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...
Monday, May 30, 2011
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...
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