasies
die at dawn
before I
can hold them.
with inversed polarity
letting nightmares
shape the night.
caught fantasies
die at dawn
before I
can hold them.
Stoneheart's Sonnet
"She wailed, and leaning back her neck breathed Hypnos who walks with Thanatos; for verily it was ordained that both should have all things in common and pursue the works of the elder brother: hence women, weighed down with sorrowing eyes, oft-times, while they weep, fall asleep." -- Colluthus, Rape of Helen 365ff
If purity by name is my own right,
then hearken to my hatred. O pure blade
by which my life-blood spilt -- behold the night,
behold the ranks of angry men arrayed
sans banners, leave your honor and your crowns
to kings and prideful men, I have no use
for fortresses or moats, I need no towns;
I shall not plow the fields, I make no ruse
of normal life, I walk not in that land;
I tread The Stranger's way, this herald cries
for vengeance! Lordly oaths aren't writ in sand
for men of evil temperament to spite.
With Death, my second spouse, I keep my first,
a brand upon my heart; he feeds my thirst.
Labels:
A Song of Ice and Fire,
George R.R. Martin,
sonnet
Saturday, November 2, 2013
brilliant love
If I could dream of angels,
and I could kiss the stars;
dreams be made reality,
and life become a dream;
if I could see my lover;
her darling emerald eyes.
Why, just one look would hinder
all the world's lies!
and I could kiss the stars;
dreams be made reality,
and life become a dream;
if I could see my lover;
her darling emerald eyes.
Why, just one look would hinder
all the world's lies!
Sonnet for Alaska
There is a song that blossoms in my brain
a melody I cannot push away,
she weaves her way into my heart, the pain
that taints all thoughts of love with sharp disdain.
The song is her, she is the song that kills
each synapse with a memory that shoots
the equilibrium, my body heals
around the lacerations, blessed wounds.
I knew that girl, hamartia, skin --
at least I thought I'd memorized her form;
the smoke and dust that filled her from within. . .
can anybody truly know a storm?
The chord, it lingers, God on the sustain;
my heart, it seeks the north, her old refrain.
a melody I cannot push away,
she weaves her way into my heart, the pain
that taints all thoughts of love with sharp disdain.
The song is her, she is the song that kills
each synapse with a memory that shoots
the equilibrium, my body heals
around the lacerations, blessed wounds.
I knew that girl, hamartia, skin --
at least I thought I'd memorized her form;
the smoke and dust that filled her from within. . .
can anybody truly know a storm?
The chord, it lingers, God on the sustain;
my heart, it seeks the north, her old refrain.
Labels:
john green,
looking for alaska,
sonnet
Friday, November 1, 2013
Ursa Minor
I tried to paint a sonnet, sketching the outline of a little bear in rigid meter and unforgiving syllables, believing that starlight could be channeled into couplets and narrow verses. But you are bright and absolute, defying the curvature of gravity; growing brighter as the years pass.
I want to see you in sunlight; to see your shadows and heartbeat in three dimensions. My pole star; angel descending from the new moon, you must be real; but come as a petite messiah, unresting, lifting my crosses; giving this serpent's heart the ability to defy gravity for a couple hours, with a starlit smile and aegis words and arms that never fail to light the road Home.
You will always shine the brighter; lodestar for weary pilgrims who walk desolate halls. I would shimmer next to you, small and insignificant in your corona, just strong enough to keep you spinning straight. I pray for the strength to carry your black holes, so you might shine brightly for the journeymen, small and insignificant, who look to you.
Yes, that would be glory enough.
I want to see you in sunlight; to see your shadows and heartbeat in three dimensions. My pole star; angel descending from the new moon, you must be real; but come as a petite messiah, unresting, lifting my crosses; giving this serpent's heart the ability to defy gravity for a couple hours, with a starlit smile and aegis words and arms that never fail to light the road Home.
You will always shine the brighter; lodestar for weary pilgrims who walk desolate halls. I would shimmer next to you, small and insignificant in your corona, just strong enough to keep you spinning straight. I pray for the strength to carry your black holes, so you might shine brightly for the journeymen, small and insignificant, who look to you.
Yes, that would be glory enough.
Labels:
prose poetry,
title:latin
Thursday, October 31, 2013
elle danse dans les fleurs noires
there is a waltz
here, sustained
long after harp
and string and song
have returned
to the stardust
whence they came.
the natural things
continue, oh harmonic ballet,
death begetting life
ad infinitum et ultra;
but there are
certain dark things
that linger, a thread
snagged in death's robe.
but who is god to deny
this little girl's dance?
she dances on.
here, sustained
long after harp
and string and song
have returned
to the stardust
whence they came.
the natural things
continue, oh harmonic ballet,
death begetting life
ad infinitum et ultra;
but there are
certain dark things
that linger, a thread
snagged in death's robe.
but who is god to deny
this little girl's dance?
she dances on.
Labels:
halloween,
title:french
High School Halloween
This is a high school halloween
here, nightmares and fantasies be,
things that most people never see.
Downright wrong, most parents agree.
The thirty-first is a weekday,
this is a high school halloween
the playboy bunny's out to play
looking for a roll in the hay
witches, enchanting, wearing nothing
bees buzzing - boys grab their stings
this is a high school halloween
do girls' mothers see these things?
"Wear a modest outfit this year"
the school threatens with dress code's fear
nothing'll change; we'll still see rears
this is a high school halloween
here, nightmares and fantasies be,
things that most people never see.
Downright wrong, most parents agree.
The thirty-first is a weekday,
this is a high school halloween
the playboy bunny's out to play
looking for a roll in the hay
witches, enchanting, wearing nothing
bees buzzing - boys grab their stings
this is a high school halloween
do girls' mothers see these things?
"Wear a modest outfit this year"
the school threatens with dress code's fear
nothing'll change; we'll still see rears
this is a high school halloween
Labels:
Halloween
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
For Winston and Julia
"Katherine would die, and by subtle maneuverings, Winston and Julia would succeed in getting married. Or they would commit suicide together. Or they would disappear, alter themselves[...] get jobs in a factory, and live out their lives undetected in a back street. It was all nonsense, at the both knew. In reality, there was no escape." -- George Orwell, "1984"
it’s knowing that something wrong,
and instead of trying to fix it,
you just live a life of freedom,
covertly breaking unwritten law,
but still outwardly loyal
toward the system.
it’s like carpe diem
but it’s a bit more drastic,
because each day
might truly be your last.
your mind
is an open book
to the thought police
and you’ve committed worse
than thoughtcrime.
they’re waiting for you in room 101
at the ministry of love.
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Love Does Reign, On From High
Dawn, blessed,
looks over the crevasses of the world
and frowns, a metallic dirge on her lips;
the scent of hemoglobin rises,
a cloud of iron obscuring
the angels that fly
hither and thither
with goodness firmly tucked
in hand, in heart.
