Every autumn gathers summer to itself,
and takes it underground.
So it is with humanity,
gathered at the end,
knit together by bone, if not blood,
in guts, if not glory.
The maggots ingest our spirits.
The worms gnaw on our flesh.
We are bound to sin in our flesh,
and bound for someone to share
life eternal in our spirits.
There is, in the end, only one question that matters:
Where?
The heart of the city
is made of steel.
Its soul is made of stone.
It gives no mercy, and has no pity.
It eats the unprotected innocent and spits out
runaways, junkies, whores, and thieves.
It gleams like a glass eye, but like a glass eye,
doesn’t see the harm it causes.
Some write upon its heart to make their presence known,
their absence felt.
The city makes it a crime, and begins its slow erosion
of the anguish of your screaming soul.
It will not remember your name.
It will not care.
It may pay you in cash,
or redeem you in blood.
The choice is yours,
but not really.
*Photo by Loes ten Den at Unsplash
Here, a small bright blossom
that contains a wish,
a hope,
a fantasy,
a dream
you hold dear,
a love you crave,
a life you desire,
a treat you’ve been missing.
My gift to you,
My wish for you,
My prayer over you,
My love of you
is all contained
within this
small, fragile,
world,
soft and fragrant,
sweet and kind,
and forgiving
of the fact
that I plucked it
from the source of
its beauty, now fleeting,
because you
are worth the life
of a small, bright blossom,
lasting,
and far lovelier.
Take it.
Together
we will be,
fragile, mortal,
and fleetingly beautiful,
holding out hope for far more
as we get less
than we truly deserve.
‘Follow,’ they told me.
“But it’s way up there! How am I supposed to follow it?”
“Move.”
“But it’s faster than me.”
“Overtake it. Capture it. Subdue it. Claim it.”
“But it’s…”
One by one, they fell silent.
One by one, they went away.
The dream flew onward, and higher, and further out of reach.
I watched until it was out of sight.
The cold darkness engulfed me,
and the ticking of the clock
grew a little louder.
I sighed, and walked through the night after my dream.
“Surely, it will land soon.”
But I’m still walking,
and the sky is clear.
*Photo by Ian Espinosa / Unsplash
They say, these poets and writers, that tears fall like rain.
Tears don’t do that.
The salt of suffering is not in raindrops.
They accentuate the sadness already in your soul.
They make the room more intimate, and proximity
to a pretty mouth a dangerous and exciting time.
But they are not tears.
Tears are born of the sea, of emotions set adrift,
of a loss of direction, like storm clouds
blotting out the stars.
Tears are quiet, glistening
in the persimmon light of the setting sun.
Creeping like translucent shadows to hide
in the corners of the lips of that pretty mouth.
Tears are a release, a breaking dam that floods
the plains of your reason,
that slakes the thirst and balms the wounds
of a broken heart.
Tears are not like rain, but they are a reflection
of the inner turmoil of the roiling sky,
washing away your resistance.
And like the storm,
whose sobs are bolts of lightning,
let the quiet, pelting hiss of hurt
pass over you, until the clouds break,
and the tears stop.
And the sun in your smile returns,
bringing a rainbow to bind
the pieces of you
back together.
Tears are not like rain.
“And some for me,” she whispered all those many years ago.
Drifting down the river in the current’s gentle flow.
Sorrowful she lost his love, her rags a favored gown.
Still in love although its heavy weight would take her down.
Her brother all remaining now.
Her love and father lost.
Her weeds and flowers told the price
That each would pay in cost.
He asked in her orisons she remember all his sins.
And now the current lays her in an eddy as it spins.
The softened mud receives her like an offering that’s due:
The gentle, fair Ophelia, a flowery sprig of rue.
Oh, she deserved far better than a bitter boy untrue.
The river silt blocks out the sky so clear and bright of hue.
And seals up Ophelia’s unseeing eyes of blue.
Insane and sad Ophelia, a sweet bouquet of rue.
In pain, the mad Ophelia,
bouquet of
bitter
rue.
She flies on wings of ivory cloud,
the sun no longer gold,
within a silver amulet
upon a chain she’ll hold.
Her ebon hair now dancing
in the gentle evening air,
She sees the dreams of mortals
as she says her moonlight prayer.
There will be those she’ll cull tonight,
and those she will give dreams.
Her fingers gentle on their brows,
aglow with moonlight beams.
O come now, sweet Moon Angel
for your restless servant waits,
to once again ascend with you to
great Orion’s gates.
What will you show me?
“What do you see?”
Two constellations,
One you, and one me.
“What are we doing there?”
Dancing in space,
chasing the moon
in a wild, giddy race.
“What will you show me?”
What do you see?
“Us in a floating cloud,
restless and free.”
Where are we going?
“Who cares and who knows?
“We’re riding a cloud so
it’s where the wind blows!”
But all things considered
of all we can be,
I’m glad that you’re here with me
under this tree.
Do they know?
Should I tell them?
Are they worthy of the knowledge?
Am I?
I climb this tower to see what others can’t,
to feel what others won’t.
A whisper in my mind that
warmed my heart and chilled my soul
said, “This is the last one.”
I wanted to jump down, to cry out,
to warn, to incite panic that we might
save ourselves.
But the colors drew me in,
the breeze touched my face like a loving mother,
and I felt Time begin to die.
He took me from the tower as he passed,
and there would be no tomorrow, and no memory
of the last earthly glory my weary eyes witnessed
in this life.
And all the tears of the all the other watchers mingled with my own,
and together,
we put out the sun.
Your guitar
echoed over the ocean,
the melody you played
slow and beautiful,
timeless and flowing
like the small waves,
working slow magic,
only to vanish
with an essence of shore,
of time,
of us,
drawn to your music
for a brief and lively
dance,
waving farewell
in whitecap
whispers.
You opened
your eyes
to find mine,
crossing the bridge to your heart’s chorus,
singing the harmony to your life,
and composing our love,
the song
that only stops,
but never ends.
Beyond Panic 