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.
Oh, God, how it aches to rise and awaken,
Cracking each sallow limb, filling each lung,
Pumping the heart not meant to be taken;
Feeling the sting of pins inside my tongue.
I beg, stop your lovely singing outside.
I was content, for now, to sleep forever.
Now, tantalizing justice begs me find,
The source of sultry songs in foul weather.
Is it poison or nectar that glistens
Upon your lips, shining in your dark eyes.
I want your bite, your kiss, your intention.
I want to hear your gasps and steaming sighs;
To ignore the venom numbing my tongue,
To heave and gag, grinning, choking on blood.
Must I pretend to be a fool for you;
Blinded to such violent truths in your eyes?
O’ shall I set free thee, starving accused,
To wander down alleys, ensconced by time?
Should we gasp for the air, so sweet, so pure.
Should we swallow our doubts, so few, so rare.
Should we not be awake, to see the cure?
Should we not be free on this day so fair?
The trees are yet to bloom, but yet too soon,
Will the birds sing their prayers of warmth and play.
My soul is yet to wake, beneath this moon,
As clouds belittle thee, my sun, my day.
Promise not to burn my frail eyes, my dear.
Our vows shall not be writ in ink or fear.
Our marriage is not of vows,
But fingers of flames, tracing curves.
Breathing into each other’s beds,
Smoking the smoldering coals,
Which once lay dormant, now,
Incensed by the passions of fools.
She brands my ears, with steaming gasps.
She tears the flesh from off my back.
With searing claws, she rings my finger;
My eyes reflect her dazzling embers.
As smoke chokes the air and sets free,
Sparks floating off, into the breeze.
It simmers through the night,
As the sun begins to rise.
The birds begin to sing,
The blaze begins to die,
And this pile of dry ash,
Is divorced into the sky.
Hoping to spark again,