Mother: A Poem

She is the meaning of strong.

My mold, my maker —

And yet she does not make me her.

Forged of her fire,

I wear her eyes filled with flowers and flame;

I stand on the opposite side of her coin.

We differ, are our own;

See same sights in unlike hues,

Our differing views,

But still — the stuff of our hearts is the same.

Mother: A Poem

Deepest Pains: A Poem

Deepest Pains


How much does it hurt, my dear?

Tell me the number of aches in your bones,
Take a tally of the pains that run through your veins.

Count them up, let me know,
And I’ll pick you a flower for each one.

For each pain, have a posy,
A cascade of daffodils and daisies.

Tell me, my dear, how much does it hurt?

I’ll point out enough stars to cover your scars,
A burst and a blaze in the night.

Your arms, once a war-zone,
Now painted alight with luminous spheres,
The plasma now dancing and ebbing.

How much does it hurt, my dear?
Tell me – and I’ll tell you, too.

We’ll count up our cuts and our bruises,
Fill our arms up with galaxies
And stellar bouquets.

We’ll gather up rosebuds and planets, and find
The deepest pains are not here to stay.



©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.

Deepest Pains: A Poem

Observations on Silence: A Poem

Observations on Silence

Is there a place where no one speaks?
A place where words are obsolete,
No one knows what language is or was,
Nor why we ever needed it.

Why use words when there are eyes?
Notice how small twin orbs
Can twinkle, can glow,
Can fill and flow.
Notice the space and time between blinking,
See the web spun by iris-arachnids –
Flirting, discerning, detecting, beholding.

Notice how eyes can brighten,
And darken,
And dance.

Why use words when there are hands?
Notice how the roughest palms –
Though creased and bruised –
Are strongest,
Can shape and safeguard anything and all.
And notice the unsettled shaking fingers,
Trembled with anxiety,
Tired with trying and untying knots.
And how, when you hold them, they’re warmest.

Notice how hands can be absent-minded
And paint pictures into empty air.

Why use words when there are lungs?
Notice how some breathing is even,
How the chatter of muscles in a cage of bones
Can sound like a lullaby if you listen long enough.
Notice the steadiness dissolve
Into a wracking cough, like winter,
Or a swelling sigh, like waves.

Notice how lungs babble,
How they whisper,
How they work.

Why use words when there are hearts?
Notice how this bloody mass of flesh
Has become the symbol for high romance,
Simply because it is the very thing of life,
Though not so simple at all.
Notice how this magic machine
Can beat as constant as a war-drum,
And yet flutter or fumble or fail
As easily as you or I, and at the slightest inclination.

Notice how hearts are as bright as the moon,
And how often they are dampened
By inclement weather.

Why use words when there are stars?
For there are no words for stars.

But notice them.

They’re rather lovely.

©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.

Observations on Silence: A Poem

Sentinels: A Poem


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,


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

Lost Cause: A Poem

Lost Cause

The eventide approaches,
The violet hour,
The gloaming,
The teenaged are black silhouettes
Across the blaze of sun.

The one apart,
Very edge of them,
Strides with shoes
Tied across aching shoulders.

Long arms fall down
To calloused hands,
Bruise-ridden knuckles,
Fist-fight-familiar fingers
Clench the cooling night.

He is a quivering being
Made up of gunpowder,

Reaching, retreating,
Flying and falling
In waves,
Raving rage and radiance,
A paradox of light and night,
Trapped in cage of bone and flesh.

He is prisoned in his passion,
Controlled by neither
Man, machine.

He fights whoever dares.

He pours out himself
And is drunk up by the rest.

He strives for greatness
With his oft-rewarded hands,
And is heralded, heroic,
Held high.

But now, in night,
When they part ways,
He is harassed by guilt and agony.

His hands,
Once built to paint,
Now marred with blood and grime,
Convulse at his sides,
And his chest is a tremor.

Manic panic.

With broken fingers
And broken soul,
He lingers on the road,
Alone and empty.

His knees are struck
By the weight of his cast-away heart.
He staggers in the dark.

“How have I come to this?”

The words are silent from his throat,
Though echo in his ribcage.

“I was made to make,
And now have stooped to spoiling.
I used to paint in blue and gold,
Now I paint in blood and bruises.”

He collapses on the street-side,
Dead tired, dead finished.

His face is hollow in his hands.

His eyes stare into dark and plead for sunrise.

Resolution revolution
Stirs in his knees and elbows,
Swirling through his limbs.

His fingers ache to grip the brush,
To sweep the pigment.

Tomorrow, in the light of Spring,
All will change,
All will change.

Tomorrow, yes, for sure.

The morning floods
With pink and yellow.

He wakes up from the gutter.

He washes away cakes of mud and blood,
Smears the dirt, dried sweat from his cheeks.
He has things to do,
He has three fights today.

The tubes of paint rot
And decay.

See, his resolve breaks
With each rising of the sun.
He is praised in daylight.

And so it goes.

He vows each night
To change his ways.

Each ray of light
Breaches oath.

And so it goes,
Each night, each day,
In endless round.

His fingers,
Blood and bruises,
Have never healed,
Have never scabbed.

And morning dawns.
And he falls into every-day old ways.

©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.

Lost Cause: A Poem

A Prelude

This is an introduction (of sorts) to my poem series “Unorthodox Sympathy,” which is available to read through subscription at

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,
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