She wonders, yet again,
why she has loved
and lost
all of the precious things.
But Dawn is a violet,
curls of forgiveness arising
from her crushed heart.
You may not believe,
but I still see angels.
The Playful Grove
Tinúviel,
I am not.
a little less pretty,
a little more fey;
a bit less serious,
more willing to play.
We are surrounded,
completely safe;
forget all danger,
let's misbehave!
I am not.
a little less pretty,
a little more fey;
a bit less serious,
more willing to play.
We are surrounded,
completely safe;
forget all danger,
let's misbehave!
Monday, October 28, 2013
Si Je Verrais la Mer
If I were to look upon
the ocean once again,
I would
see your eyes
in the glittering water,
your smile in
the cresting waves;
the warmth of your breath
in the sun's fingers,
your voice in
the gentle wind.
If I were to see the sea
just one last time,
I would not cry.
I would not
cry.
the ocean once again,
I would
see your eyes
in the glittering water,
your smile in
the cresting waves;
the warmth of your breath
in the sun's fingers,
your voice in
the gentle wind.
If I were to see the sea
just one last time,
I would not cry.
I would not
cry.
Labels:
title:french
certain dark things: i leave the dark behind.
she calls to me, the morning long desired
and i would go, to hell with all the vows
so spoken by these lips, by night inspired
and sworn by stupid desperation, now
my leave is taken, i am not forsworn,
what difference: oath or lies? my words are words.
i put my own self first, i am not torn,
i am no martyr, man; the thought's absurd.
heroic man who hates himself, i can't
pretend to be that boy who dreamed of death
i have to love myself, you understand:
my life is precious: measure out each breath.
if death will be my end (oh heav'nly lie),
there is no need for treasure in the sky.
and i would go, to hell with all the vows
so spoken by these lips, by night inspired
and sworn by stupid desperation, now
my leave is taken, i am not forsworn,
what difference: oath or lies? my words are words.
i put my own self first, i am not torn,
i am no martyr, man; the thought's absurd.
heroic man who hates himself, i can't
pretend to be that boy who dreamed of death
i have to love myself, you understand:
my life is precious: measure out each breath.
if death will be my end (oh heav'nly lie),
there is no need for treasure in the sky.
Labels:
sonnet
Sunday, October 27, 2013
he is a failed phoenix
Today, a pretty girl asked me
"hey, zach,
why don't you read
your poems out loud, or try
to share them in something more
then embedded CSS and tired ASCII
don't you think that
maybe people want to year your voice?"
Before her, there had never been
a single person interested in the
frequency of my voice; in ingesting
the poems that I bound about my ribs
to keep them from cracking, cold
in the sangfroid of this SoCal high school.
Oh, I had newsprint and empty praise,
but who really cared about what I had
written and why, or what thoughts passed
through my mind? Who cared about me
on a Saturday night,
or when they were being kissed
by boyfriends and girlfriends;
being loved in a special way
that I never was?
People have always praised
my humility in passing --
They shouldn't, it was just
a stupid fear of speaking,
of being, of drawing
a single photon of somebody else's sun
as a spotlight.
the only thing
the really hasn't changed
between eighteen and twenty-two.
I am quieter than I've ever been
and the poems don't come easily,
and even the empty praise is gone.
Who cares about me now?
they have college degrees
and wedding rings, and they're
too busy popping out babies to notice
the insane poet who never even had a heyday.
I hate the clarity of retrospection,
because trying to be something now
feels like I'm making
pointless noises in a language
no longer spoken.
I suppose this is nothing new;
I have always been a strange man
in this strange land. Maybe I'm stupid
for wanting to show the right colors
or say the right things, or do
whatever it is you're supposed to do
to fit in with the normal humans.
Goddamn it if I don't want to try
something; and put 'better late than never'
to proof.
But hell it if I didn't look
dumbfounded at her, i couldn't say --
I didn't say -- anything,
as usual.
I'd like to make up a happy-fake ending
to this poem, and make it sound like
I made my sun rise in the east--
if only just this once,
but no.
"hey, zach,
why don't you read
your poems out loud, or try
to share them in something more
then embedded CSS and tired ASCII
don't you think that
maybe people want to year your voice?"
Before her, there had never been
a single person interested in the
frequency of my voice; in ingesting
the poems that I bound about my ribs
to keep them from cracking, cold
in the sangfroid of this SoCal high school.
Oh, I had newsprint and empty praise,
but who really cared about what I had
written and why, or what thoughts passed
through my mind? Who cared about me
on a Saturday night,
or when they were being kissed
by boyfriends and girlfriends;
being loved in a special way
that I never was?
People have always praised
my humility in passing --
They shouldn't, it was just
a stupid fear of speaking,
of being, of drawing
a single photon of somebody else's sun
as a spotlight.
the only thing
the really hasn't changed
between eighteen and twenty-two.
I am quieter than I've ever been
and the poems don't come easily,
and even the empty praise is gone.
Who cares about me now?
they have college degrees
and wedding rings, and they're
too busy popping out babies to notice
the insane poet who never even had a heyday.
I hate the clarity of retrospection,
because trying to be something now
feels like I'm making
pointless noises in a language
no longer spoken.
I suppose this is nothing new;
I have always been a strange man
in this strange land. Maybe I'm stupid
for wanting to show the right colors
or say the right things, or do
whatever it is you're supposed to do
to fit in with the normal humans.
Goddamn it if I don't want to try
something; and put 'better late than never'
to proof.
But hell it if I didn't look
dumbfounded at her, i couldn't say --
I didn't say -- anything,
as usual.
I'd like to make up a happy-fake ending
to this poem, and make it sound like
I made my sun rise in the east--
if only just this once,
but no.
back to basics
back to basics.
forget the
poetry.
forget the
music.
forget the
clever.
forget everything
that separates me
from humanity.
poetry and music
cannot embrace me
as nicely as
a pair of arms.
i need to be
held and loved
so i can love.
i need to be
loved.
forget the
poetry.
forget the
music.
forget the
clever.
forget everything
that separates me
from humanity.
poetry and music
cannot embrace me
as nicely as
a pair of arms.
i need to be
held and loved
so i can love.
i need to be
loved.
butterfly
vois-tu
l'arc-en-ciel?
Walking
hand in hand,
through the cramped
streets of inner-city Prague,
through a downpour.
tes yeux sont
le soleil d'soirée
my heart rejoiced,
my spirit felt so light,
I thought I would be able
to float on the air.
t'es un papillon
mon papillon...
you walked
a step ahead of me.
framed against the horizon,
I could see
your wings.
l'arc-en-ciel?
