poem – Page 9 – Stellular Scribe

cigarettes and silhouettes

23 January, 201623 January, 2016 stellularscribeLeave a comment

we stoop to light our cigarettes
in an alley sketched with silhouettes
where Jane’s heels skid in oil slicks
smeared by highbinder walking sticks
on the roof perch stoned sharpshooters
on the stoop, stonewalled prosecutors
this ain’t your average tip-a-few clipjoint
the boozehounds here are held at gunpoint
they might’ve been out of time
had not a dolly dropped a dime
seems some redhot long on the loose
holed up mugs thirstin’ for giggle juice
when they were dealing rats and mice
didn’t like the barkeep’s asking price
pulled a pistol, made the sign of the cross
and skipped right to the coup de grâce
so now we stoop to light our cigarettes
waiting to shatter those silhouettes

Mythmaker

27 December, 201527 December, 2015 stellularscribe2 Comments

He made the moon his mistress
in the fated folds of night.
The stars, they were his courtiers
in the drafting of birthrights.
He read the sky and coaxed her
from the dark into the light.
From them he gathered destinies;
from them he gained his sight.

Astrologer, they called him —
the man who loved too hard.
A romancer of destiny,
the night sky’s only bard.
But he, he knew the truth of it,
of why he held his guard —
to wean from constellations
their secrets, long since scarred.

Lady moon, she bore her dark side,
but he, he turned her round,
and leapt to kiss her cratered face
to taste tomorrow bound.
The stars, they shyly winked at him,
but he, he heard the sound
of a future falling from great heights,
a sun crashing to the ground.

Mythmaker, they called him —
the man who tempted fate.
A philanderer of futures,
a seducer of great stakes.
But he, he knew the truth of it,
of how his dalliances narrate
the crossing of impending stars
in the sealing of soul mates.

suspended in serenity

29 November, 2015 stellularscribe2 Comments

I would argue that life is most
rife when all is still, because
quiet itself can be such a thrill —
take that moment when your
heartbeat skips, or in the
shuddering seconds of
a passing eclipse, like when
a forgotten dream settles
in splendidly and you’re
left suspended
in serenity.

So it was all over

22 October, 2015 stellularscribeLeave a comment

So it was all over before it began,
but out was never an option —
and the storm I saw ripening the sky
summoned hasty caution.
So it was all over, the dream undreamt,
and I woke a weary stranger —
unwelcome and bereft of claim,
my future soaked in danger.
So it was all over before it began,
and now I face my fate —
accompanied by madness,
in the hurricane I wait.

The Dreamers

17 October, 2015 stellularscribeLeave a comment

The dreamers — they
all lie in wait,
backs arched to meet
the swollen sky.
Sparrows buzz about
their heads,
singing sweet, dead
lullabies.
The dreamers — they
refuse to wake,
eyes pinched against
the stretching dawn.
Sparrows peck against
their lids,
until the stubborn
sleeper yawns.

Of Wind and Wings

23 August, 2015 stellularscribeLeave a comment

Upon the night I soar unafraid,
for I was destined to taste the sky.
Armored in scales, I ascend unswayed;
on the back of wind and wings, I fly.

Love — a haiku

6 August, 2015 stellularscribeLeave a comment

Such sweet melody,
unchallenged by time and tear —
so is love’s caress.

The Prophecy — an original poem

13 July, 2015 stellularscribeLeave a comment

We bend our backs to the silver tide,
to the tide that turns the years —
the tide for which the old gods died
and wrung war out of tears.

We turn our eyes to the roiling night,
to the night that never ends —
the night in which we taste the blight
that in our dreams transcend.

We hone our ears to the coming song,
to the song that spans the land —
the song for which we must be strong,
for the prophecy so planned.

It’s red — an original poem

12 July, 20159 July, 2015 stellularscribeLeave a comment

There’s anger in red, at least, that’s what most will say.
Red is anger, fury, fire and brimstone.
It’s lust and violence.
Red is raw and reaping energy, the solid and the faint, the systematic and the chaotic.

But red, this red —
this complete and utter embodiment into red,
drowning, choking, becoming.
This red is not angry.
It’s acceptance.
Acceptance of our mortality, acceptance of the inevitability of drowning.
It’s warm but not blazing, unhinged but not fury.
This red is becoming. It’s hard and soft and loud and quiet —
but not angry.

I could poke my metaphor stick at red for hours.
I could un-turn it and repaint it and evolve it into some great symbol of
the telling faults of humanity’s ignorance to becoming.

But it’s red. And it’s not angry. And that’s
really all I have to say.

He is a Boy in Mourning — an original poem

11 July, 20159 July, 2015 stellularscribeLeave a comment

He’s a boy with a ball and a compliance in his eyes.

Youth, it seems, is wasted on the young.
Here we have a boy with a ball, and a plaid sweater, and a compliance in his eyes.
He is young, his face round and doughy, his hair curly, his fingers sausagey.
But he is not young.

There is a compliance in his eyes.

Youth, it seems, is not wasted on the young but stolen by the old.
Here we have a boy in mourning and he doesn’t know it.
His elders do not know it.
For they are the ones who dressed him in that plaid sweater and placed a ball in his arms and told him to stand.
He is staring at them with a compliance in his eyes, and a passiveness on his lips, and a naivety under his chin.

He is not playing, he is posing, with a ball in his hands and a plaid sweater on his arms and a compliance in his eyes.

He is a boy in mourning, and I mourn for him.