Tag: poems

Nebulous

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In being consumed by eternity I feel
light —
ah, but the dark matter grows so heavy,
you say,
the cosmos inconvenient, you complain
as if one cause can be
charted.
In the stars? In my heart
there is only this eternity; infinity
marks my inner being, but
that is insipid to claim,
you say.
I ask you — what is insipidity? When
I am filled with eternity?
How nebulous.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

In A Black Birch Tree

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A soldier sits in a black birch tree,
but she can’t touch the ground, you see,
‘fore around her ears buzz honeybees —
and so she sits in slick unease.

But this soldier sits with her heart in her lap,
’cause beneath her feet’s a steel mousetrap —
and what cruel oversight, what unkind mishap
would it be that her heart slips from her kneecap.

A soldier clings tight to the trunk;
the forest floor’s layered in chunks
of cold, dead hearts that soldiers’ sunk
from their hopeless, tree-bound bunks.

A soldier sits in a black birch tree,
and she can’t touch the ground, you see,
‘fore with her friends it’s been bloodied;
the bees rumble: you can’t be freed.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

 

look at me.

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look at me.
oh god, why won’t you look at me?
i dreamt last night
that my words had wings that
carried you
was it to me?
it must have been further away.
still, i stay
and pray that you will
look at me.
oh god, why won’t you look at me?
if words have wings then
mine are three pigeons
flying in a a grey flock of
three thousand.
you can’t hear them squawk —
i lost them and now you won’t
look at me.
how can you hear something
that you can’t see?
oh god.
why
won’t
you
look
at
me?

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

Faustus

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What Earth? This Earth
shall no longer harbor me.
This life, written
red in a charter, sees
no salvation but the
swift and cruel release,
and then to hell —
I sell my prayers of peace.

What stars? These stars
will not freeze my fate,
nor render for me
those ivory gates
that I thought too small
to quench my appetite.
Ah, they’ve grown so tall —
and I so slight.

What soul? My soul
was slashed by the pen —
no, by avarice.
I scoffed at wise men
who shed feathers in my lap
and begged — no, prayed,
when my blood sapped
that my hunger be staid.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

The night mocks me.

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The night mocks me. Do you
see it turning? Stars moving
across the sky, the moon at
the lead, all racing to hide
behind the horizon. They can
escape this when it’s done,
and then start anew.

A puff of air escapes my teeth.

They seem like a cowardly lot.
Always chasing the end
of the day or night, never
facing each other. I can’t
imagine why anyone
would pray to them.
They’re so inconstant.

A squinting voice. But they always
come back. Some people
might find comfort in that.

A palm cups my mouth. I
speak through fingers.

Stupid sky, stupid stars.
They watch us shrivel
into dust, thinking they’re
eternal. But I’ve seen stars
fall from the night, breaking
apart before they can ever
touch us. They’re not eternal.
And they die for nothing,
just like us.

A shadow closes my eyes.

I am not some people. See how
the night mocks me.

A squinting voice. Yes.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

You can take back your cloak.

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You can take back your cloak. It
is too big for me, and I don’t
like the way it smells.

No, it’s not you. Not your
smell. You smell like ash and
returning and sweat that beads
in the heat of a nightmare.
Your cloak smells like
the bottom of a pond, where
the fish sleep among dead,
curled fingers.

It was kind of you to lend
it to me. Your cloak.
It was warm but not too warm;
it felt like you. But it is
too loose around my shoulders, and
in that way it reminds me.
Of you, that is. And thinking back is cold,
far too cold.

You can take back your cloak. It
was never mine, but I suppose I
was never yours, was I?

© 2016 Stellular Scribe