Walking
hand in hand,
through the cramped
streets of inner-city Prague,
through a downpour.
tes yeux sont
le soleil d'soirée
my heart rejoiced,
my spirit felt so light,
I thought I would be able
to float on the air.
t'es un papillon
mon papillon...
you walked
a step ahead of me.
framed against the horizon,
I could see
your wings.
she was summer, the mystery of those daisies in her hair.
perhaps you are
that precious dew,
the lifebringer,
precious sensation
bringing life
to what died
so long ago.
i delight in masks
the lie of purity,
the indecision resting
upon a pretty girl's crown.
she will
come tumbling
down.
can
you catch
her?
will she love you
if you do?
that precious dew,
the lifebringer,
precious sensation
bringing life
to what died
so long ago.
i delight in masks
the lie of purity,
the indecision resting
upon a pretty girl's crown.
she will
come tumbling
down.
can
you catch
her?
will she love you
if you do?
summer's fair
she was cotton candy.
Zephyr twisted an amber lock in his fingers, she didn't seem to mind. Walking as Galadriel at twenty-eight frames per second; Summer was a cloud when wearing her white sundress
Her fingers knew how to hold a baton, conducting a lento waltz that moved just a little slower than society's toxic lullaby.
My heart was caught.
I wanted a kiss, but she just wanted to know what color her tongue was.
Zephyr twisted an amber lock in his fingers, she didn't seem to mind. Walking as Galadriel at twenty-eight frames per second; Summer was a cloud when wearing her white sundress
Her fingers knew how to hold a baton, conducting a lento waltz that moved just a little slower than society's toxic lullaby.
My heart was caught.
I wanted a kiss, but she just wanted to know what color her tongue was.
Labels:
prose poetry
right ascension
for e.e.
When all is right, I wander back to you,
my smiles becoming stoic lines again.
I wonder back to when your eyes were blue,
when possibilities were wondered through.
All these nostalgic wounds opened afresh
(I wonder back to you, wand'ring again).
I see you in the stars and in the mesh,
in space and faces, everything precious.
You are in hope, in science and romance,
in everything that'd give you life again,
in chemists' notes and all the masters' chants.
I wander in a moment, at a glance.
They say it's futile, and it is, perhaps,
for you are dead and gone, I wander maps
of spirit, stone, and pain. I don't collapse,
I wander back to you, wond'ring again.
When all is right, I wander back to you,
my smiles becoming stoic lines again.
I wonder back to when your eyes were blue,
when possibilities were wondered through.
All these nostalgic wounds opened afresh
(I wonder back to you, wand'ring again).
I see you in the stars and in the mesh,
in space and faces, everything precious.
You are in hope, in science and romance,
in everything that'd give you life again,
in chemists' notes and all the masters' chants.
I wander in a moment, at a glance.
They say it's futile, and it is, perhaps,
for you are dead and gone, I wander maps
of spirit, stone, and pain. I don't collapse,
I wander back to you, wond'ring again.
Labels:
dedication,
esther earl,
tswgo
galadriel.supernova
“i am a servant of the
secret fire; wielder
of the flame of anor.
you shall not pass.
(the dark fire
will not avail you,
flame of udun).
you shall not pass”
adapted from j.r.r.t.
i am light, fire;
the moment
that matter and antimatter
kiss
passionately.
my skin tingles
with oil and gasolene,
but he
is dead tinder,
enough to make
a beautiful conflagration.
and i cannot imagine
a cold life;
apathy's chill
is
death's kiss.
and I want
to live.
even if
each moment
is a
millstone,
i will
embrace
this
joie-de-vivre.
wait, what?
this isn't life,
or joy;
my skin is
charcoal,
the sky is black
diminished,
broken,
but not
cold.
the secret fire burns within.
secret fire; wielder
of the flame of anor.
you shall not pass.
(the dark fire
will not avail you,
flame of udun).
you shall not pass”
adapted from j.r.r.t.
i am light, fire;
the moment
that matter and antimatter
kiss
passionately.
my skin tingles
with oil and gasolene,
but he
is dead tinder,
enough to make
a beautiful conflagration.
and i cannot imagine
a cold life;
apathy's chill
is
death's kiss.
and I want
to live.
even if
each moment
is a
millstone,
i will
embrace
this
joie-de-vivre.
wait, what?
this isn't life,
or joy;
my skin is
charcoal,
the sky is black
diminished,
broken,
but not
cold.
the secret fire burns within.
pensées d'âge
now the leaves are falling faster;
i am a tired old man, hiding
in the skin of a white boy wondering
when spring will come.
it makes sense to believe
in the natural progression of time;
but i have seen the flames of summer,
flash-frozen in winter's acid rain
and left to be buried by autumn's leaves.
when will the roses bud?
when will i be young?
Labels:
title:french
euclidean
trapped,
in paper paradoxes and questions,
used to teach, not wonder
tracing reflective polygons,
I wonder: how many cracks
make a heart,
and if it’d be better
to stay square.
in paper paradoxes and questions,
used to teach, not wonder
tracing reflective polygons,
I wonder: how many cracks
make a heart,
and if it’d be better
to stay square.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
perenniel, elle est
i. le 29 décembre
Regal and distinguished in faux fur,
she stands, with mona lisa on her lips;
lost in petite reveries. She trusts
the faerie powder falling from the sky
to bury her, and preserve precious snowflakes
that would melt under july's viceroy.
ii. le 14 avril
Flowers smile, Sophia stands solemn;
showers sweetly serenade her skin.
The house behind her is silent and bereft;
she doesn't mind. She never minds;
tears mesh perfectly with raindrops.
iii. le 9 août
Sweat, shining beads coalesce;
a coronet to replace love's lost diadem.
Sophia ponders the unfairness of hellfire
and the fallacies of falling hard.
What was her sin again?
iv. le 31 octobre
Kids cackle, donning demon masks.
Tonight she finds the edges of her face;
no mask, but living skin; an element of truth;
revelation for a reeling heart;
the foundation of a miracle.
v. le 29 décembre
Regal and distinguished in faux fur,
she stands, with mona lisa on her lips;
lost in petite reveries. She trusts
tenderness and trickles of tears;
the tools that taught her oh so much;
no need for magic, fey
Regal and distinguished in faux fur,
she stands, with mona lisa on her lips;
lost in petite reveries. She trusts
the faerie powder falling from the sky
to bury her, and preserve precious snowflakes
that would melt under july's viceroy.
ii. le 14 avril
Flowers smile, Sophia stands solemn;
showers sweetly serenade her skin.
The house behind her is silent and bereft;
she doesn't mind. She never minds;
tears mesh perfectly with raindrops.
iii. le 9 août
Sweat, shining beads coalesce;
a coronet to replace love's lost diadem.
Sophia ponders the unfairness of hellfire
and the fallacies of falling hard.
What was her sin again?
iv. le 31 octobre
Kids cackle, donning demon masks.
