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?
Thursday, May 4, 2017
Sunday, January 24, 2016
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.
Thursday, December 11, 2014
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.
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.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
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...
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...
Monday, May 30, 2011
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...
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...
Thursday, December 2, 2010
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?
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?
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
"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...
- 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...
Focused on something outside the dusty glass
green eyes,
like a scrape on a new seed
thrown away as rotten
left to blister
and
come spring,
turn to soul.
Wild wind aches
stretches like moonlight
across the road.
The force of passing freight trains
rock the stalled car like a kiss.
You slept through the lightning
on the highway
and you swallow my eccentricities like a deep drink of ocean.
Every now and then, I miss who we used to be...
green eyes,
like a scrape on a new seed
thrown away as rotten
left to blister
and
come spring,
turn to soul.
Wild wind aches
stretches like moonlight
across the road.
The force of passing freight trains
rock the stalled car like a kiss.
You slept through the lightning
on the highway
and you swallow my eccentricities like a deep drink of ocean.
Every now and then, I miss who we used to be...
Like Martha.
Last years rosemary is over.
All that is left are
broken stalks
and brown leaves that clung on
through the winter.
I pull the former plant
up by its roots.
It will be replaced with a younger
fresh plant,
one that has not seen so many winters
Digging in the dirt
I find corn cobs from last summer
that refused to rot.
They are remainders
of great evenings,
like guests who refuse to leave
when the party is over.
Broken egg shells
I threw into the compost mix
are still here.
They were supposed to decompose,
Martha promised.
The dogs beef bones
and favorite chew toys are here too.
I am happy to find them buried
in the raised bed I created for my kitchen herbs
instead of under my pillow in the house.
The crocuses are blooming now
It wont be long before the daffodils
And tulips start to come out.
Like Martha,
I have plenty to throw away
And I dont have the patience
to wait for nature to break it all down.
All that is left are
broken stalks
and brown leaves that clung on
through the winter.
I pull the former plant
up by its roots.
It will be replaced with a younger
fresh plant,
one that has not seen so many winters
Digging in the dirt
I find corn cobs from last summer
that refused to rot.
They are remainders
of great evenings,
like guests who refuse to leave
when the party is over.
Broken egg shells
I threw into the compost mix
are still here.
They were supposed to decompose,
Martha promised.
The dogs beef bones
and favorite chew toys are here too.
I am happy to find them buried
in the raised bed I created for my kitchen herbs
instead of under my pillow in the house.
The crocuses are blooming now
It wont be long before the daffodils
And tulips start to come out.
Like Martha,
I have plenty to throw away
And I dont have the patience
to wait for nature to break it all down.
Life tastes crazy
like the strange note of probably
hit at the breaking point of your voice.
The hissing cackle
that is the death rattle
of significant noise,
rolls like apples across the hearth.
The lips of the river
lap kisses
and leave behind shiny fish scales
on my toes.
The water drifts
And easily lifts my skirts
where only sky can see.
Again.
Salt in the fresh water wind,
dry soil rubbed raw in my skin,
and the basket floats closer to the shore.
The dream knows me here
it touches me even now
in the dampness of summer
the dryness of heat.
I sweat a harsh polish
and sing that the light admonishes me,
dappled drapery beat against the fury of my naked windows.
The heartbeat of the waxing and waning moon
loves me now but it will not love me always...
like the strange note of probably
hit at the breaking point of your voice.
The hissing cackle
that is the death rattle
of significant noise,
rolls like apples across the hearth.
The lips of the river
lap kisses
and leave behind shiny fish scales
on my toes.
The water drifts
And easily lifts my skirts
where only sky can see.
Again.
Salt in the fresh water wind,
dry soil rubbed raw in my skin,
and the basket floats closer to the shore.
The dream knows me here
it touches me even now
in the dampness of summer
the dryness of heat.
I sweat a harsh polish
and sing that the light admonishes me,
dappled drapery beat against the fury of my naked windows.
The heartbeat of the waxing and waning moon
loves me now but it will not love me always...
Fissure in my memory,
full of blue noise.
Echoes breathe in hot summer air.
A voyage through the desert,with the windows down.
