I tremor this prayer
while the knowing flame quakes,
and velvet as the night,
my voice carries your name.
I breathe it over ashes,
I hum it into smoke-
my prayer lives within the fire
that furls and chokes.
Your smile is painted
into my song’s melodies,
and the lapping red tongues
twirl its tune readily.
I tremor this prayer
as the wet wax burns low,
and like a seeping chorus
your symphony flows.
Beyond the void there is
a door, murky and menacing
against a wall of thorns,
and choked in vines
that whisper
my name.
I know I must reach
that door, for beyond it lies
the answer, I think-
but the way is vast
and dripped in smog,
and the bridge rots
in ruins at my feet.
The end lies dead,
and I’m stranded on this side,
clinging to brambles and scraps
of the past that reek
of desolation.
The door, swirling in stilted light,
mocks me from afar,
singing a song that
can never be reprised.
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.
Nothing but paper,
crumpled up and tossed away-
used and rejected.
Leafed through and let loose,
I sift through the wind’s hair
as my contents clear.
Erased and released,
my words are tossed off, for I’m
nothing but paper.
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!
The smile I see reflected back at me
can not be mine, I know.
For long ago
I stitched my lips
and drained my skin of glow.
The laughter in the pool’s ripples,
is not my mirth, you see-
For I don’t laugh,
at least not anymore,
and my eyes are all but empty.
My reflection does not reflect me,
for it’s just a mask I wear.
I smile and laugh,
and play along well,
but it’s a heavy disguise to bear.
The smile I see reflected back at me
is my golden gag, the slickest scheme-
for beneath the layers
of smiles and shine
warbles a lonely and chilling scream.
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.
Have mercy on my moratorium,
for I’ve been a bumbling, busy bug-
traipsing through the trails of time
and slipping in slops of sludge.
Pardon my postponement, please,
but the yawning year is yearning to end-
and work without end waxes wide
and splits all my senses in shreds.
Well, it’s that time of year again…I know this poem is short and not-so-great, but I’ve been piled high with work lately. By next week, I should be back on a regular schedule…I hope.
Stellular Scribe 