Tonight she finds the edges of her face;
no mask, but living skin; an element of truth;
revelation for a reeling heart;
the foundation of a miracle.
v. le 29 décembre
Regal and distinguished in faux fur,
she stands, with mona lisa on her lips;
lost in petite reveries. She trusts
tenderness and trickles of tears;
the tools that taught her oh so much;
no need for magic, fey
Labels:
title:french
On Death and Dying
A message rocks upon the gentle waves,
headed for an unknown destination;
warm arms, warm heart, reconciliation,
a dream, a hope; every lonely heart craves
to turn back time -- as though it were nothing --
just uncap the Master's slipstream of time,
to atone for an uncommitted crime,
as though that could remove the bitter sting.
No comfort is found in kissing headstones
nor falling in love with decaying bones.
No answer, no symbol, no metaphor,
will ever be found upon Death's fell blade;
ne'er moved by a heart, no matter how sore,
he is no haggler; one cannot persuade.
headed for an unknown destination;
warm arms, warm heart, reconciliation,
a dream, a hope; every lonely heart craves
to turn back time -- as though it were nothing --
just uncap the Master's slipstream of time,
to atone for an uncommitted crime,
as though that could remove the bitter sting.
No comfort is found in kissing headstones
nor falling in love with decaying bones.
No answer, no symbol, no metaphor,
will ever be found upon Death's fell blade;
ne'er moved by a heart, no matter how sore,
he is no haggler; one cannot persuade.
Labels:
sonnet
Friday, October 25, 2013
Sister Mary Zion
daffodils made an
insignificant penumbra;
nobody coughed up roses.
she melted gilded lilies
and shot gift horses like steer.
calling Athena a common whore,
she chose sackcloth and a sweaty habit;
she said that silk felt like burlap
on the unholies of her flesh;
the bosom-splinters from the unvarnished cross
felt fine.
believing in belief and happily ever after,
her cloister closed in.
maybe she believed in the golden city;
we only saw terra swallow her bones.
insignificant penumbra;
nobody coughed up roses.
she melted gilded lilies
and shot gift horses like steer.
calling Athena a common whore,
she chose sackcloth and a sweaty habit;
she said that silk felt like burlap
on the unholies of her flesh;
the bosom-splinters from the unvarnished cross
felt fine.
believing in belief and happily ever after,
her cloister closed in.
maybe she believed in the golden city;
we only saw terra swallow her bones.
Work Makes You Free
Work makes you free
and they worked
for years
no food
no water
and they lived
they built gas chambers.
a ‘shower’
killed them
The corpses waited
to be moved.
The next room
had ovens.
Death is freedom?
I don’t think
that was the “freedom”
they wanted
at the end
it wasn’t work
that made them free
and they worked
for years
no food
no water
and they lived
they built gas chambers.
a ‘shower’
killed them
The corpses waited
to be moved.
The next room
had ovens.
Death is freedom?
I don’t think
that was the “freedom”
they wanted
at the end
it wasn’t work
that made them free
Arbeit Macht Frei
I wrote this poem in 2007, after my visit to the concentration camp in Dachau. My German is (most likely) completely screwed up. But this is still my first (and only, if memory serves) attempt to write a poem completely in another language. The translation will be in the next post.
Arbeit macht frei
und sie arbeiteten
für Jahre
keine Nahrung
kein Wasser
und sie lebten
sie errichteten Gaskammern.
eine ‘Dusche’
getötet ihnen
Die Leichen warteten
zu verschoben werden.
Der naechste Raum
hatte die Öfen.
Tod ist Freiheit?
Ich denke nicht
das war die „Freiheit,“
dass sie wünschten
am Ende
es war nicht Arbeit
das gab sie frei
Arbeit macht frei
und sie arbeiteten
für Jahre
keine Nahrung
kein Wasser
und sie lebten
sie errichteten Gaskammern.
eine ‘Dusche’
getötet ihnen
Die Leichen warteten
zu verschoben werden.
Der naechste Raum
hatte die Öfen.
Tod ist Freiheit?
Ich denke nicht
das war die „Freiheit,“
dass sie wünschten
am Ende
es war nicht Arbeit
das gab sie frei
Labels:
text:german,
title:german
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Children of the Aegis Angel
Innocent,
like the first few minutes awake;
before life’s millstone
falls upon ever-leaden shoulders.
We are
newborns,
trying to iron out
the wrinkles on our faces
because good
isn’t ‘perfect enough,’
and we are
tired of hurting.
Tying yellow ribbons
around scarred wrists,
memorials of the crucifixes
that angels lifted.
Are you tired yet?
My weariness, tight jeans
that I choose to wear;
maintaining a still frame
of politically correct agony
that is just
plain
stupid.
Decimate your barriers
and hand your razor blades to He
who no longer fears
the bite of steel;
my Friend,
and hope
who loves despite his scars.
And, you know?
I can still love too.
like the first few minutes awake;
before life’s millstone
falls upon ever-leaden shoulders.
We are
newborns,
trying to iron out
the wrinkles on our faces
because good
isn’t ‘perfect enough,’
and we are
tired of hurting.
Tying yellow ribbons
around scarred wrists,
memorials of the crucifixes
that angels lifted.
Are you tired yet?
My weariness, tight jeans
that I choose to wear;
maintaining a still frame
of politically correct agony
that is just
plain
stupid.
Decimate your barriers
and hand your razor blades to He
who no longer fears
the bite of steel;
my Friend,
and hope
who loves despite his scars.
And, you know?
I can still love too.
& j'aurais mon paradis perdu
taint me with your zephyrous liqueurs
and let me exhale these polished dreams,
these sunbathed isles, free of any cloud
that might cast shadows across hope,
this tiny little diamond that I hold.
hold me, a simple command, a wish;
the manifestation of fragile dreams.
They exist in twelve dimensions, but, Alas,
you are nowhere near.
and let me exhale these polished dreams,
these sunbathed isles, free of any cloud
that might cast shadows across hope,
this tiny little diamond that I hold.
hold me, a simple command, a wish;
the manifestation of fragile dreams.
They exist in twelve dimensions, but, Alas,
you are nowhere near.
Labels:
title:french
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
silhouette
i loved you behind the silk screen of stagelights, letting the light colors bleach your skin into angelic hues. you were so beautiful singing Shakespeare to the masses; i thought you more a Cordelia, but underneath the sunglasses and icy rouge, Goneril shone through, wrinkled and aged.
you are hated; a batty old woman who pets her cats, not knowing the secret collaborations; they dream of slipping feet and broken hips.
falling you will be like sinking the titanic, inevitable; the buoyancy of skill is no match for leaden ego.
i like to think that people are more than the outline they traced on butcher paper, during those beautiful kindergarten days, when hope still blossomed in emerald bushes. but you are hollow.
or so i've seen. prove me wrong;
because i want to love you.
you are hated; a batty old woman who pets her cats, not knowing the secret collaborations; they dream of slipping feet and broken hips.
falling you will be like sinking the titanic, inevitable; the buoyancy of skill is no match for leaden ego.
i like to think that people are more than the outline they traced on butcher paper, during those beautiful kindergarten days, when hope still blossomed in emerald bushes. but you are hollow.
or so i've seen. prove me wrong;
because i want to love you.
