Tag: poetry

Practicing Perceptions

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You press your perceptions
of me into air-dry clay;
shall I count the ways?
I am proficient
(occasional higher level learning, you say;
but let’s not get ahead of ourselves, you say).
I am reserved parking
(easy to exit and others keep out, you say;
easy to drop off and pick up right away).
I am not temperature controlled
(a bob cat in heat when the moment strikes, you say;
but beneath all that fire’s an empty rib cage).
I am an isolated car seat
(ripped from the vehicle, tossed onto the street, you say;
more free stuff to ride in this great game of life, hey).
I am a work of heart
(a piece of work, for the start, you say;
I poke and you’re a deflated globe, you say).
I am ‘my world’
(your world, that is, you say;
you’ve only ever loved yourself, anyway).
You map your longing for me
like I’m a primary atlas;
so long, I’ve put it into practice.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

His Perishing Flesh

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you_found_me__by_malinmellryd-d6ox567
“You found me.” by MalinMellryd

What withered thumb marks the
ash on my temple,
streaking the remains  of
his perishing flesh? I cannot
call his name — indeed,
it would steal my breath.
Neither crucifix nor holy
stain, his dust does not
stir lenten requiems, but rather
dark and furled refrains that
bounce against these sacred walls.
That is not all — he leaves
me smoke, bitter incense without
the chants; I kneel in wait,
but I do not pray. I do not sing —
in truth, I can’t. His mossy teeth
protect no tongue, and his hand,
it marks my face with ash. Silently,
he reaches near to enfold me in
his perishing flesh.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

The Lotus-Eaters

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Lotus-eatersIn sleep
there are no mysteries
that dash and dim the glass of dreams.

In sleep
there are just reveries
that unwind the truth for what it seems.

Come sleep,
and drink sweet lethargy.
Come sleep,
and taste our apathy.

This lotus smells of yesterday.
(A portside sigh, fare her goodbye).
Wake up, you are a castaway!
(Tastes of bliss, don’t forget her kiss).
Bodies on the beach recline
(What was before? Are we ashore?),
drunk off the gods’ own wine
(No need to know; you need to slow).
Wake! To Ithaca we sail in force!
(Islanders pry, ‘lie under sky’).
North winds: blown us from our course!
(Fruit they bear, soft sleep ensnares).
Get up, you reek of lotus flower.
(There’s no return, the berry burns).
Get up, this is your final hour.
(Roused too early, weep bitterly).

Come sleep,
and drink sweet lethargy.
Come sleep,
and taste our apathy.

In sleep
there are no mysteries
that dash and dim the glass of dreams.

In sleep
there are just reveries
that unwind the truth for what it seems.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

A Cup of Tomorrow

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I pretend to have no reservations
say the world’s not made of glass
but blood has signed my resignation
it stains the walls, it stains the grass

the front lawn’s occupied by gnomes
they tap the door day and night
I answer, this is not my home
they were never there, in hindsight

nonsense is my mockingbird
she tells me, open the window
but silly me, I never heard
and locked her tight in my shadow

I pretend to have no reservations
the waitress sits me next to sorrow
but I hadn’t any preparation
and order a cup of tomorrow

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

rising with the curtains

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glinting off your sequined dress I
see myself and all the rest, and think it’s
funny, how they say the night falls, because
in your voice it stands mighty tall, rising
with the curtains and beaming
like the moon and stirring up the
jazz band until it sings above the rest, stars
glinting off your sequined dress.

cigarettes and silhouettes

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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

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

 

Mythmaker

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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.

© 2015 Stellular Scribe

Oh, Way of Weary Drifter

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Oh, way of twisting root,
snarling beneath my feet,
serpentine it looped the vine
that caught me underneath.

Oh, way of groaning bridge,
creaking across the glen,
it mumbled as I tumbled
from the here until the then.

Oh, way of weary drifter,
carving through the cliffs,
long the road and strong I strode
on legs so sore and stiff.

© 2015 Stellular Scribe