Today I must apologize for the dry summer wind that carried words to you from me In outbursts of selfish misery. Today I must apologize for the lovesick river waters that curved around your tired body thoughtless of your hungry belly. Today I must apologize for the sweet singing birds which flited gleefully bout your head ignorant of your heart of lead. Tonight I must apologize for my weeping autumn eyes which cried to you in fits of woe for all you suffered some months ago. I beg of you forgiveness please do not hate me for this deed for it is you my dearest love whom I adore more than the sun.
Spring tells the truths that winter hid. Spring unearths last year's lies. As the snow layed like sugar on the ground red rimmed eyes were clouded with storms. As the snow melts the clouds dissipate, and lined in coal they see with spring eyes. Spring sees the sorrow that winter was blind to, and the mud holds a love that shows itself in new grass.
Just beneath the surface are hidden treasures. Silver spoons stained with blood and rust, tell a complex unguessable web of a tale. Imagine, two hundred year old babes sipping from this filthy thing you found in the forest.
Lost to my grasp, my memory, my mind, a hundred thousand puffs of cigar smoke. a grandfather of a hundred daughters, lost to the ages, yearning, yet so entirely forgotten. Lost to the impenetrable waves of time.
Just behind the tide are hidden horrors. Who is that maiden drowned some millenia ago, her pockets filled with pebbles and memories. Her dress, embroidered by a shaking hand, was torn by a cruel one.
Lost to my eyes, my ears, my own hand, is her angel hair, her sunken eyes, her fluted fingers. is the watch she wore at her breast, given by a hundred mothers, forgotten in a blur of tears so all encompassing.
Snow a new kind of foliage setting the landscape in high contrast and turning the floor into puddles. Snow which lays in flakes on your lovers eyelashes and seeps from the sky, each snowflake is an epiphany each snowflake is a kiss. Snow is for children who come in pink and crying and for hands, gnarled with time, which grumble in the morning, wielding a shovel. Snow is made of soggy mittens and shivering bare legs, which refuse the pants, so well advertised for the sake of power. Snow is purity, as it languishes, filthy and stained in the street and clings to the underside of my car snow is purity surely, stained with piss and blood and soot. Snow is a girl, just thirteen who sits at her window, and watches it fall.
At three o'clock he picked me up from school. The quiet seeped through the radio, defining his breathing, breathing, like before you cry, like he was on the edge of himself, of his self control, because he couldn't cry. I had asked him what was wrong, and he answered in a stuttering, red burst. He said that there was a riot a mob a coup. On the radio they call them protesters, but I knew. Protesters don't carry guns. protesters don't hide bombs in buildings. protesters don't use teargas. At home we watched grimly as a mob of ugly red-faced apes, waving flags and wearing red hats and military uniforms broke windows. And watched as police officers stood by, watching, and opened doors, and gave out bottles of water. How could this be? That when peaceful BLM protesters were shot and tear-gassed
My love is made of shadows, and chocolate, and gummy bears. Of grit and sunlight, and cold, bare skin. My love is made of pink fingertips, and stars, and giggling. Of secrets and dreams, and a quiet pencil, and a page turning.
Poetry which sits, on the lips of flowers, on the tongue of a hummingbird. Poetry which wanders, through a field of yellow dresses, through a forest of tangled hair. Poetry which slips, between drunken pages, between the sheets of a baby's cradle. Poetry which calls, through a haze of anger, to a lover's sleeping ears. And poetry which falls, through the cracks of the city, through the window of a man, who sleeps, eyes open. and finally falls from the mouth, of a child left, waking.
It is a solemn affair, As I take a knife to Grandmother’s hair, One little lock Dark and silvery, Which sits beside my own, Between the paws of a cardboard box.
It is a solemn affair, As Joshua takes up the spade, A hole is dug amongst the trees, Where roots crawl through the soil, In the hopes of putting an end To the funeral.
It is a solemn affair, As Grandmother weeps, Running her shaky fingers, Over soft as velvet furr. In the wake of her hands Are cedar twigs and flowers.
It is a solemn affair, As my hands reach for fresh brown earth, Cold, but not as cold as my pink tipped fingers. Every handful helps the ground to close her lips, Finally swallowing that cardboard box, The headstone is our final kiss.
It is a solemn affair, As Grandmother weeps about my shoulders. She forgets her coat, Her gloves, Her hat,
Last night was empty of dreams. The thickening purple haze that condensed over my pillow, never broke, because, Last night was empty of rain. The stars which shone, for all the world like diamonds, never failing till morning. Your face broke the dawn. When you never apeared, but the sun still rose, Last night was empty of love. As I lay alone, practicly dead. Last night was empty of silence, As the naibors where up all night, and as was I.
J'ai eu tout le temps du monde, Pour toi. Il y avait des moments où mon corps tremblait, juste à l'idée de te regarder, Et bien que ton nom ne soit pas Simon, Je penserai toujours à toi de cette façon, C'est peut-être simplement une idée de toi Et je n'ai jamais vraiment eu une bonne idée, C'est peut-être ça, Mais Simon, Personne ne peut m'empêcher de souhaiter de ne pas t'aimer.
Grandmother, how many you are, an army of the old and tired, an army of memories. I wonder, Is there war inside your head? as there is bloody war inside mine, war so angry, my skull threatens to split. Grandmother, Is your mind peaceful? has the army of memories suppressed the civil unrest between your eyes? Grandmother, surly your mind was once inflamed? Like mine? Grandmother, Is your mind still angry? As angry as your mouth? Grandmother, I wish I knew, All the things that you do. Grandmother, You are wise as a whale, I am wild like horses, All running in different directions. Grandmother, How many lovers have you loved? How many hearts have you broken? Grandmother, Is your heart laced with so many cracks, As your skin? How many stitches? Grandmother, Tell me about the day when it stopped hurting,
Great old dire need, Haven't felt this way for sometime, Insanity strikes again, Holding my mind in one hand, Stopwatch in the other, Counting the beats, This is science, This is not a drill. Oh, how it feels, Uncontrollable infatuation, Seeps like honey into my brain, Coating it in a sweet sticky glaze, All my dusty thoughts get swallowed up, Consumed by this seemingly endless feeling, Who knows what it is, Some might call it love, But I don't think so, Cinderella never felt this way, Of that I am sure, Maybe its the beast, He had it, Anger and passion and wanting, Cloudy thoughts unthinkable, Unreasonable, One day he kissed the princess, One day he died, Who knows what happened after that.