Labels:
prose poetry
fiat lux
for Jon
je t’aime
Beloved, I would burn the world in clouds
of napalm; bring to sing a running stream
of flame, with ashes like a widow's shroud;
a gentle balm to cover every scream
that falls from shattered windows, every curse
to fall from clothèd lips before they burn
on stakes that they created in life's course --
of course, to Heaven blinded eyes shall turn.
Now. Stop and breathe with rationality;
for I would scorch the world to kill your cross,
and set our breaking hearts forever free,
to rid our bones of emptiness's moss.
Today we ache in quiet suffering,
and yet, with haunted voices, we still sing.
je t’aime
Beloved, I would burn the world in clouds
of napalm; bring to sing a running stream
of flame, with ashes like a widow's shroud;
a gentle balm to cover every scream
that falls from shattered windows, every curse
to fall from clothèd lips before they burn
on stakes that they created in life's course --
of course, to Heaven blinded eyes shall turn.
Now. Stop and breathe with rationality;
for I would scorch the world to kill your cross,
and set our breaking hearts forever free,
to rid our bones of emptiness's moss.
Today we ache in quiet suffering,
and yet, with haunted voices, we still sing.
Labels:
dedication,
sonnet,
title:latin
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
broken aegis
My love:
Many minutes have passed since we last crossed eyes, leaving me to wonder if anything still breathed in the minute crevices that our unspoken goodbyes left behind.
In the last hundred-thousand grains of sand, I have learned the blues well. Deus ex Maestro, the master of the Heavenly band, ordered these strings bent, the better to birth broken chords. My chest, resonant and empty beneath the ribs, has echoed these sounds well, causing these selfsame fingers to paint them on my eyelids for the whole world to see.
I have forgotten to scour the eastern skies, looking for our covenent on the horizon. I’ve witnessed hopelessness aplenty during the darkest nights; jets masquerading as stars for the desperate optimist. But love? No, not love.
I’ve walked in desperation and mimed my way through far too many days. Love is, alas, the last thing on my mind.
Or maybe it is the only thing? As many times as I’ve sung hopelessness’s hymn; I still forget the ending. All I remember are the measures blocked with eighth rests, each one anticipating
future sound, ultimately unresolved.
This, my love, has been the composition of my days in the sun. I can only hope that different stars have shined on you.
- égide
Many minutes have passed since we last crossed eyes, leaving me to wonder if anything still breathed in the minute crevices that our unspoken goodbyes left behind.
In the last hundred-thousand grains of sand, I have learned the blues well. Deus ex Maestro, the master of the Heavenly band, ordered these strings bent, the better to birth broken chords. My chest, resonant and empty beneath the ribs, has echoed these sounds well, causing these selfsame fingers to paint them on my eyelids for the whole world to see.
I have forgotten to scour the eastern skies, looking for our covenent on the horizon. I’ve witnessed hopelessness aplenty during the darkest nights; jets masquerading as stars for the desperate optimist. But love? No, not love.
I’ve walked in desperation and mimed my way through far too many days. Love is, alas, the last thing on my mind.
Or maybe it is the only thing? As many times as I’ve sung hopelessness’s hymn; I still forget the ending. All I remember are the measures blocked with eighth rests, each one anticipating
future sound, ultimately unresolved.
This, my love, has been the composition of my days in the sun. I can only hope that different stars have shined on you.
- égide
Labels:
prose poetry
To the Days that Never Were
"I'm full of a future that never got lived,
days that should have been but never were."
Clara Oswald, Doctor Who: The Rings of Akhaten
We lived for Strawberry Hill and April showers,
for silly pranks and brighter days.
We suffocated our demons as they rose
and let life be, for all it is.
I do not begrudge you the high road, straight and fast,
nor the picture's perfection; that isn't life
but fantasy writ in this wondering mind,
left to wander a long and crooked life.
I leave cigarettes on the water,
a peace offering to the gods that be.
I thank them for you, for memories
and dreams and tears, for all the things
you left me -- and the things you didn't, I see
our child in my eye, your first laugh line,
the years of straight progression, matrimony,
love and lust, a house on a hill, anger and laughter,
angst; a bottle of bitter pills, quaque die,
our bodies find sleep; for once, for all,
find peace.
But you were the hurricane, and I mundane;
never quite enough to match your pace.
I leave you to the years. I hold you dear.
days that should have been but never were."
Clara Oswald, Doctor Who: The Rings of Akhaten
We lived for Strawberry Hill and April showers,
for silly pranks and brighter days.
We suffocated our demons as they rose
and let life be, for all it is.
I do not begrudge you the high road, straight and fast,
nor the picture's perfection; that isn't life
but fantasy writ in this wondering mind,
left to wander a long and crooked life.
I leave cigarettes on the water,
a peace offering to the gods that be.
I thank them for you, for memories
and dreams and tears, for all the things
you left me -- and the things you didn't, I see
our child in my eye, your first laugh line,
the years of straight progression, matrimony,
love and lust, a house on a hill, anger and laughter,
angst; a bottle of bitter pills, quaque die,
our bodies find sleep; for once, for all,
find peace.
But you were the hurricane, and I mundane;
never quite enough to match your pace.
I leave you to the years. I hold you dear.
Labels:
john green,
looking for alaska
Monday, October 21, 2013
a letter to the father from the unbroken man, resplendent in his shame.
i cried.
my tears were ionized vodka, a drunkenness roaring out of my body, craving attention and love. i still held to you then, a jeweled torch in the shadows of my life and a salve for the precise hieroglyphs engraved on my legs. but i still bled, and i still wept, hoping to find heaven's gate before the last of my hope died.
i lived.
there came a day where my faith went on the wind, and i no longer felt a spirit in the old hymns. i knew the chords by heart and i loved to sing, but it was only a fancy to soothe my heart and manufacture chills on my spine. there was no personage. it was an empty vibrance in depression's depths, and i would rather go without. and so i did.
it was a long, slow road to being alive, and i still walk it. and i think that i am more proud, having walked it without you. i do not doubt heaven or the angels and the saints. i doubt only your love for me.
i have done without love, and many other things besides. you are not the only pledge that i have accused of faithlessness on the long march; though you were the most beloved. i looked to you to bring the sun into focus, to place coins in my hand, to energize this tired skeleton with a raison d'être. and you failed me.
i can now see the light at the tunnel's end; but i do not know if i should love you or thank you; or if i should love and thank myself. there is still evil you have instilled in me, a perspective of hatred and abstinence that i must learn to break. i swore my youth by the cross, and by the cross was my spirit crucified by a real world that has no need of you.
