When she emerged in me I recognized
a Volcano:
in her the world changes
there are no maps,
no Truth
save the landscape she breathes
into Myth
she is the madness that creates
Fantasy in the compulsion
shadows left behind.
Relationships
Night and Day: Flash Fiction
I have kept myself alive to another setting sun.
Somewhere, you are wondering what colors the burgeoning horizon holds.
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.
Like a Rock
I would rest my faith against your breast
but human pace is never still
you’d bear me out into the glass
shattering with smiles and discontent
solitude’s press, its lonely words
–straight like a rock, to malcontent.
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.
Absence #Haiku
Silent morning springs
the rain’s gentle kiss nothing
to the loss of you.
The Waking Den 