Posts Tagged ‘poetry


Won’t Be Long

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I hurt.  I can't help but show it.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀He knows it.
⠀⠀⠀⠀He's so sad.  I tell him don't be.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀It won't be
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀that tragic.  It won't be wrong,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀won't belong
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀to what we've had.  Be strong,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I tell him, don't think of it as going dead, not
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀when we've still so much future ahead, yet
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀he knows it won't be long.
                                   [posted for Sara as of date written]

As Composed

As composed as I will remember
myself to have been, my glass eyes
staring straight up past their light
far into the timeless reaching skies,
who will know the fury of my flight?

As composed as I will expect
my face to have been, my stiff lips
frozen on their final vow, their warm
outlasting a breathless moon's eclipse,
who will feel my vision's frenzied form?

As composed as I will cast
my will to have been, my dying touch
relaxing its hold on their white sheets
to spill ink behind me, a poem as such,
who will break the spell my word completes?       
                            [posted for Sara as of date written]

Faintest Ink

                                   "The faintest ink 
                                   is more powerful than 
                                   the strongest memory." 
                                          — Chinese Proverb
My faintest ink will its own memory
indelibly transcribe in absentee
reminders of a dream I'd tried to think
immune to fading. Words I've drowned out sink
in silence smudging visions I'll foresee. 

Not long from now, what's credited to me
will tangle up with indistinct debris
until it's all gone gray. These lips will drink
                                   my faintest ink. 

Yet I'll outlast my feeblest poetry
in fancy only. Words are always free
to take on new lives, whereas past lives shrink
to ghosts' remembrances, a casual blink
what might've come if I'd but chanced to be
                                   my faintest ink. 
                                          [posted for Sara as of date written]

As Winter Came

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"Then the weeds, which were forms of living death,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Fled from the frost to the earth beneath."
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀—Percy Bysshe Shelley
As winter came calling, we were caught
still too far south, missing out on any shot
making it back home icy roads. Immune
to magic, cold hard facts of time laid ruin
to any step we'd dreamed past where we got.
Like stubborn weeds, we should've known to squat
beneath the malice pelting us like hail's onslaught.
All hope at survival was to've died as soon
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀as winter came. 

Summer so quickly forgets the love it brought
to life.  Shadows stretch out.  What's not
living off its death, under the weight of a moon
overloaded with frost, sank in its tomb
abandoned, faded to an afterthought
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀as winter came. 
                                                                   [posted for Sara as of date written]

Impossibly Simple

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"Things should be made as simple as possible 
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀- no simpler." —Albert Einstein
To them, it's impossible making it through what I went through
coming out the other side in one piece, my alter ego's déjà vu
inverted through a seizure's wormhole there and back, that sim-
ple, that uncomplicated by relative motion, by random whim.
To them, what happened's too straightforward for it to be true.
One need not be an Einstein.  What one seizure bypasses, two
back to back can't miss.  Had I not first found someone who
knew me by heart… I've tried to make simple what I had with him
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀to them.  It's impossible.

I'm told they almost lost me back then.  I turned midnight blue,
as dark as the empty sky into which my forgotten dreams flew
to find home.  Nothing all that unusual.  Just a different dim-
ension together with a separate vector of time, one synonym 
of many to this standard reality.  I can make sense of it to you.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀To them it's impossible.
                                                                                  [posted for Sara as of date written]

Impossibly Fun

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"It's kind of fun to do the impossible."
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀— Walt Disney
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"Sometimes I've believed as many as six 
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀impossible things before breakfast."
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀— Lewis Carroll
To them, it's impossible what I did back then, writing over three hun-
dred poems one month, then hundreds more before my head went "Done."
Yet there it all lay in black and white.  I wrote poetry wildly as though
I knew I had so little time left.  Faster than one could humanly go
and inconceivably far, I dove headfirst into creation's blazing sun.

You were there.  You used to come in from work and catch me run-
ning breakneck pace.  You heard my unspeakable word like no one
else could.  What you see and know to be me, I could never show
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀to them. It's impossible. 

Intolerant of any truth they can't possess and control, they shun
miracle before its rhyme and meter and metaphor's barely begun
to birth itself, settling for what they think to be the status quo
only to damn their dreams to wander somewhat farther below.
They will never find the cold hard fact of living and dying to be fun. 
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀To them it's impossible.
                                                                                       [posted for Sara as of date written]

Status Epilepticus

         Word put in me, unknown faces, alienated form
         void of clear motive, void sleep, sans any head
         noise, no designation — a sullen hushed ache
         dies holding out on its birth, as if to get sent
         back before preconceived seed, back into dark
         death spasms empty of white, twisted fits of pain
                  . . .
         fire echoed forward into expectation, into change
                  . . .
         cold eye, stolen morning, to continuously wake,
         work through the night, written under a dim light
                  . . .
         make edges sharp and open-ended, carry strange
                  . . .
         out unsung, broadly hung, high strung, far spun.
         Held in shadow until the right time, secret lives
         break into open view, finished from last to first.
         First cuts close themselves. Do me again. Break
         form, instantly taken against and at my word,
         lives let loose on their own yet tightly held
         head down past the point of no return to a void
         spun delicate as wishful thought to stretch out
         ache through self-consuming solitude. No noise
                  . . .
         change chaos to gravity, twist gravity to fire
         strange in breath, carve breathing to ice, make
         stone from tears, stir up winds from dry blood
                  . . .
         wake while still dreaming at morning dew's cold
         light touch, barely hard enough for it to work.

         Work. Work! Make something. Make it all light.
         Break it out. Smash it open. Me first, me first,
         cold as dark matter. Isolate it. Wake me, wake
                  . . .
         blood taste raw mud, spark to touch cold stone.
         Make secrets emerge from this silence, strange
         fire out of thin air! Make everything change!

         Change bursts its insides out, making its fire
         light a time bomb set to detonate, do its work
         strange outside memory past expectation, make
         first into reflection off a seizure's flash, to break
         stone against my face, to sketch dreams in blood

                  * * *
         Dies cast decide my choice? Whose god has sent
                  . . .
         word for word? Chaos wires pure energy, form
                  . . .
         void. Straight void. Connected out my head.
         Head first to last, blood last to first, void
         sent to come, storm come as meant, meaning dies,
         pain confesses, justice begs audience of death
                  . . .
         lives again and again, released as if held
         first to last, bent back into the break
                  . . .
         dark. Incoherent whispers itch to turn back,
         ache to punch past pausing. God, let all noise
         form a line, make it up each from its own word.

formal attire

short of breath

  • @magewing always and unfailing love thank you ○ 5 years ago
  • Cyn & Denise perfect love ferocious & open thank you ○ 5 years ago
  • @poetalias thank you ○ 5 years ago
  • all of it in good hands, as will be my child - thank you ○ 5 years ago
  • all of it now handed over so I can conserve remaining strength for my final creation ○ 5 years ago
  • how is it i remember what the word 'intrinsic' means, yet i can't figure out which beliefs are intrinsic to me vs having been read to me? ○ 5 years ago

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