Corner: A Poem

Corner


There are some days
When all I want is a corner,
A place guarded on most sides,
Angular but safe,
A place to stand or crouch,
To be solitary and quiet.

A corner where nothing is crooked,
Where the walls are smooth and cold to the touch,
The floor swept free of cobwebs,
With light from a window, perhaps.

All I want is a small place without anything,
Where I can read books
Or write poems,
And sometimes just cry into my hands
Because I want to.

There are some days
When all I want is a place to be alone
On purpose.

 

 

©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Corner: A Poem

Sentinels: A Poem

Sentinels


See the moon hanging there in your chest,
In the place where your heart should be.

Glowing and constant:
Mother-light to your night-wandering.

Too irregular was your old heart,
Too deep and too raw;

A heart that worked too well.

But here the moon stands in its stead
With such strength, silver shielding your soul.

Pouring out quicksilver to fill up your wounds,
Sending stars out as sentinels
To your old weary nerves.

Holding you in enveloping palm,
Bright moon lets you rest from your uphill climb,
Lets you breathe the fresh air
Of night for one moment,

Unhindered.

Lets you sleep without waking
Until you can manage
To use your own heart without breaking.

 

©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Sentinels: A Poem

Listen: A Poem

Listen

Listen to what people don’t say.

Hear in their breathing the ache
That they carry,
The hollow hallowed rattle in their lungs.

The sound of the words getting stuck
In their bones,
Getting trapped in their ribs,
Shipwrecked.

Listen close to their pauses and silence,
Hear in their throats the heaviness.

See the light in their eyes
Attempt to convey
All the things they can’t say,
But long to.

Listen close, listen deep.

Hear the prayers in their sleep.

In the breath they exhale
In frustration,
Hear the hate,
Hear the hope,
Hear the fear and the love.

Listen close,
We don’t say what we mean.

 

 

©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Listen: A Poem

Falling of the Year: A Poem

(Note: accompany with this song)

Falling of the Year

The ground is grey as goose-down,
And browning at the edges.

Earth washed clean in the wind,
Which lashes like a whip,
But even though cold is still welcome,

Like the other side of the pillow.

And the coarse branches of trees

(Dying on the outside
But never more alive),

Craggy and jutted at the sky,
Prodding fingers in the clouded ribs.

Swept-dirt path wends in the twilit field,
Here surrounded by waving wheat
You can take a breath
And smell the death of seasons,
The faulty and failing leaves
Bister and crumbling under your shoes.

And the flagrant wind is cavorting
And scrubbing out the heaviness of air,

Leaving only the sharp bare bones

And breathing.

©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Falling of the Year: A Poem

the roses are blooming: A Poem

inspired by the poetry of e.e. cummings

the roses are blooming

something i have never seen; your eyes,
alight with flames of flowers, are slightly
smiling; nothing is found in furrowed fields
which are not around here any longer

if you show me the reaching branches
of trees, their boughs grey with winter;
i see the slow descent of madness
fall upon the heads of the innocent;

i’ll show you crying skies above your
broken, out-stretched hands, bright springs and the
summer’s darkest nights always shorter than hoped
for; roses bloom without your muddled thoughts

though failing daisies fall; how many years
we have left before out bright future
without the hope of ever surfacing again;
your fingers tangle hopelessly among your hair

how did these days darken quickly, without
thoughts of blackening the skies, without the
insanity of forgotten dreams smashed against walls
with clay jars; the roses are blooming

©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

the roses are blooming: A Poem

A Prelude

This is an introduction (of sorts) to my poem series “Unorthodox Sympathy,” which is available to read through subscription at Channillo.com: http://channillo.com/series/unorthodox-sympathy/.

A Prelude

Daylight is for the living,
I have decided,
And night is for the dreamers,
Us who have nowhere else to be
But ache for somewhere to go.
We aren’t many, us midnight-dwellers,
The few of us laid out on rooftops
And stargazing long after the others
Have gone to sleep.
Little is understood about us,
And not through any fault of ours.
We crave attention,
Affection.
We are talking with cracked-open skulls,
Showing you our brains full of stars.
We write with cut-open chests,
Showing you the galaxies between our ribs
With a heart as a moon.
You see silent people
With sad eyes,
And you stitch us closed in your sleep.
But sadness is only starlight, you know,
Gleaming like tears in opened eyes.
Our sad is happy,
Such an unorthodox sympathy.
And nighttime is for the dreamers,
Those who can’t sleep for fear
Of missing the next thought
And the next.
We lie on gravelly shingles,
Our bare feet scraped and our knees skinned,
We lie here dreaming,
We can’t sleep for fear of the dark
That comes when we close our eyes.
Our galactic chests rise and fall
With one breath
And another,
Our star-studded heads are unbrushed
And our lips are dry and chewed
By teeth that cannot sit still.
The night is deep and silent,
And we lie here on the rooftops,
Us dreamers.
Our eyes are wide.
If we blink, the stars go out.

©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

A Prelude

Upon Selling My Vast Library: Adventures In Simplification

Upon Selling My Vast Library

Good Lord, I have done the unthinkable.

Those shelves once filled with radiant spines
Now stand empty,
Stark and white as the winter that is just drawing
To a close.
The books, my many lives and lungs,
Lie scattered in piles,
Haphazard over floor and table
And the old black chair,
Teetering and on the verge of toppling
Once again.

The unthinkable: I’m selling the books.

You will protest,
I can see you all,
Hear you all now.
You are your books, young person,
You may say.
Why would I, how could I possibly do away with these
Dozens of
Hundreds of
Thousands of pages of ink-dotted paper,
You may inquire.
How could I do such a terrible thing?

Now I am the one to protest.
You see:
You may see these books, which number high in the hundreds,
And think how great my intellect must be.
How intelligent this girl here is,
See how many books she has.
She knows how to read, and how to read a lot.

Here now is my secret:
I have not read all these books.
Not even half.
Indeed, some I have never even opened.

But, ah! my reasoning is what you wonder.
And here it is:
I am not what I own.
I am not the number of books that I own.
I am not even the number of books I have read.
I am not even the number of stars I have glimpsed,
Or the clouds that stand in their stead.
And I do not wished to be viewed as such.

These books, though my heart lies within them,
Hold only the value I give them.

The substance of these objects, you see,
Is not in the solid form.
This paper is dead,
And one hundred years from now will rot away
And become like the loam beneath our shoes.

The paper is the vessel in which the gold has been imbued:
Words, eternal wisdom set in onyx ink,
Words are the only thing of worth in these blocks of wooden pulp.
Words and ideas and truths which were and are and will come to be.

And these blocks of paper are hung with strings,
Tethering me to this small square of a room.
Intricate webs of thread attached to my arms and feet,
And everywhere I go
I must drag along eight-hundred cubes of what once was wood.
How am I to travel the world
With eight-hundred strings tying me here,
Eight-hundred tiny hands holding me down,
That I must carry or sink with the weight beneath the sea.

And so, I am doing the unthinkable,
Which in truth is the only solution.
With swift scissors I will cut away the webbing strings
And throw the blocks, the books, away from me.

For I can no longer bear the burden that I have made them out to be.
The more things, the more books that I come to own,
The more they will come to own me.

©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Upon Selling My Vast Library: Adventures In Simplification