What

Man dies in the space between:

W

–   H

–     A

–       T

Was Said

–    How Wrongly Done

–       At the Ascended Hour

–         Torment Tittering

On the Edge of Morality

Somewhere Within

Youth and Temporality—

Just Us Alone

You and I

Pulled.

Our Corner

A man hangs his hat in that corner

where once we slept together

an ignorant or discontent foreigner

to our dislocated nether.

No one knows what happened

to the images our jury pardoned.

 

It was not always rainy when you came.

There were moments, tucked into our night

we found shelter in our tender shame

knowing neither would ever fight

for all the stories Donne read within

that little corner of our skin.

 

No one forgets—

not even the man, uncapped, in grey

strolling through space time bid offset

frustrated and sweating through the summer decay

praying for the breath that weaves

through the door, but out the window leaves.

Dreams of Living

Heavy is the eventide disarray,

the walk that stretch into horizon’s wake—

flesh be weak, say men in dead dismay

the unknowing writhe of souls in company

stroking through the down-me-lay.

 

 

Shards line the tone,

men and women still for lack of heart

a dream of poets out from the world sewn—

not once content, too often bared:

Man was not meant to walk alone.

They called us children once

They called us children once.

Before eyes were windows

dappled in our fogged night,

dawn proud; unknowing

shadowed play between locked fingers.

They called us children once.

There came silence to the cries

when our skin learned its shape,

the mewling crescendo of fingertips

drumming our answer in the twilit backseat.

 

They called us children once.

Until we danced.

Warning: Winter Ahead. Image by Chris Galford.

* I realize in recent days I’ve not been the most prolific of bloggers. No Inside Idasia. No crafty banter. A brief smattering of poems, a Christmas photo, and little else. Well, I just wanted to let you know that will be changing with the new year. I’ve been out of town and out of state, and between family, friends, and a distinct interest in a little break, I’ve been having myself a pretty good vanishing act. Tomorrow I return to Colorado, however, and Monday things should resume their usual pace.

But with that, I wish you all a happy New Year! The old was crazy enough here – between finally publishing, between the move out of state, between all the kind support and friendly community you all have provided…I think the new will be hard-pressed to top it, honestly, but I wouldn’t mind a good surprise. I hope it has been the same for all of you, and thank you simply for taking the time to swing by my humble little corner of the blogosphere. It has meant the world!

Wanderlust

Regurgitated lives lie between us

gray puddles reflecting

open air—

watered sounds,

reticent ripples rearing

wanderlust eyes, consumed in flesh.

* Busy week indeed – my first attempt at poetry since the book hit e-reader publication last week. Since then, of course, things have only gotten more hectic. Launched a Facebook page for proper social media marketing, the book’s now hit print, and we’re waiting on reviewers from across the board. Between all that, the mind’s been quite boggled, and it’s been a challenge to find time just to sit down and write, let alone to give the mind over to the purely poetic. Thankfully, camping this weekend helped retrieve a bit of my sanity, and garnered more than a few pages of new writing.

Darker piece this week, and shorter, to be sure, but I hope you enjoy all the same. As ever – critiques and comments welcome!

Bedside

* A work in progress – critique welcome!

Broad strokes, bedside

broached the topic of

wedded blasphemy,

through bygone whispers

renovated in bravado,

battered with the blue breeze

bloody braggarts call carnal bastardization.

An immigration of conscience

instituted something like incontinence.

Winged Aphrodite pulled hormones

through the shaft of her soul,

but ringed Bast barred in gold;

lovers circled bane and bust,

but the band bonded true—

like a shadow, lust, pulled

through the needle of love’s eye.