You would let me drive but,I have already fallen asleep at the wheel.
Where were you when I broke my soul?
Wide open screaming sky,
the sad descent of a smoking moon and the scent of burning sage.
Red eyes caught in the headlights,
a predator blinks on the cold highway.
A mountain owl screeches and bursts my midnight into stars.
Somewhere on the highway,
a fissure in my memory
full of blue noise.
full of blue noise.
Echoes breathe in hot summer air.
A voyage through the desert,with the windows down.
You would let me drive but,I have already fallen asleep at the wheel.
Where were you when I broke my soul?
Wide open screaming sky,
the sad descent of a smoking moon and the scent of burning sage.
Red eyes caught in the headlights,
a predator blinks on the cold highway.
A mountain owl screeches and bursts my midnight into stars.
Somewhere on the highway,
a fissure in my memory
full of blue noise.
Unfinished
Bits of stone cold broken glass
lying like forget me nots
where once grew
'leaves of grass'
An ocean of mediocrity
pulses with the profane
as if vulgarity were
the singular birth right of pain
well dressed blank pages
adorned in slick jackets
photographs of poets
with smiles like footnotes
distressed and in brackets
Patti, Diane, Sylvia and Anne...
lying like forget me nots
where once grew
'leaves of grass'
An ocean of mediocrity
pulses with the profane
as if vulgarity were
the singular birth right of pain
well dressed blank pages
adorned in slick jackets
photographs of poets
with smiles like footnotes
distressed and in brackets
Patti, Diane, Sylvia and Anne...
Leave a scent on the soil
Pound through the night
with the heavy footfalls of full grown deer,
the pull of wet dog,
or the pressure of the migrating sun.
Midnight pulse points
push blankets
dripping slowly to the floor,
lazy curtains
turn slowly
in the heat.
I am having trouble sleeping tonight.
The city skin is breeched,
it's weather weary boards
violated
pulled back
splintered
and left in pieces on the ground.
Someone else has been here,
left behind
indelible
black ink
on the stone cage.
A soft weak man
marks his territory
this way
with the carelessness of an afterthought,
with as much effort
as it takes to pull the trigger
of a tranquilizer.
The night moves with plentiful noise,
the wounded cries of lonely beasts
pulse
with the flow of traffic not far away.
These cages no longer have doors.
The entire wild night
is free to roam
past the protection
and the hinderance
of heavy iron bars.
The big cats no longer pace here
I do.
1998ish-2007
Pound through the night
with the heavy footfalls of full grown deer,
the pull of wet dog,
or the pressure of the migrating sun.
Midnight pulse points
push blankets
dripping slowly to the floor,
lazy curtains
turn slowly
in the heat.
I am having trouble sleeping tonight.
The city skin is breeched,
it's weather weary boards
violated
pulled back
splintered
and left in pieces on the ground.
Someone else has been here,
left behind
indelible
black ink
on the stone cage.
A soft weak man
marks his territory
this way
with the carelessness of an afterthought,
with as much effort
as it takes to pull the trigger
of a tranquilizer.
The night moves with plentiful noise,
the wounded cries of lonely beasts
pulse
with the flow of traffic not far away.
These cages no longer have doors.
The entire wild night
is free to roam
past the protection
and the hinderance
of heavy iron bars.
The big cats no longer pace here
I do.
1998ish-2007
Dry hard petals of forgotten flowers,
hand pressed by the night
into colorful clay jars.
I throw a fistful of old memories on to the fire
and take warmth as the burning pages turn.
The oak table is dressed for quiet company
tho lines of lonely silhouettes form at the door
waiting for sanctuary,
solstice,
or, that lacking,
a steaming mug of hot honey tea.
Accompanied only by the patient ministry
of a passive locomotive
I am standing at the station
soul reeling in the wake that is surely yet to come.
The grand scheme of things
marks me as a small creature,
low to the ground,
forced
like steam from the sewer
into the cold hard glare of an expectant Monday morning…
hand pressed by the night
into colorful clay jars.
I throw a fistful of old memories on to the fire
and take warmth as the burning pages turn.
