Nothing feels half as sweet as wielding a finely honed word.
Steel and iron are of no use to me when I can bring battle-bled soldiers to their knees with a single sentence.
Releasing a well-aimed arrow can not compare to the adrenaline rush of unleashing a battalion of bitter words on an army outfitted in ebony armor.
The swing of a thousand swords does not deal nearly as much joy as showering a deserving party in good news.
Yes, words are my weapons.
But they are also my poison.
From you
I’ve learned that no fish
is too big to be reeled in,
so long as the rod you wield
doesn’t splinter in two
in the process.
From you
I’ve learned that sneaking
snapping turtles into the back of your car
and driving them home to show
off to the kids is a perfectly
normal thing to do,
so long as the bugger doesn’t
bite your heels off
before you get there.
From you
I’ve learned that growing
potatoes is no planting venture for the faint of heart,
and that when over-encumbered with spuds,
there are countless ways to cook them,
so long as you use your
imagination.
From you
I’ve learned a lot of things,
like how to talk to science fair judges
without melting into a puddle on the spot,
and how to gut a fish without
getting the intestines all over my fingers.
I learned that softballs don’t fly when
I don’t keep my eye on the prize,
and that you have to be very quiet
when stalking night-crawlers under the stars.
But from you
I’ve learned perhaps the most important lesson:
that no matter where you are, what age you claim,
what wisdom you boast and what knowledge you name-
you are never done learning.
This poem was specially written for my incredible father. Happy Father’s Day everyone!
They left me folded in sheets
of sand- wrapped in molding bandages
on the bed of the shore, with the surf
licking my frozen toes.
The gull who weeps for his friends
long dead is much like me- a nomad
with no name and no clan;
a roamer rejected by rose-ravished
words. Here I waste away,
repeatedly bitten by the wind’s sharpened
teeth- left to rot.
I watch you slip
through the cracks
of consciousness,
and it’s killing me
slowly and
steadily,
as the light
in your eyes evaporates.
Now all you offer me is a blank stare;
no notions, no understanding-
you see me, but don’t see me,
and you ask me my name.
You wonder who I am.
You wonder where we are.
Don’t you remember?
As we sit on the bench,
I watch you slip
through the cracks
of your own mind,
and it wrenches me to see
you point in the distance,
directing my attention
to something that’s not there.
I try to see, I say I see-
and you smile, saying what
a nice young person I am,
what a nice, pleasant stranger.
I cling to your words, hoping
that within one of them I will
find a glowing ember
that will ignite
a spark, a memory-
anything.
But nothing’s there,
and we sit on the bench,
no more than strangers
in a world shifting with
ghosts.
Paper tears
but cotton snares-
and like cotton your words
cling to the dust in the air,
sucking the silt and sand
close to its fleece,
and slurring wet promises
slick with grease.
Cotton clings
but paper stings-
and like paper your lips
shred sour notes that sing,
bleeding your words of
all wealth and truth,
and ripping the life from
the throats of the youth.
Liar.
Stand before me dressed in your deceit;
look me in the eye and tell me
that the chain of untruths draped around your neck
is nothing but jewelry.
Tell me that each link is but a silver lined
ring, simply a pendant disguised
to look like a noose.
Tell me true.
You can’t.
Liar.
I only see you at the end of my arrow head;
I only see a target, a neck reddened with guilt
and a forehead slick with shame.
Watch out, or else your sweat will freeze
to crystal beads, encrusting your
cheeks in all your splendor-
your wretched, backward splendor.
Now all the world will know.
They’ll spy you, dripping with faux diamonds,
and they’ll see you for what you are-
a fabricator.
Tell me true.
You can’t.
Because you’re a liar.
I remember your touch,
like the pattering of rain before a storm-
prominent yet gentle,
and warm as it drips onto my skin,
breathing a sigh of warning
for the gale to come.
I do that often now;
remembering.
All I seem to do is remember,
now that you’re gone.
I reach back in time and see your eyes,
alight with playfulness and mystery and intrigue-
and I wonder why you left,
when your blaze was so young.
I wonder a lot of things,
now that you’re gone.
I wonder why the night ever seemed so sweet,
like a blanketing of ink upon
a bed of stars, painting its mellow ‘good night’
across the sky.
Now it just seems cold
and dark and unwelcoming.
The night’s become a stranger,
now that you’re gone.
I wonder why the fire in the hearth,
which once kindled endless embraces
and sparked a passion untold,
seems so dank and dull.
It’s dying, that fire,
if it’s not already dead.
Its embers have dwindled,
crumbling to choking dust,
now that you’re gone.
I remember your voice,
like a long lost melody humming
against my ear, and I can almost
see your lips mold to its tune,
as you sing the night away.
You sing a song to me,
etched with bliss and pain and power,
and I smile as your voice envelopes me.
And I’m happy,
for once.
I do that a lot now;
remembering.
All I seem to do is remember,
now that you’re gone.
Tell me what you see when you look into my eyes.
Is it fury? Frustration? Fire?
Or is it fear?
Fear is a feral serpent, slithering through the slips of time,
always hunting for the most succulent,
untainted and unblemished skin to latch its fangs in to-
the perfect neck to wind around
and squeeze of each last powdery breath.
But it is not fear that roils within my eyes.
I am angry at fear,
for it grips me like any other mortal-
and I am angry at its tail that lashes my back,
knocking me to my knees and demanding my gaze
as I watch it batter my spirit.
I am not without fear, but it does not rule me-
No, fear only bitters the taste in my mouth.
And it’s the taste that angers me.
Tell me what you see when you look into my eyes.
It is not fear, but a fury-
A fury at what I cannot control,
a dread of being paralyzed in what I do not know.
A fury at the fear that swims in my veins.
Where I’m going
I must have an iron heart,
stalwart and stony against
the frozen rushes of the night
that ambush in my sleep-
finding food in dreams of yore
and devouring memories.
Where I venture,
mere skin and flesh are poor defenses
against arrows of ice
that rain down on pools
of ripely reaped blood-
and sting my cheeks with metal kisses
that cake my wounds in poison mud.
Where I journey,
only a mortar hide will
shield my spirit, and a
cloak of mail will veil my head
from stranger tears that mewl like acid-
boring sores into my soul,
stringing my hair into ashes.
Where I’m going
I must have an iron heart,
for hearts that bleed beg mercy
from loping shadows of the reach-
weeping red as the storm closes
and praying to the faceless stars
for light to mend their bruises.
Not one of my better poems, but I’ve been fairly busy lately and unable to actually sit down and put effort into it. I’ve been working on a bigger project too, so that’s been taking up a lot of my time.
A promise
is like wax-
at first it seems firm,
and honest and true,
but then you
lick it with fire,
and it melts
between your fingers-
scorching your skin
as it lines it
with cracks.
You lit the candle
that cast shadows
against my face-
and at first
I thought you
were giving me light,
sweet and unsoiled,
until you yanked
my fingers
over the
blaze.
Your promise
was like wax,
for at your first fire
it fused to my flesh-
and now I
am wax,
hardened yet weakened,
and if you look
closely enough,
you will see my
cracks.
Stellular Scribe 