August 2017

poem28 Aug 2017 08:27 am
poem21 Aug 2017 08:03 am

this world is not of our choosing
we did not choose this world
of dense black forests
and thick yellow fog
and stinging rain

too soon
from our centuries’ sleep
beneath strange stars

and our children died
and our children died
and our children died

the trees shivered with our grief
and drank our tears
and their trunks split wide
pink wood
and wet

and we tucked our children inside
those who could not breathe
whose eyes burned and bled
whose skin blistered and broke

dense black bark knit and grew
sealing our children
within their warm wet trunks

and the stinging rain fell
and the thick yellow fog flowed
among the dense black trees
and the strange stars became familiar

when the trees crack open
will they still be our children?

illustration By Caspar David Friedrich – The Yorck Project: 10.000 Meisterwerke der Malerei. DVD-ROM, 2002. ISBN 3936122202. Distributed by DIRECTMEDIA Publishing GmbH., Public Domain,
poem14 Aug 2017 08:43 am

The King Crab ruled from high
in his sandcastle
until one day, troubled,
shod his seahorse
with horseshoe crabs
and, with a brace of pistol shrimp,
rode away from his kingdom
into the enchanted
kelp forest

where he stumbled on
a crabapple hermit crab apple crab
who had visions and told tales
of a higher land
of warrior mantis monks
rescuing pretty maids
from dragonflies,

of sailfish sailors
who discover that the shore
is just the sleep crust on the ocean
which is, itself, an eye.

The hermit said, “Your ornamental
gardens, livestock, patterns
in the clouds,

we attack the world with a putty knife,
forming it in our own image,
at least into the mold
of our brains.”

The ocean, blinking, eroded
the sandcastle away like every metaphor
under tides of indifference.

illustration, A Crab Lying on his Back, by Van Gogh
poem07 Aug 2017 09:36 am
  • I.

    There is more witchcraft in your words than in the highest of candle-circle ceremonials
    More sacredness in your smallest sigh than in the towers and arches of cathedrals.
    Where other pyres leave scars, your fireglow kindles comfort and joy.
    There is more gold in your breath, more divinity in the palms of your hands
    More absolution in the twist of my hair around your finger
    Than in a thousand churches in a thousand years.
    When I look into the divine, it looks back into me.
    We were told that if we ever met past the edge of the clean, sanctioned light,
    We would know only discord.
    Our songs would fall flat and so would we, dance ending before it began.
    We’d trip on our own feet–look, down on the ground, right on our faces
    Like the first humans in the first Garden.
    But in choirs of angels I heard my own voice calling your name before I knew to speak
    In pulsing drums and racing hearts and every breath, I heard you answer.
    We knew every step.
    We didn’t fall.
    You took my hand and led me away from the sun.
    I didn’t miss it.
    Its light was always harsh, always glaring, always sharper than a serpent’s tooth.
    The first time I felt any sun-warmth was on my back as I turned.
    The dark blessed us both,
    Feather-soft, nectar-sweet, wing-rush free and full-moon joined.
    When opposing melodies meet, heavens ring with harmonies.
    Rapture sounds best around a bonfire.
    After the circle,
    We stood together at a crossroads:
    A pair of vampires, when no one would invite us in.
    You looked at me–you still held my hand–and asked, “which?”
    I smiled and said, “craft our own.”