The oak table is dressed for quiet company
tho lines of lonely silhouettes form at the door
waiting for sanctuary,
solstice,
or, that lacking,
a steaming mug of hot honey tea.
Accompanied only by the patient ministry
of a passive locomotive
I am standing at the station
soul reeling in the wake that is surely yet to come.
The grand scheme of things
marks me as a small creature,
low to the ground,
forced
like steam from the sewer
into the cold hard glare of an expectant Monday morning…
Youth
Dogs squirrel through my brain
The trails that they leave are tubes
pulsating with the on coming light.
With fierce teeth gnashing they create sound,
as if silence never existed.
I breed here,
deep within the sting.
I up bring children,
armies,
to pass the time before fire,
and free time,
consume my fade.
It is a free floating fish bowl world,
with shores tainted in blood that squeezes from my gills.
I lie here dying in memories wake.
Sadly,
I soak your earth in fear.
This,
your fantastic zoo full of mysteries,
is my hysterical dream.
Perched on your mountains am I,
for this is your world.
This is your horizon,
each new day belongs to you.
Every cage here,
is a new wonder.
Faeries and goblins,
content in thier capture,
deny their race and the rage that they,
born nightmares,
are entitled to.
Every cage is a closet door.
The gate,
forged from black iron in a lair of rotting corpses,
age,
opens only to you.
The trails that they leave are tubes
pulsating with the on coming light.
With fierce teeth gnashing they create sound,
as if silence never existed.
I breed here,
deep within the sting.
I up bring children,
armies,
to pass the time before fire,
and free time,
consume my fade.
It is a free floating fish bowl world,
with shores tainted in blood that squeezes from my gills.
I lie here dying in memories wake.
Sadly,
I soak your earth in fear.
This,
your fantastic zoo full of mysteries,
is my hysterical dream.
Perched on your mountains am I,
for this is your world.
This is your horizon,
each new day belongs to you.
Every cage here,
is a new wonder.
Faeries and goblins,
content in thier capture,
deny their race and the rage that they,
born nightmares,
are entitled to.
Every cage is a closet door.
The gate,
forged from black iron in a lair of rotting corpses,
age,
opens only to you.
Walking with Ghosts
Flipping over endless empty pages
full of restless night
misreading by the light
of the falling moon
I am shaking sand from my skirts
in a sepia photograph
pressed 20 pages into a book
that I am not so sure I ever want to read again
Keeping my place
is a softly burnt branch of driftwood
thrust vertical in the dunes
marking where I left off
before I started to dream...
full of restless night
misreading by the light
of the falling moon
I am shaking sand from my skirts
in a sepia photograph
pressed 20 pages into a book
that I am not so sure I ever want to read again
Keeping my place
is a softly burnt branch of driftwood
thrust vertical in the dunes
marking where I left off
before I started to dream...
We wait here on the wind
bound up from within
eager to be souls
without any source of sin
But free spirits lie in wait
with flowers at the gate
calling, 'join us in the garden,
before it is too late!'
Instead we cast away our eyes
and with wicked words chastise
determined that our minds work better
when kept a smaller size
We think it's all been planned
we'll sit right by his hand
when we really should be wondering
just where it is we stand.
Oct 2007
bound up from within
eager to be souls
without any source of sin
But free spirits lie in wait
with flowers at the gate
calling, 'join us in the garden,
before it is too late!'
Instead we cast away our eyes
and with wicked words chastise
determined that our minds work better
when kept a smaller size
We think it's all been planned
we'll sit right by his hand
when we really should be wondering
just where it is we stand.
Oct 2007
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Wicked wish
sound like the soul
songs for the wanted
sounds from the hole
What plants you near
what hits your fear
who knows your name
and what brings you here?
Dust from the road
sun dipped for show
sleepy morning smile
blinding and slow
Keeper for the take
kingdom of the fake
what presses your pedals
and keeps you on the make?
sound like the soul
songs for the wanted
sounds from the hole
What plants you near
what hits your fear
who knows your name
and what brings you here?
Dust from the road
sun dipped for show
sleepy morning smile
blinding and slow
Keeper for the take
kingdom of the fake
what presses your pedals
and keeps you on the make?
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