Forgive me if I struggle to forget
A happy memory, not distant yet.
Who’s traced so far the footsteps of your heart,
And wandered past where I might dream to start.
Send me to your lily speckled river,
Where your past lovers sip your apathy,
So I may be among sleepless beggars;
Cursed souls who know the lips that taste so sweet.
Send me to your frozen, starlit desert,
Where the carrion escapes the weather
And clings to the bones of its frigid home,
While frozen hearts drink deep its dying moans.
Though, please, spare me your petty victory,
Your bitter hunger for my jealousy,
Your shallow thirst for yet another’s words,
Who too shall fall, too soon, where mine fell first.
I know your malice is no less than pain,
Or the stings in my chest land less than rain,
I know your course, no less than loneliness,
Finds true, its mark, this heart that I detest.
Oh, you siren, your ballads of violence,
Sing it again, and again, til’ death gifts me silence
Sing it again, until blood finds its vibrance.
Sing, you pretty fool, sing to the islands.
I pulled some weeds today,
Out of the gravel plot,
And then you went away,
The reason, I forgot.
But then, I always knew
A flame burns bright and short,
But a burn speaks true,
In a princess’s court.
Though, the funny thing is,
I still feel like a king,
With naive, poor princes,
Who don’t know a poor thing,
About what it means when,
A king loses good men.
May we patiently speak,
To the invisible diamonds,
Hiding under your eyes, in silence.
The sharp, crystal shapes
That excite the sunrays,
Who bloom and shimmer on your face.
May we spend our days,
Listening to the lines you play,
On your lyre, lute, french horn or flute.
Aside this silent fjord,
Speak, to me, your memories,
Convey your misty, distant melodies.
Until the sun hides behind,
The slender fingers of the earth,
And draws amber lines along the horizon.
Yet, this business comes first.
This venture into the distance,
By her mention, designs and intentions,
Until we find the harmony,
With the setting of the sun,
Until we fall, silently, into the field,
And whisper our stories,
Blown away by the breeze,
Twirling like leaves, falling into the sea.
How many lovers have strayed,
To wander these lonely days,
Beyond these shores and beneath these waves.
How many feet have traced,
The curves of this beach, in paces,
To long for the portrait of their beloved’s face.
Where are the ghosts?
Where are the wanderers?
Gone, but for hollow footprints, beside the water.
How the lands in here do trap me,
With the hills that role like thunder,
The soft clouds, like kittens napping,
And the talons of mountains that tear them asunder.
Where every trail in the shady forest leads,
To a babbling brook, and small Elven sprites,
With a gentle, cool waterfall hidden in the trees,
And a secret garden, sleeping in the sunlight.
Where the singing shores of the mountain lakes,
All have soft sands and scenic views.
Where every fish you catch brings a grin to your face,
And the sky is our church, park benches our pews.
Where we all live in cottages, with fields of wildflowers,
And our neighbors stop by, time to time for a chat.
Where deeply in love is how we spend passing hours,
And every goodbye implies “I’ll be right back.”
Where the sun always shines when we’re happy,
And the clouds softly cry when we’re alone.
Where the wind gently blows when we’re napping,
And the air lies still as we roam.
Where the cricket’s choir always sounds as a symphony,
And the moonlight still tastes sweet on our tongues.
Where it’s hard to recall a single memory of misery,
And nobody knows what it’s like to no longer be young.
Where the owl sings us lovely lullabies at midnight,
And the rooster sings us bright, bold ballads in the morning.
Where every lonely soul in her bower finds a knight,
And all those who wander are not lost, but exploring.
Where the seasons always match our souls,
And the weather always follows our hearts,
Where we finally find the comfort to let go of control,
And see that all that light touches is a divine work of art.
When is it, then, that we find reprieve?
Is it when sorrow and fears take their leave?
No, we go on, dejectedly we grieve;
Throughout our joys pain lays its seeds.
Oh, the roots strangely entangle our dreams.
My God, they grow furiously deep.
We tear them out, and rip and scream!
Until free from them, from out we bleed.
Oh, you ivy, you viral violence,
What fires might burn you into silence?
What poisons might tempt your retreat?
How do I kill you without killing me?
My words are gone, all given away,
To the puzzle pieces of your heart,
Ghosts put together by lines I say,
When we’re alone and in the dark.
Your shifting shapes, my marionette,
Your little games aren’t over yet,
But what could I give, with nothing left,
Besides my heart, your final theft.
May I stay silent for a little while,
To watch your violent, longing smile?
May I stay my lips, to simply see,
If my quiet touch invades your dreams.
You, the lovely reaper in my garden,
Set down your tools and catch your breath.
The spring is not the time for harvest,
But time for sprouts to wake from death.
Sow your seeds in me, my dear.
Just as poetry holds future near,
Labor no more and stay your fears.
Watch this grow; Lay with me here.
Budding blossoms do crown your hair.
Your peaceful pollen flows through the air.
Your patient waters nurture and care,
For the precious flowers who grow so fair.
Divinity and art seem to contend with one another, and I find this strange. The kindling of creative fires always appears to be an unseen spirit, or energy, which bursts forth from the soul. It’s never clear where this inspiration originates, and so I concluded the source to be transcendent, and I the conduit. For, as far and wide as I may search, I never seem to find where the tingling desire comes from; That desire which begs me to run a pen over a blank page, and decorate it with silent words, singing of their birth and humming with beauty. Yet, the strangest thing is the closer we get to divinity, the smaller we become; The deeper our spirituality, the tamer our desires. What good does this serenity do for the chaos of creation? Does inner peace not stifle the desperate movements of inspiration? Such a balance of heart chains the brutality of art to the cold floor, in the cell of a contented mind. To be divine is to be unmoving. God cannot be written, painted, spoken, or sung. What is all cannot be more, or less, than one. Though, what is beauty if not imperfection? What is man but an incomplete image? Our mortal eyes will never gaze upon the golden, gated grandeur of the heavens, we may only brush stroke our dreams of heaven upon this earthly canvas. After my death, surely, may I float freely among those clouds, and drift forever within the firmament. Yet, while I live, let me feel the weight of my body and mind. Let me feel pain and desire in this fragile heart. Let me be ignorant of my immortal soul, not intimate with its promise, lest I bid adieu, due to futility, to the furious ballads we throw, echoing into the abyss. By all means, climb towards heaven, reach as far as you can but, when you crash to the earth with your fragments of grace, form them into stained glass for us all. Find your forgiveness and redemption in the beauty and torment of creation. Whether freewill be our curse, or fate our master; Whether we have but one life, or need never die, may this mortal soul still move through time to find its own Truth. May we be the immediate cause, but never the ultimate end.
Your lofty shadow, looming over the silent screams of night.
The evergreen titan, reduced to a bold black outline against the sky,
What whispers in me do you seek?
I have none, I think.
I may soon be empty, but for the mindful tending of your form.
Just as the threats of winter fall softly at your feet,
So are the promises we never meet, leaping from tree to tree,
Singing in the breeze, Circling our souls as falling leaves,
And yet, you’re free.
Free from harm, and thoughts, and dreams,
Dripping in the misty weaves of shadowed melodies,
My midnight evergreen.
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.