Jun 30

Why Can't I Write Poetry Anymore?


I wonder if there is such a thing as too much feeling
maybe my arms ache for you too much to hold the pen

 
Apr 07

Apology For Summer's Love

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.



 
Mar 28

Spring Eyes

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.
 
Feb 04

Relics

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. 
Jan 17

Snow

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. 
 
Jan 07
poem challenge: Insurrection

The Capitol

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
Dec 27

My love

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.
Dec 27

Poetry

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. 

 
Dec 05

Broken Teeth

Broken teeth 
eat crusty bread
over a table made of wine

Broken arms 
hold crying babies
over a blanket made of tears

Broken hearts
keep salty secrets
over a river made of blood

Broken minds
make dirty music 
under a sky made of oranges
 
Dec 02

My Hand

If time took a cigarette
and put it in your mouth*
then time took your body
and put it in my head
as god takes my words
you take my heart

If time took the photos
which line my pockets
then time took your voice
and laid it on my lips
as the world turns
my skin burns

If time took you
and put you in my dreams
then time took the daisies
let them wither and die
as you read your novels
I read your mind

If time took your stomach
left it hungry and small
then time took the leaves 
watch them tremble and fall
as your mother's distrust is a feather
your love is my own hand.

(*David Bowie)
Nov 21

A solemn affair

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,
Nov 08

Last Night

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. 

 
Oct 26

Simon

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.

 
Oct 26

Grandmother

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,
Oct 13

The Beast

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.