I spill the coffee in my lap,
across from me, the TV slaps
a clip of men with
guns strapped to their backs.
The mob screams and claps;
they slur,
but the coffee’s so hot my
vision blurs —
a disgrace.
My mistake.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
Category: Poetry
A Morbid Attraction
The cemetery is alive,
more alive than
the lofty woods that
glower around it,
than dining halls
that pump
bodies like blood vessels,
in an out — flex and
release
here, in the heat
the cemetery smells sweet,
perhaps a morbid
sort of attraction —
yet still she sits against
the headstone,
married to life
that was once,
once was.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
A Symphony To A Drone
It becomes.
Discordant — not
together. Dissonance — out
of pitch. Is there a pitch?
No. Not clear.
Now.
Crescendo. Key. Clear,
I hear.
Crescendo. Forte.
Forte. FORTISSIMO!
Leitmotif detected.
How do they say?
Destruction — a
personified devastation.
Key switch.
Bewitch.
Piano. P i a n i s s i m o.
Lamentoso. Their
is a fluctuating
scale, a line in
green becomes red and
frequent.
Frequency — shrill.
D e c r e s c e n d o.
A cadence alone.
Espressivo! ESPRESSIVO!
And here the octaves meet
the mark.
2 2 3 4, 3 2 3 4, 4 2 3 4
Full stop.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
Wildwood
We bob along the wildwood
like acorns on a colorless stream,
moving without want or will,
powerless as in a dream.
I taste the pine, I hear the rhyme
of the cicada and the bumblebee.
You and I float on the trail,
unconstrained, for now — free.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
Boundless
I shall not be bound by stone;
in memoriam I refuse to remain,
a rock upon a hill with but
a carving to my name.
Henceforth I’ll be boundless,
like a whisper against rain —
everywhere and nowhere,
unfettered at the reigns.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
and the path propels me
on this under-trodden grain
I trample through my sleeping mind —
ah, vexing mind,
of the kind, that keeps my eyes
agape at night.
on this pressed and pondered trail
I step across worms of doubt,
worms that sprout
between my toes and keep my feet
confused and cold.
but walking is its own therapy,
and the path
propels me.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
I have given life.
I stir
linseed oil and orange ochre
into a sunset cream
that injects life into
my heroine’s cheeks — mixed
with Titian red and varnish,
her flesh floods with blood
beneath the skin,
and I have given
life.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
Come At Me
come at me, commotion
sink into the cracks of my mind
undo me right now
there’s plenty of time
have a go, grieving
grant me the pain
to suffer tomorrow
i’m already insane
break me down, bedlam
plant your lips on my life
take hold of my senses
i’m accustomed to strife
come at me, chaos
clear me of noise
monotony bores me
and order destroys
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
When We Surrendered Gladness
Hot breath on collarbones and
cotton sheets between my toes
is all I really need to know
when questioning contentment.
See, there’s no feeling quite like
fingers lingering lax in hair or
misplacing last night’s underwear
when waking braced with bliss.
Your hands, they never told me no,
and I, how I, forgot to go
when your room leaked with shadows
and we surrendered gladness.
Morning never tasted sweet
before I met it from your sheets
while listening to your soft heartbeat —
in the arms of satisfaction.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
Uncertain
Drown me in curtains;
call me uncertain —
but when will we be left in peace
to sit in stillness,
free from our illness?
Then maybe the rocking will cease
when we toss our anchor,
with hearts free from rancor —
we’ll lull on the surface so sweet.
But here there’s no current,
and they said we weren’t
worth the dock under their feet.
So drown me in curtains;
I’ll say I’m uncertain —
the sand on the shore is too hot
to maroon our stories.
I won’t capsize our glory —
let’s bob out here with the rope taut.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
Stellular Scribe 