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

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

Pearls: A Poem

Pearls

In the swelter of summer nighttime,
Collapsing on the new-mown grass,
My eyes flew into the stars where you awaited,
Your arms stretched as constellations
Towards me.
I could see your hands in a late rainstorm,
Spread out and clutching at the droplets
That glint as diamonds against the clouded sky,
Your tilted lips parted to drink
The earth-saturated pearls
Before they reach the ground
As they descend so rapidly.
Your eyes could be seen in the springtime,
Twin cornflowers standing against the grass,
Alone in the constance of the green obscurity
Of another flagrant field
That is too alluring for its own good.

©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.

Pearls: 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