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

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

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

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,
Star-dust.

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

Salt: A Poem

Salt

My lungs collapse
Beneath the harsh,
The weight, the burdening plethora.
I thrash and tear,
Pulling my way up, up,
And skidding again into calamity.
The water crashes,
A deluge of depression
Pours in waves,
Filling my mouth, my nose,
My eyes, burning brine.
I close my eyes
Against the scalding surge,
Pull myself into smallness,
Stillness,
Nothingness.
I am floating,
No longer trapped in the darkness,
The cavern, the cave.
The ocean hangs beneath me,
Encompassing,
Enveloping,
Raging and singing at once.
Paradoxical,
Composed and lulling,
Rocking and drifting me into sleep,
Wild, thrashing,
A beast belaboring.
So thick the water,
Crushing, calming,
Blazing, bursting,
So cold and still a warm embrace.
The droplets dash against my eyes,
The flood is grim against my skin,
The swell, the sweep,
So fast and deep,
The salt rages,
Like a monster is the sea.
Alluvion.
I am overtaken,
Swept under the surface of blue,
Drawn down in the beryl current,
Into the bleak.
It is grey, colorless,
Lifeless.
Austere cliffs above the wild,
Empty, blighted, desolation.
It is dry,
So deadly devoid of life,
So very short of breath.
I gasp
And my very lungs shrivel,
Waste away and decay
Like the human medium they are.
My stomach contorts,
Vanishing with a wave of nauseous farewell.
I am disappearing
From the inside out.
So dry, so arid and still,
Dense air,
A desert is replacing my organs.
My bones crumble to dust,
Blowing away on the barren wind.
The caustic gusts squall,
Approaching my heaving heart,
That mortal mechanism
Which contains that final breath,
Transcending soul.
I cannot bear such searing pain,
The beating, breaking,
Smashing desert,
The instrument of dereliction,
Reaching towards my soul.
I writhe,
My legs convolute like dead leaves.
It is a torture,
Abrasive and acerbic,
Rotting my very self into death.
So dry,
The desert is a tempest of its own,
A deathly blow of anhydrous dust,
Crippling my arms into my chest.
My heart, my soul is ebbing,
Washing in,
Washing out, like waves,
Flickering with dimming light.
The ocean seems like lives away,
Worlds long dead,
So far behind.
The sea,
That raging beast of blue,
So pure and wild,
So savage, free.
I feel the sweet breath,
The heaving breath of ocean’s lungs.
The desert recesses,
Wanes away.
I can reach out my arms,
Grasp the edge of phantasm,
And feel the tide
Breaking over my ribs.
I inhale,
Respire,
The salt water seeps from my eyes.

©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.

Salt: A Poem

Deep Breath: A Poem

Deep Breath

Hello earth,
Enormity green and blue and bright.
Beings wandering,
Uncollected like yet-to-be-found shells
On some seashore somewhere,
Stumble like cubs
Out of the dark and into the sun.
Deep breath, deep breath,
Set a course straight ahead,
They begin a walk,
A great undertaking,
A weird and massive adventure,
So humongous and named so small,
Life.
They walk and undertake and adventure
Around the green-blue-bright,
Through the dark corners,
Over the wooden bridges
And down the black asphalt roads
That sometimes lead nowhere
And sometimes lead somewhere.
Magic is found,
But less often than that sword
That is so expert at slashing open old wounds
And slicing in new ones.
Magic is hard to find,
The sword is everywhere.
Deep breath, deep breath,
Keep going despite pain.
Beings wandering,
Stumbling drunk and devastated,
Bumping into someone,
Seeing eyes.
They walk awhile together,
The two stumbling beings,
And they trip
And fall into that other small word,
Love.
Scrambling, they go with each other,
Walking long roads,
Undertaking magnificent tasks,
Adventuring vagabonds are they.
They can see magic in each other,
But the sword is no stranger to them,
And the wounds that open in one
Pour into the other,
And their pain is the same.
They travel along together, on a long road,
Through the green-blue-bright
And dark corners,
And end up nowhere one day
And somewhere the next.
And they could go on and on and on forever.
The sword recurs
And slashes at the beings.
The one protects the other, but is no match.
Fatal fall of the sword,
The magic glows brilliantly
In one and fades.
The other is left,
Alone and very quiet.
Deep breath, deep breath,
And there spreads out in the expanse
Another so small word,
But so extensively filled with meaning,
Loss.
The being stumbles again,
First time in so long
On the green-blue.
The bright is gone,
Magic has vanished into the dark corners
And cannot be called back.
Falling and dragging, devastated,
Without the one
Is so hard, impossible,
For the other.
So the stumbling cub of a being,
Long here now,
Close to running out of walks
And undertakings
And adventures,
Crosses one last bridge,
Follows one last black asphalt road,
Falls, broken and unable to be fixed.
Stumbling drunk and hopelessly beyond caring.
Deep breath, deep breath,
Deep breath.
The magic is back,
But only for an instant,
Only a whisper,
A deep breath.
Farewell.

©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.

Deep Breath: A Poem

Dead Eyes: A Poem

Dead Eyes

The day was dark and cold and rainy,
And nothing could be found to say.
The sky was empty, black and cloudy,
And the world awash with grey.

The road was long and strange and muddy,
As she trod alone the tangled path.
The sky remained so cold and dreary,
The rain composed of rage and wrath.

Tremendous was the storm that came,
Lashing hard with water-whips.
The cold came greater with the torment
As ice-drops down her white cheeks drip.

Soaked and sodden her dress becomes,
Freezing to skin, ice and alabaster.
She tries to hasten, hasten forward,
To escape her life, now faster, faster.

She trips upon the stone-filled road,
And falls softly down to the muddy ground.
Clutching at the weightless air,
Her dead eyes slowly roll around.

White and blank, expressionless,
Cool and empty pools of cream,
Her eyes are first to lose their breath,
And succumb with slightest gleam.

Lifeless now with no more burden,
She lays out on the muddy road.
The storm continues on around her,
And beneath her, earth corrodes.

Empty sky and crumbling earth
Together make a sorry sight,
But she cannot see the sadness,
Her eyes are cold and dead and white.

©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.

Dead Eyes: A Poem