you are a beautiful lie. or maybe real. you have said nothing from one extreme to another, nor have you declared yourself in simple words and deeds. but i can no longer live in penance for uncommitted sins, hoping one day that death will be better than life.
i must live.
my tears were ionized vodka, a drunkenness roaring out of my body, craving attention and love. i still held to you then, a jeweled torch in the shadows of my life and a salve for the precise hieroglyphs engraved on my legs. but i still bled, and i still wept, hoping to find heaven's gate before the last of my hope died.
i lived.
there came a day where my faith went on the wind, and i no longer felt a spirit in the old hymns. i knew the chords by heart and i loved to sing, but it was only a fancy to soothe my heart and manufacture chills on my spine. there was no personage. it was an empty vibrance in depression's depths, and i would rather go without. and so i did.
it was a long, slow road to being alive, and i still walk it. and i think that i am more proud, having walked it without you. i do not doubt heaven or the angels and the saints. i doubt only your love for me.
i have done without love, and many other things besides. you are not the only pledge that i have accused of faithlessness on the long march; though you were the most beloved. i looked to you to bring the sun into focus, to place coins in my hand, to energize this tired skeleton with a raison d'être. and you failed me.
i can now see the light at the tunnel's end; but i do not know if i should love you or thank you; or if i should love and thank myself. there is still evil you have instilled in me, a perspective of hatred and abstinence that i must learn to break. i swore my youth by the cross, and by the cross was my spirit crucified by a real world that has no need of you.
you are a beautiful lie. or maybe real. you have said nothing from one extreme to another, nor have you declared yourself in simple words and deeds. but i can no longer live in penance for uncommitted sins, hoping one day that death will be better than life.
i must live.
Labels:
prose poetry
For Men of No Importance
If love be all the world then let us sing
to Aphrodite's supplication, I
have such a tiny voice, melodies ring,
and I am tiny though I'd sooner fly
on wings of flawless gold, I see them glow,
subsisting on the aether; angels dwell
an inch beyond the rise of tippie-toes
to be a lovely thing, oh it'd be swell!
I'm no courageous thing, a man gone soft
so tenderized by time, tripping through years.
Despite myself, I'd sooner be aloft,
not subject, as a mortal man, to fear.
For some, angelic radiance's innate
and others must be Daedalus, create.
to Aphrodite's supplication, I
have such a tiny voice, melodies ring,
and I am tiny though I'd sooner fly
on wings of flawless gold, I see them glow,
subsisting on the aether; angels dwell
an inch beyond the rise of tippie-toes
to be a lovely thing, oh it'd be swell!
I'm no courageous thing, a man gone soft
so tenderized by time, tripping through years.
Despite myself, I'd sooner be aloft,
not subject, as a mortal man, to fear.
For some, angelic radiance's innate
and others must be Daedalus, create.
Labels:
sonnet
Sunday, October 20, 2013
girl in hyacinth blue
i.
school taught me
to flawlessly recite
all the conjugations
of aimer and lieben,
but when temptation incarnate
stands, alone and waiting
to be swept onto the dance floor,
i am useless.
ii.
i can scan verses,
mark meter and rhyme,
and analyze the author's
blood alcohol level
at the moment pen
was set to paper;
but if poetry is for
the wooing of women,
english has failed me
greatly.
as i stand here
sweating.
iii.
courage fails me,
but the girl is a goddess.
with shy smiles
and nervous hands,
she says
hello.
school taught me
to flawlessly recite
all the conjugations
of aimer and lieben,
but when temptation incarnate
stands, alone and waiting
to be swept onto the dance floor,
i am useless.
ii.
i can scan verses,
mark meter and rhyme,
and analyze the author's
blood alcohol level
at the moment pen
was set to paper;
but if poetry is for
the wooing of women,
english has failed me
greatly.
as i stand here
sweating.
iii.
courage fails me,
but the girl is a goddess.
with shy smiles
and nervous hands,
she says
hello.
morgenlieder
I seek the morning, the evanescent moment
when night refracts and bends,
forced to crumble at dawn's advent.
The monsters protest,
demanding their fill and due.
But I will have weregild,
recompense for a crucified youth.
I claim the years to come,
the purest prisms of light,
literal joy, untarnished love.
I leave the mourning
to those who'd sing
such derelict songs.
I owe the darkness nothing more.
when night refracts and bends,
forced to crumble at dawn's advent.
The monsters protest,
demanding their fill and due.
But I will have weregild,
recompense for a crucified youth.
I claim the years to come,
the purest prisms of light,
literal joy, untarnished love.
I leave the mourning
to those who'd sing
such derelict songs.
I owe the darkness nothing more.
Labels:
title:german
morning's truth
If i should hold sweet dawn in my esteem,
the promenade to morning dancing near
then i would question all the things that seem
to cling to permanence. i have no fear
of monsters, clinging to the lonely night;
i know the things that cleave to shadow's sway.
i have held court with monsters, they delight
in tormenting the hours e'er away--
but i have learned the meter of their hymns
and pridefully belt the insults that they fling.
impervious to their unholy whims
i do not fear the painful songs they sing.
for monsters, while they love to make men cry
so seldom do they ever deign to lie.
the promenade to morning dancing near
then i would question all the things that seem
to cling to permanence. i have no fear
of monsters, clinging to the lonely night;
i know the things that cleave to shadow's sway.
i have held court with monsters, they delight
in tormenting the hours e'er away--
but i have learned the meter of their hymns
and pridefully belt the insults that they fling.
impervious to their unholy whims
i do not fear the painful songs they sing.
for monsters, while they love to make men cry
so seldom do they ever deign to lie.
Labels:
sonnet
as he bled.
i.
i told my unquiet heart
to just accept the waves.
"your blood grows old,
and the wildfire dies;
it is time to accept
the unacceptable things."
it's time to accept
the empty miles with grace;
to learn to love
the unyielding silence.
it is thy only friend.
it is my only friend.
it is
all that there is
for your tired old soul.
ii.
you are loved
without being loved.
you are desired
without being desired.
you live by grace, and yet
grace has never quite found you.
iii.
accept the paradox;
it's the only resolution
that makes
the slightest bit of sense;
it's the only answer you'll get.
i told my unquiet heart
to just accept the waves.
"your blood grows old,
and the wildfire dies;
it is time to accept
the unacceptable things."
it's time to accept
the empty miles with grace;
to learn to love
the unyielding silence.
it is thy only friend.
it is my only friend.
it is
all that there is
for your tired old soul.
ii.
you are loved
without being loved.
you are desired
without being desired.
you live by grace, and yet
grace has never quite found you.
iii.
accept the paradox;
it's the only resolution
that makes
the slightest bit of sense;
it's the only answer you'll get.
