Unfinished

Song of Sweetness

A long stalk of wheat
grass burning by the light

Dream small animal,
of shallows.
Press diamonds
back
into night

Black sky feeds the water
breeds sores on my tongue
paints names on marble stones
of legends yet to come

 Do end pages mask our birthright,
does this book guide the star?

Who on the shore is christening us to be what we are?

New One

It is not in my fingers

I feel my pulse in my breasts and in the glass that holds my wine

it is finite

it will end

but for now

there is still a knock at the door

Pearls in my knit

unraveling

tumbling over my shoulders

as I pull the elastic from my hair

Shadows hold my hand

but do not guide me

I walk across this threshold of my own accord

They ask my name

as if I had one to give

The box in the ground keeps the earth at sway

it would surround me

bring me into it

as one

But now is not that time

I am not that girl

and my heart

beats

in my breast

and in my hands.

4-17-10

Plump white grapes
hanging on the wall
somewhere east of easy

Dew,
like moss
wet paint
on shining blades of night grass

The door is heavy
but it is open
I sit here on the step
bare feet in the dirt
unpolished nails
waiting this side of sunrise
for the day to begin.

The wine is getting cold
it's time for coffee

Steam bursts out of me
on condensed breath
like rough noise from God's throat.

Snippet from the past...

One of my friends recently found this snippet I wrote back in high school that I had completely forgotten about.

  Just a piece of something that never really got worked into anything else, probably too late now but I still really like it none the less.


I could laugh a million cloudless skies
and cough them all up again
What a bizzare taste that would leave
now wouldn't that be strange,
flowers can't be reasoned with
they can only be arranged...

Babes in the Wood

These children,
they walk a vacant melody
and one could assume
the mask they wear is indifference.

We vainly stretch our own repercussions
to cover their skin
as if it were ours
to protect.

As if our stiff and rusted armor
would fit them,
if they would only try it on.

They grow here,
in spite of our blatant disregard.
We garden in a vacuum
yet still they blossom and bloom.

These foibles dressed in perfumed contempt
stand by the mirror,
poised,
a fine velvet soliloquy to solitude.

They are false diamonds
that could wake a summer storm
and force it to toss new seed to the wind.

The eye of the hurricane
appears at first, complacent, peaceful and at rest.

These children are not fooled.
As if fresh and unscathed were any way to really live...

As if...

12-2-10

Pale flowers drop useless blooms
to the wild wild wind
Echoes under frost
the forrest sheds it's skin

Cry miles on the mountain
fever walks the path
Burning sky lies restless here
cutting stone to cast

Wherein falls this wicked winter,
what fuels the sordid heat?
Where from burst these petals,
what heart beats the beast?

"As Christians, we are to love the enemy. I wonder in what sense does God love the devil and resist not his evil?"
- Roy M. Pearson Jr. (12/14/1974)

I was four years old when my Grandfather wrote that. Now I am 35 and transcribing as much of his private journals and correspondance as I can to preserve it for future branches of our family tree. It's a tedious task but much to my chagrin, also a very introspective one. If I did not have to stop to digest the information every few pages or so, this rainy day labor of love project would progress a whole lot faster. If my geneticly derived internal filter was not set to spit out poetry every time it gets clotted with dusty memories, I would get a whole hell of a lot more done...

Free speech and static
you and I blend
in blood
and a half empty bottle of wine

Fevered green grass
stretches roots deep into quicksand
not so different
you and I
as we first seem

You the keeper of faith
and me the faithless
both of us
in our own time
lie awake at night
playing endless devil's advocate with God...