Kissed of the Sun

She,

kissed of the sun,

birthed of the earth’s red clay,

stands a goddess in the green lush alcove

of branches that arch to protect her.

A sorceress that magic

willingly surrenders

its secrets to,

she only has to turn to me

to enchant me

with silent spells

of regal beauty.

She binds my mortal

heart to hand,

and bids me

love to worship her.

Surrender is all the sweeter then,

and for a time, I too, am kissed of the sun,

yet banished at moonrise

to dream once more

that a goddess

once loved

me.

 

*art by Charlie Bowater on pinterest.com

The Sandman’s Bride

Sleep, my daughter, for I am but a myth,

A Muse, they say.

A thing to make a man’s heart tender,

A creature that veils a woman’s eyes with love.

 

I know not what I am,

only that I was born to harvest

the very stars I made,

eons before you were born.

 

Sleep, my son, for I am but a mother,

a deliverer of dreams, they tell me, that bring smiles to infants,

and nightmares to those who see the world

through filters of neglect.

 

I know not what I am,

only that this light is made to sift

through my fingers and dapple

the clouds with twilight colors.

 

Sleep, my children, for I am

but a shadowed, masked, and transient being,

I’m told.

A fantasy of space and time,

contained in the imagination,

freed and manifest in the mind.

 

I know not what I am,

only that this mask

hides me from my own soul,

and the warmth of these clouds

console me in the dark, but are not

a lover’s embrace.

 

Sleep, my darlings, and know that

you are limitless as stars,

boundless as eternity,

and eternal as love.

 

I know not what I am,

only that I share my heart

with you, and we are twinned

in mind and purpose.

 

Take my hand, come with me,

and sleep.

Poetess in the Park

I stopped because she was absolutely riveting.

She actually wore a beret, had fully bought in to the whole scene.

Everything came together as I watched her perform,

as I watched her play the crowd.

I wanted her to hesitate when she looked at me, to stumble over her words, and come to a stop.

But she didn’t.

I understood: The poem was all to her, everything to her.

But to me,

she was the poem,

the art of something so out of the ordinary

it could never fit in.

I wanted to be that vibrant to someone,

for someone to know me so well they’d anticipate

what I’d improvise.

I wished she was my all and everything.

But I never asked her name.

The Empty Poet

He searched the floor of his life for more words,

but there were none.

In his day, he waxed quite elegant, his inimitable style admired

by all who attended the readings full of smells of coffee, sweat,

and too much perfume in close quarters.

The applause, while not thunderous, was engaged.

The conversations, while not stimulating, were polite.

“I liked that poem.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just did.”

“Thank you.” Sips coffee to indicate

the conversation’s over.

The microphone was no longer a beacon, but a flickering ghost light

in a dark theater.

The notebook paper and computer screens were all test patterns; nothing to see.

Nothing in them. Nothing on them.

My life isn’t over, but it seems to have run dry.

Was there really nothing left to say? Nothing that moved him? Touched his heart? Enraged him? Set him laughing hysterically?

Desperately, he mined for it, memories in black, oily sludge best left buried slipping in stringy fragments through his finger.

Feelings unrequited. Longings unfulfilled.

And now, the words have flown as well.

No feathers to fly, unfettered, they flee.

The skin dries as the words evaporate,

and the poet is now a husk of man.

Desiccated and empty, seeming all of a man, but containing nothing of him.

The pen slips from his fingers; the battery in the digital thing no longer holds a charge.

Change is forthcoming, but he will stand and remain, no regrets.

The memories are old, unrelenting, full of sharp rebuke.

He rises from kneeling in the sludge of his art,

As his husk dries slowly in the morning sun,

as the poet’s soul slips free.

Words Like Seeds

You turn your back on

the futility of letters.

‘Try,’ they keep saying.

‘You must keep trying.’

So I cut back, and set fire,

not to plant,  but purge,

yet the seedlings land

inside the spongy soil.

With sustenance unseen,

they wait their seasons,

testing the moments.

Heart and mind,

Soul and spirit,

are made verdant.

Pods of ideas,

Sprouts of imagination

flourish, rising and twisting

through the lattices.

They pollinate on paper,

and pluck pixels from our fingers,

working the pages of trees,

buzzing among the LED bulbs.

The pencil is the silvered scythe,

the poem reaped in harvest,

and placed on your table,

steaming and new

before your eyes.

Savor it, for it is one of a kind.

 

 

A Page a Day

A page a day,

the sages say,

is healthy for to write.

A poem, a story, ditty,

typed by day or

penned by night.

But sages are not writers

so no matter what they say,

when Muses seize you

by the throat,

you find you will obey.

So write whene’er you want to friends,

and write whene’er you can.

And listen to your Muses,

for a sage is just a man.

 

(*art by Sam Kennedy)

 

 

The Summit of Self

 

You’ve traveled far to see me, child,

and never told me why.

Am I supposed to love you, hate you,

live with you, or die?

 

You’ve traveled far to see me, child,

but I don’t know your name.

Am I to solve a riddle or to

play a guessing game?

 

You’ve traveled far to see me

following some long dead star.

And now you stand before me here,

so I’ll know who you are.

 

No longer sentient, my child.

Not able to inquire.

I can no longer see or hear

your circumstances dire.

 

I’ve no advice or wisdom.

You must learn them on your own.

The maggots feasted long ago,

and sharp fangs cracked the bone.

 

I’ll say your name to you, my child,

and I will speak it true.

The skeleton you gaze at on this mountaintop

is you.

 

Descend now from this mountain, child.

There’s nothing for you here.

Death’s but a silent, endless dream

and so you mustn’t fear.

 

You weep, my child, but foolishly.

The fate of all is this:

the gods who see us war and play

betray us with a kiss.