Saturday, October 19, 2013
charcoal mockingjay
i.
ignition is simple, any spark would do,
but you doused her feathers in petrol
and lit a match, thinking for fireworks
and perhaps a bit of roast bird to sate
the appetites of your people, so long used
to dinner and a show while sitting luxury's lap.
built as a norse general set to sea, she was
laden with pearls for oysters to reclaim,
silk extracted from the butterfly's tomb --
she was beautiful, so beautiful, too beautiful;
goddess sent to kneel at the guillotine
for dubious crimes; you always loved
a little bit of mystery and a whole lot of lies.
you struck matches and poured more gasoline --
there is something innately beautiful
in the hues of something unfamiliar burning,
chemical pockets creating colors
that the old rainbow didn't know.
but fire is catching, flames and light devour
inequity and reveal the best-kept lies.
fire is catching --
beware the work of your own hands.
ii.
just a pile of ashes remain;
this girl is no phoenix, to die
ensconced in flames to rise again.
there is no magic, the pile of corpses
and the river of blood are real, too real
for any human heart to handle, this girl
is just a girl; seventeen years
and her head bears cain's mark, a necessity
to keep her lungs moving and her terse eyes open.
what have you done? j'accuse, j'accuse.
she hews her crucifix from the smoldering rubble
that is her life; her conscience overwhelmed
with dead weight dropped by raging warlords.
compressed, compacted, elongated, painted, and burnt,
photographed and digitized; soul manipulated
by many hands; carved up, claimed, and devoured,
but still the raging gods are unsatisfied --
what more, exactly, can they demand from skin, bones
and an an exhausted soul -- don't worry,
we can cover the cracks with paint and plaster,
we can smooth away all the humanity.
it isn't beautiful what remains, the tired husk
and consumed bones of beauty and talent, of fire
and ice and rage; they couldn't be quelled, she wasn't
stopped, she wasn't extinguished. point your fingers
and tell your stories; you're only human,
you wouldn't even think to blame yourselves.
iii.
time heals all things, waves lap away
the dried blood; a decade of sleep
erases the fatigue, though the demons camp
forever in the tiny, backwoods corners of the brain.
time heals all things, the cruelty becomes
history, his story, her story, passed on
to children; mother, son, father, daughter,
nature resumes and repairs what men destroy.
ignition is simple, any spark would do,
but you doused her feathers in petrol
and lit a match, thinking for fireworks
and perhaps a bit of roast bird to sate
the appetites of your people, so long used
to dinner and a show while sitting luxury's lap.
built as a norse general set to sea, she was
laden with pearls for oysters to reclaim,
silk extracted from the butterfly's tomb --
she was beautiful, so beautiful, too beautiful;
goddess sent to kneel at the guillotine
for dubious crimes; you always loved
a little bit of mystery and a whole lot of lies.
you struck matches and poured more gasoline --
there is something innately beautiful
in the hues of something unfamiliar burning,
chemical pockets creating colors
that the old rainbow didn't know.
but fire is catching, flames and light devour
inequity and reveal the best-kept lies.
fire is catching --
beware the work of your own hands.
ii.
just a pile of ashes remain;
this girl is no phoenix, to die
ensconced in flames to rise again.
there is no magic, the pile of corpses
and the river of blood are real, too real
for any human heart to handle, this girl
is just a girl; seventeen years
and her head bears cain's mark, a necessity
to keep her lungs moving and her terse eyes open.
what have you done? j'accuse, j'accuse.
she hews her crucifix from the smoldering rubble
that is her life; her conscience overwhelmed
with dead weight dropped by raging warlords.
compressed, compacted, elongated, painted, and burnt,
photographed and digitized; soul manipulated
by many hands; carved up, claimed, and devoured,
but still the raging gods are unsatisfied --
what more, exactly, can they demand from skin, bones
and an an exhausted soul -- don't worry,
we can cover the cracks with paint and plaster,
we can smooth away all the humanity.
it isn't beautiful what remains, the tired husk
and consumed bones of beauty and talent, of fire
and ice and rage; they couldn't be quelled, she wasn't
stopped, she wasn't extinguished. point your fingers
and tell your stories; you're only human,
you wouldn't even think to blame yourselves.
iii.
time heals all things, waves lap away
the dried blood; a decade of sleep
erases the fatigue, though the demons camp
forever in the tiny, backwoods corners of the brain.
time heals all things, the cruelty becomes
history, his story, her story, passed on
to children; mother, son, father, daughter,
nature resumes and repairs what men destroy.
Labels:
hunger games trilogy,
susanne collins
Debbie's Sonnet
for D.M.P.
on her birthday
I pray the joy of age has come to thee,
a coronet upon thy lovely brow;
so gifted with God's wisdom, clear to see
the method of the world, wherefore and how
the stars in their rotation sing a hymn
and in their burning bring a sacrifice
unfettered by their whirling worlds' whims
unbound by any 'logical' device.
In love we give our lives: the open hand
is never truly empty, treasure breeds
where treasure truly lasts; by His command
in giving of ourselves we spread love's seed.
You are, among the Earth, a burning star,
a guiding light of love seen well afar.
on her birthday
I pray the joy of age has come to thee,
a coronet upon thy lovely brow;
so gifted with God's wisdom, clear to see
the method of the world, wherefore and how
the stars in their rotation sing a hymn
and in their burning bring a sacrifice
unfettered by their whirling worlds' whims
unbound by any 'logical' device.
In love we give our lives: the open hand
is never truly empty, treasure breeds
where treasure truly lasts; by His command
in giving of ourselves we spread love's seed.
You are, among the Earth, a burning star,
a guiding light of love seen well afar.
Labels:
dedication,
sonnet
Thursday, September 19, 2013
ecce caelum
behold the photon that carries hope,
a scattered shard of dawn that waves
from the sun,
on high
& so very
far away;
one of a million minute things
that coalesce into beauty;
strands of a sensory hymn
that sing
sweetly
& so very
softly.
*
the morning mourns
in its own lovely way;
the soft dew weeps
and grey clouds linger,
but sunlight sings
and butterflies flutter by.
it is time to wake up.
a scattered shard of dawn that waves
from the sun,
on high
& so very
far away;
one of a million minute things
that coalesce into beauty;
strands of a sensory hymn
that sing
sweetly
& so very
softly.
*
the morning mourns
in its own lovely way;
the soft dew weeps
and grey clouds linger,
but sunlight sings
and butterflies flutter by.
it is time to wake up.
