A crest of messy, restless hair
That waving tide upon her brow,
Brushed by rushing morning air.
The night we spent is over now.
Unprepared for her departure,
I wondered when her eyes would open,
To see the wounds left by the archer,
Who finds his mark when love is chosen.
Will she choose to leave me here,
Without the kiss, whispered promise.
Will time and distance interfere
To loose her grip upon this fondness.
Pray, if this be the poor man’s bower,
Let her sleep another hour.
Pray, you sky, let loose a shower,
So she might stay another hour.
Dry, cracked leather on a wooden frame, some office chair somewhere; Crimson colored skin with gold buttons punched in like droplets of the rain. Could use some sand and a stain, but I won’t complain. Honestly, it’s a tragedy that no ones felt the pain of its aging, there’s no grey haired brain to bring back the long lost memories and nights of revelry. Its just sat patiently fading in a basement, some natural, captive soul to apathy waiting for a craftsmen to pass and see the masterpiece it once was, and could be, with just a little love. A few stitches, a spit shine, oil rag and a patient touch but, the bad news is it’ll end up in the the trash, and that’s bad luck, because I’d take it for half a buck.
I was listening to The Smiths and daydreaming, staring off wishfully. My mind was empty but for one thought; I was thinking of how the crushing weight of mortality made every hour of my life so valuable. The seeming finality of death made every moment I tightly held, slowly kissed, and firmly embraced your heavenly soul, every spare second my eyes met your own, every soft whisper you sent to my ears, every sigh your breath set on my lips, it made it all worth it. I pace in circles struggling to believe that any afterlife I’m offered could ever be sweeter than the one life I shared with you. If I ever met your soul again, among the ether of the stars, my heart would pound with love and pride, as the cosmos weakly shuddered, and shielded its eyes, and beheld the blinding beauty of your light; It would be nighttime and raining, The Smiths would be playing, and I would be dreaming, until I opened my eyes. Until the song slowly died.
To stretch without tearing,
The subtle fibers of life,
An endeavor worth daring,
To end taunting glares of strife.
Shudder off the decay of spring,
Dance and sweat out the fear,
When the sun rays begin to sing
Sing along, my dear, sing along.
Break free from nagging thoughts
To feel the quiet warmth around
Swirling to unwind the knots,
Of a tired heart, with faith abound.
A wild red fox chasing fires,
Across ivy terraces;
Lighting flowery shadows,
On the garden fences.
Eyed by a sleepless owl,
Enticed and entranced,
By the fox who chased,
And the fire who danced.
With frost setting late,
And night on the land,
The owl yawned and gave
His final demand.
Burn bright and late,
You clever fox.
Run forth and tame,
Your fickle fires.
For the owl should be sleeping,
As the winter comes creeping,
Towards the furry fox,
And his fading fires.
Good morning, silent, grey skies.
I sense your longing to leave us behind.
When you stay, we don’t ask why,
But tell me, please, why is it you cry?
I know you hear our patient sighing.
But never mind it, ignore the silence.
Fear not the futile thoughts of violence,
Your lofty height prevents defiance.
So we spin in circles, far below.
We look to you, and pray to know,
When warmth and sunlight plans to show.
Where is it that you go?
When we’re jaded in the fading sunrise,
And wish for calmer, softer skies.
There’s an uneasy chatter stalking silently through the breeze.
Ominous whispers are whipping in the wind.
Ancient flocks of fear have perched in all the trees.
They can’t believe how silent their cities have been.
All of their eyes are hiding behind glass,
Concealed behind curtains, and peeking curiously,
Hoping not to see it;
That silent specter stalking through the streets,
Haunting all their dreams.
Their ominous imaginations are finding phantoms,
Hiding, in the corner of their vision.
Skittering fears are tickling their eyelids as they sleep.
Frail, seedling thoughts of the future
Have found fallow ground in the fields of hope.
And I’m at home,
Having a smoke, and writing a poem.
The clever lips
That gilded my eyes,
The lovely hips;
Traced neatly demise.
The haunting kiss
A beautiful guise
I’m left with this
And fraudulent sighs.
Pity be with
Who sees her coming.
I’d prefer this
O’er never loving.
This end is bliss,
Though, very tragic.
Death by her kiss,
So very classic.
Grin, when the stillness meets you again.
Smile, when the shadows seek to beguile.
Laugh, as lovers tempt you from your path.
Dance the cynics trance; the Devil’s glance.
Crease the corner of your lips,
Thinly focused fiery eyes,
Bathe your kiss in poisonous bliss,
Never mind their cries,
Save those who try,
Who refuse to lie still,
To let comfort devour life’s thrills.
What if we left, together, tomorrow?
For a sight of unfamiliar faces.
What if we parked our car on a ferry,
And floated through the ghostly border.
What if we’re only trapped in our hearts?
Running from our starving, needy shadows;
What if we kissed them on the brow,
And told them “Don’t be afraid, everything is okay.”
What if we sipped the night through,
Embracing the diffusion of plot and intention.
What if nothing was sure, nothing familiar,
Stretch, breathe deeply, look forward.
Don’t be afraid, everything is okay.