A word
can wield the weight
of a well-honed sword.
A sentence
can summon the strength
of a thousand armies.
An idea
can fall the knees
of an entire world.
But
with a sword that’s coated in poison,
with an army undisciplined and un-bled,
and in a world unwilling to hear-
my words
my sentences
and my ideas
are no more than specks on a screen smudged with mud.
“Speak,”
they say,
“and the world will listen.”
“Speak,”
I say,
“and the world will fear.”
My lips still on a poignant note,
mournful and mellow
and unafraid.
This is where the song ends,
where the breath escapes the melody,
where the bitter words that once
shaped the night
and kept you alive
dissipate.
The death march must cease
eventually,
and my lament hums in the air
like a fog.
Ravaged and choked was my voice
as I sang of shadows
and what could’ve been.
It is my last gift to you,
and now the silence is hard and cold
and biting
and lonely.
My lips still on a poignant note,
for the elegy has ended.
On days where the sun near rolls over the hill,
and the summer winds dance endlessly,
I notice something that makes all time still,
on the porch by the cherry blossom tree.
They’re beaten and worn and crusted with dirt,
and tarnished from long days of use;
the sight of them lying there makes my chest hurt-
your beautiful blue buckle shoes.
You wore them on Sundays, kicking pews in mass.
You wore them on rainy days; they splashed and they splashed.
You wore them paired with your favorite red dress,
and you wore them to bed, despite the protests.
Now they lie on the porch under that cherry tree,
soaking up sun and fading to gray.
They’re empty and forgotten and I wonder if they plea
for someone to take them away.
But they’re happy, I think, to be left there in peace,
and I know that you wouldn’t refuse
to let them lie in the dirt gathering sunshine and grease-
your beautiful blue buckle shoes.
That night, I ride a red mare.
With hands frozen upon the reins,
I can not shake myself from
its saddle.
On it gallops through fields
of amber,
leaving a trail of smoke in its wake.
No scream can pass my lips,
and I weep silently as
phantom winds
murmur over my skin.
Is this a dream?
The horse halts at the base
of a valley gilded in gold,
and dips its head to drink from a brook.
My limbs loosen, and I fall to my knees
at its side.
So thirsty…I’ve never been this thirsty before…
Crawling, trembling, withering-
I claw my way to the stream,
and lower my lips to the water.
I scream.
The water is red and rotten,
no, not water at all…
it stinks of blood and
flows thickly like blood.
The mare drinks on.
Then across the crimson brook-
a figure from a memory,
someone I once knew,
dressed in tattered whites
with blood on her fingers.
“You don’t care,” she whispers.
Her cheekbones sag,
her flesh melts.
I try to cross the river of blood,
but it sears through to my skin.
“No!”
She’s something else now.
A monster.
And I want to wake up,
wake up
from this wretched nightmare.
The red mare lifts her head
and screams
and screams
and screams.
So, I know this ‘poem’ is a bit abstract. I tried this exercise where I take a passage from my writing and try to turn it into a poem. Let’s just say I don’t think I quite succeeded with this one. It is a fun writing experience, though.
There’s something silver in the wind
that whips and writhes against the glass,
sometimes I think I hear it sing,
but then all at once it’ll pass.
Black winds break trees and seas,
pink winds prance and fair the air.
but there’s something silver in this breeze
that hums a strange, forgotten dare.
Like a lover it lulls your name,
tempting you to take its hand,
but then all at once it shrinks away,
to stream across some other land.
There’s something silver in the wind,
with a siren voice that bows and bends.
But still I long to hear it sing,
before the stormy night can end.
The Boulder Knight! The Boulder Knight-
who moves mountains with his hands.
The Boulder Knight! The Boulder Knight-
he’s the backbone of the lands.
The eve was orange and the fire was blue,
and the Boulder Knight stood over his men-
“These lands of smoke,” he said, “Are ours to rue,
Will you stand with me and take them again?”
“With blood and flame we’ll make the Titan’s splay
for the crows across the ash splattered ground,
and then the un-burnt will become the blazed,
when the final wailing traitor is downed.”
Then with steel in hand and glory in heart,
the Boulder Knight lead the charge through the mist,
and they pulled the leeches and land apart
before the Titans could even persist.
The Boulder Knight! The Boulder Knight-
who moves mountains with his hands.
The Boulder Knight! The Boulder Knight-
he’s the backbone of the lands.
Here is yet another song/poem from the project I’m working on. Taken out of context, it might be a bit difficult to understand. I am also writing music to go with the ‘lyrics’.
sleep isn’t always a matter
of rest
or relief
or rejuvenation
i am safe in the dark
unbeatable beneath the blankets
without worry when
tendrils
of
sweet, silky nothingness
murmur over my lids
there is
something about the not knowing
that comes from dreams
it’s warm
and nice
and soft
and sometimes scary
but sleep
is what keeps me safe
even through the nightmares
and when i wake
it all seems so dull
so grinding
so rough and razored and rude
and the day is so long
and these sheets are so warm
please
let me sleep
Sometimes
I dream that a mighty hand
will thrust through the sky,
pulling apart the clouds
and letting in a light-
a light not of this world,
a light unfelt in ages.
If such
a light exists- a beam
beyond the blood splattered sky
and brighter than the dying sun,
then why hasn’t it shone before?
Why does gloom make its home
in the air, and why hasn’t the hand
batted away the smoke?
Sometimes
I dream that I am that hand,
titanic and teeming with the prayers
of a thousand weak and strong.
But are my fingers sharp enough
to rip apart what has been sewed?
I dream that there is a larger light,
but I fear that I’m too small.
In daylight
I drink up shadows,
slipping between patches of black
with feet that kiss the ground.
In plain sight
I speak with silence,
listening to its steady breath
as the world drums with sound.
In dead night
I wake my fingers,
weaving webs to capture my prize,
to make what’s stolen found.
I’ve touched the sky, you know.
It feels like ice on the verge of melting,
strong and solid and drumming with life,
but lithe and loose and flowing with an
energy unspoken, a force not felt through
two feet on the ground.
I’ve tasted the sky, you know.
It tastes like unsweetened cream, freshly whipped,
light and fluffy and seasoned with stars,
but dark and heavy and looming with night,
an eve burdened by shadows unsavored
in the dishes of earth.
I’ve smelled the sky, you know.
It smells of a sea tossed across the world,
salty and ancient and familiar with time,
but summery and fresh and friendly to my
heart, like an old acquaintance long
lost across the land.
I’ve heard the sky, you know,
and it sings of what it’s seen;
of the the beastly and the beautiful,
the bygone and the brand-new-
I’ve heard it both repine and rejoice
in a voice as eternal as existence.
Stellular Scribe 