Labels:
title:latin
last rites
extreme close up: the girl called ugly. fuck, she was beautiful once, back in the land of milk and honey. she danced in circles of her own composition, cued by a maestro unseen. she carried the radiance of heaven above. we dared to dream.her own hands have made truth of the lies. she is a bag of bones, dried daisy left to wither under the scorn of their flaming eyes. they have tried breathing water into the desert of her flesh, letting the aqueous hope flow through tired veins.
i think it too late: her lips are painted with dehydration's pale hues, splintered with a garnet lacework. a grandmother's lines edge the death of her eyes; she ages as paint dries. i did not know it was possible to eviscerate youth with a look and a touch, but cruelty's anvil has done that much and more to her slender frame.
the stranger will come in the night. i cannot deny the dies iræ waiting on my lips. the tears are dammed by the bloody rose of rage, blossoming with thorns, tearing at myocardial muscle.
she flutters away. the thorns dig deeper. there is no vale for the suicidal, there will be no bagpipes, no flags lowered. this war is not acknowledged, her death passes unmarked. they always do.
i think it too late: her lips are painted with dehydration's pale hues, splintered with a garnet lacework. a grandmother's lines edge the death of her eyes; she ages as paint dries. i did not know it was possible to eviscerate youth with a look and a touch, but cruelty's anvil has done that much and more to her slender frame.
the stranger will come in the night. i cannot deny the dies iræ waiting on my lips. the tears are dammed by the bloody rose of rage, blossoming with thorns, tearing at myocardial muscle.
she flutters away. the thorns dig deeper. there is no vale for the suicidal, there will be no bagpipes, no flags lowered. this war is not acknowledged, her death passes unmarked. they always do.
Labels:
ana/mia,
eating disorders,
prose poetry
Children of the Supernova
I do not comprehend the pattern of stars
etched upon my eyelids -- will they shine
or will they fall? Lucifer was brightest
and I am no angel despite my lies, just
a child walking blind in the great Before,
the world before your pages brought Dawn.
The world does not understand Dawn.
They think of roses, prismatic stars,
not understanding the dark moment before,
the miasma a prelude to the supernova's shine,
the moment we abandoned everything just;
we fought for things that shined the brightest.
I do not suppose I was the brightest,
though I'm not stupid -- I slept through Dawn
and let the beautiful moments pass, just
unhinged, walking through blurry stars,
unable to decipher how exactly they shine.
I lived for the moments to come, the minutes before.
But never the present, before
I knew nostalgia, I knew days, brightest
of all these many years. Moments shine
through, blissful memories, but expectations dawn
with age, our 'success' kills the stars
in our skies, in our eyes, we just --
We die. We die. Perhaps it is just,
we cannot speak the words we spoke before,
lest we incite our unholy idols, stars
that never were, exhalted and brightest.
We were never satisfied with Dawn,
she is too soft. Our lights really shine.
I wonder how these tired humans shine,
so buffed and polished and pruned until just
the 'beautiful' parts remain -- until it dawns
upon their faces, the breathing man they were before.
The stage-lights might shine the brightest
but they are no substitute for the stars.
I was destined to shine -- that was before
I knew just what it meant to be brightest.
I embrace Dawn, flawed as I, but both stars.
etched upon my eyelids -- will they shine
or will they fall? Lucifer was brightest
and I am no angel despite my lies, just
a child walking blind in the great Before,
the world before your pages brought Dawn.
The world does not understand Dawn.
They think of roses, prismatic stars,
not understanding the dark moment before,
the miasma a prelude to the supernova's shine,
the moment we abandoned everything just;
we fought for things that shined the brightest.
I do not suppose I was the brightest,
though I'm not stupid -- I slept through Dawn
and let the beautiful moments pass, just
unhinged, walking through blurry stars,
unable to decipher how exactly they shine.
I lived for the moments to come, the minutes before.
But never the present, before
I knew nostalgia, I knew days, brightest
of all these many years. Moments shine
through, blissful memories, but expectations dawn
with age, our 'success' kills the stars
in our skies, in our eyes, we just --
We die. We die. Perhaps it is just,
we cannot speak the words we spoke before,
lest we incite our unholy idols, stars
that never were, exhalted and brightest.
We were never satisfied with Dawn,
she is too soft. Our lights really shine.
I wonder how these tired humans shine,
so buffed and polished and pruned until just
the 'beautiful' parts remain -- until it dawns
upon their faces, the breathing man they were before.
The stage-lights might shine the brightest
but they are no substitute for the stars.
I was destined to shine -- that was before
I knew just what it meant to be brightest.
I embrace Dawn, flawed as I, but both stars.
Labels:
sestina
Somehow There's Still Sunlight
for Wayne and Lori Earl
i.
The dreams come to me in the coldest hours of the morning, when I am covered in blankets, and even with the heater blazing, the marrow in my toes is frozen. They are not lovely, they are not beautiful things, but black phantasms from tartarus that wind through my ribcage, making me cough and cry and ache.
Today is day 1193. God help me.
I know that I am supposed to sleep. I know that I am supposed to wake up. But my life has largely consisted of the middle way, 100 million odd seconds of haze, arranged in long procession. Oh my dear, I have taken the long, low road through death’s valley, where rock formations create strange shadows, prismatic vortices of hell’s miasma when viewed through the persistent film of tears that will simply not leave my eyes.
That, love, is a moment, a second, a day like any other since you left, blurred beyond recognition. I do not begrudge your release, for I knew your hours dragged on, fire and ice plugged into your skin, veins hoping for sustenance, but finding only vain and empty promises.
I do not begrudge you your release, I only wonder when my eyes will dry; when will I be able to see the world without your light?
ii.
They do not tell you that, eventually, everybody goes. Yes, they understand pain, until the pain drags on. They have loves, and they have lives, and after a while, one becomes a blossom in the forest, a pest-gnawed wildflower that will either live or die, and is of no concern. I have managed to weather the seasons by a thorn’s breadth, I have managed to keep on in this quiet stasis, excruciated, but alive.
iii.
Perhaps you don’t see the sunlight in these dark thoughts, but I promise you that it’s there. Dawn is not instantaneous, and indeed, she marches with slow regiment and staid steps. There is a certain sturdiness to dawn’s first light, a sturdiness that I still aspire to.
I fail, in most moments and on most days. My heart pumps in retrograde, and my eyes look back to the brighter days with rose lenses and a dunce’s cap.
I have worshiped your memory with a simple stupidity, failing to see the complexities inherit in a beating heart and electric mind. I have brought you down to my level, and made you about me. I have been selfish in my pain, and needlessly cruel in my depression; to myself first, but to others too. I adjust my glasses and curse Retrospect her perfect vision.
I confess my shortfallings readily, but it is harder to rectify them. You will have to be patient with me; allow the sunlight to filter through my leather skin and iron defenses.
I am not selfless. I am not even good, most of the time, but I remember being better, reflected in the cerulean of your eyes. And that, I think, is the message of my pain: my world was better with you.
But now I must function. I made a false star out of you, and now I must recognize true sunlight, dim in comparison, but honest.
Labels:
esther earl,
lori earl,
prose poetry,
tswgo,
wayne earl
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