The I’s Have It

The I’s have it:

I, individual, feel so

insubstantial,

isolated,

invisible,

inconsequential.

I, individual, want so much to be

important,

invincible,

instrumental,

influential.

I, individual,

don’t know if it’s too late,

robbed of my

innocence,

insouciance,

imperviousness,

imagination

I, individual,

one day to be collected,

dispossessed of my

immortality.

The Last of Summer’s Flowers

These are the last of Summer’s flowers.

They watch their season go.

They’re leeched of life and struggle

as their colors fade to ‘no.’

Their perfume is not redolent.

Their vibrant petals curl,

turn into brown and sepia,

then plucked by windy swirl.

The icy winds of winter come,

to see them to their end.

And it will die next to its tree,

and lay next to a friend.

Until the springtime breezes block

the grave-cold winter’s eyes,

the last of summer’s flowers bloom,

themselves a worthy prize.

The Untold

The tales grow brittle,

left untold.

The incantations dry.

The knight, the dragon, and the maid

forgotten, left to die.

The hunter and the quarry

cease their endless chasing games.

And all the wild in all the world,

the silence slowly tames.

The story-laden stars go dark,

the woodland creatures cry.

The lantern-flowers give no light,

and fae no longer fly.

Beware the rift of of magic

separated from the earth.

No warriors to save the day,

just empty, longing dearth.

The stories lay forgotten now

on dusty, splintered shelves,

and we abandon to the void

the better of ourselves.

Small Comforts

Do you yet, even now,

find warmth in the rays of a

persimmon colored sunset?

Do you yet, even now,

find the smoke of your pipe

laden with wisdom, laughter,

and gentle gibes from your companions?

Do you yet, even now,

find hope in a blossom that insists

on growing

through the snow?

Do you yet, even now, hope for love,

or see it from this side as a treasure for

others to find?

Do you yet, even now,

give wan smiles at worn memories

when it rains?

Do you yet, even now,

take small comfort

standing just outside

the circle of light?

To be seen as a shadow

that wants to burn bright.

Take small comfort then,

that those who pass by you

in the middle of the night

do not see you at all.

Black Magi 2

You

played by the rules, stayed off the streets,

out of the pipeline,

and never brought static to police radios.

With honors, you walked across the floor

and brought tears of joy to your family,

and a smile on the face of your girl.

You took the scroll that said you did the work,

that ‘school’ was over, and ‘life’ could begin a new chapter.

Know this too,

Black Magi…

those who toiled in the hot sun,

they see you.

Those who endured the lash and the dogs,

they see you.

Those who were broken,

taking their ‘master’s yoke with downcast eyes,

they look up to you now,

and see you.

Those who taught themselves to read by candlelight and lanterns,

risking their lives to pass down the knowledge you were (finally) allowed

to access through the front door,

they see you.

The world over,

the ones who suffered to survive

so you could one day strive to achieve

what they could not,

they see you.

From the bottom of the oceans,

still wrapped in rust and barnacles,

turning to silt on the sand floor,

they see you,

Black Magi.

As one, their spirits lift their heads and eyes,

and every one of their voices, and sing to you

through the centuries of their love and pride.

What happens now, Black Magi?

Who will

you

see?

Unblended (3)

He examined her like a (w)horse…

talked of her strength and prowess,

and the power of her potential

to turn him a profit.

And in the desecrated marriage bed

of his sickroom, he treated her like a

(w)hores,

watching his ill-gotten get

pad his ill-gotten gains.

And in the quiet after midnight,

her tears and blood could not be placed

on a speared sponge, and touched to

chapped, split, sobbing lips.

And sometimes in the quiet after midnight,

the midwives did their cleaning up,

and sometimes the scavengers fed.

But in the best of cases,

the sires of their own ‘property’

took their child’s place

in the unmarked, remote, and lonely graves.

Proverbial

“Nice guys finish last.”

I’m poured out like a libation,

but not unconsumed.

On the short side of life,

now in the

emerging shadow

of my sunset years.

The bell’s final toll remains

unseen, unknown, and left to hide.

The cold aspect of

the Reaper’s featureless face

gives me a sage nod.

Captured now by my choices,

I live the life I do,

a life forged of heart and mind,

iron will and querulous wavering.

It is not the life envisioned or imagined,

and time turns its back on my recriminations,

moving ever-forward,

taking the vision with it.

And so…

the life I have.

“Nice guys finish last.”

The words sound bitter in the darkness.

And yet, for all the times of hardship and failure,

and getting back up to fight once more

because

it was the only thing left to do,

those words don’t ring quite true.

Blending

It seems an unremarkable thing,

this blending of lines,

of sky, mountain, and earth.

Today, we probe their mysteries,

dissect their compounds,

speculate on origins,

and calculate lifespans.

What lies beneath,

what lay behind,

is given over to

imagination, superstition,

and fear.

Old warrior gods, healing goddesses,

mythic creatures drawn

to vices and virgins.

Givers and takers,

enhancers, diminishers,

fire, blood, steel, and stone.

The cryptic, capricious constellations

telling different tales for different tribes, and

the arcane angles of the sun.

All for a price, all of a piece,

said to be fanciful and fake.

Yet their stories have not died.

The legacy of legends

are still in the recesses of the human mind,

given rebirth through human lips.

Slowly, they are returning

in the candles and crystals,

in the gems and crafts,

in the runes and ink,

and adding of souls.

And as behind the unremarkable blending

of sea and sky and mountain,

the angels and demons make war,

hear the magic call to you

in all its lost, forgotten glory,

and rekindle your wonder.

Lovers Quarrels

I see the wall you start to build,

so I build mine.

I see anger and pain in your eyes,

and so I fill my own,

but yours leaks down your face,

and mine does not,

for I am the better warrior.

And whereas your pain is fresh and new,

whenever inflicted,

my wounds have long scarred over,

and the pain within is dulled beyond sensing.

You quickly clutch your handful of quarrels,

and I slowly gather mine,

and we dip them in the poisons

of our tongues, and memories,

place them in our quivers of rage,

and loose.

They are barbed and painful

these quarrels,

meant to shatter and break,

meant to defeat the love that yet might

burn in the heart,

and smother it.

We try our best to find new flesh to pierce,

but we have only hit the old marks again,

rebuilt the chasm, and destroyed the bridge.

The peace of our home is in pieces.

The security of our love is set aflame.

The silence of our emotions is a dry wind.

And the quarrels are exhausted.

We retreat within the walls,

and pull them out, one by one, ruminating over each,

wondering why we still share the same space,

and little else.

It is a war we’ll never win,

a victory denied,

a constant obstacle of overcoming,

frenetically undermined.

So, my former darling,

we raise our white flags

into the light of a setting sun,

as you go your way,

and I go mine.

Dust on the Gold

Cursed be the one who plucked this rock

of captured sun and moon

from the river’s silt, and called it

gold,

good and worthy of pursuit.

Cursed be the demon jester

that blinded me and spun me round

until I believed it.

Given over to my desire,

abandoned by all who cared for me,

I dove deep, and dug deeper still,

until I gained all I desired,

then stole from other men.

In this hell-hallowed hovel,

now covered in ice and snow,

surrounded by dulled senses

and barren woods,

my status symbols decayed and decrepit,

daily mocking my misspent youth,

the wind howls outside and

echoes the cries of my soul’s solitude.

The hearth is lit, but the logs are thin.

And all around, the hissing of white snowfall

heralds the cold blackness of the grave.

Before I die,

I sit before the meager fire,

and take the dregs of my life,

and the ashes of future dreams,

and polish away

the dust on the gold.

%d bloggers like this: