Saturday, May 12, 2012

some new poems

"an empty house"

stretched upwards down and falling fast,
spiraled wrought in eternal light
her bones are only used for dust these days
dust upon the books, upon the rickety chair
held solid by long closed eyes,
washed away from wooden floors by late summer rains,
rinsing ripples on stain glass windows
of once upon a time,
for crying out loud to whisper softly in the spider's ear
what designs to falter into splendor
crisscrossing lights, bending morning dew into fragments
of filtered possibilities 
the quiet of the uncanny house settled deeply on the southern soil
creeping forth the wicked green of winding vines
valiantly raising their existence
with breath broken into vapor
resting on your lips, held limp
in your ragged hands
curtains hung stagnant in forgotten breezes 
of broken lullabies, stuttered goodbyes
and the fading dusk of leaving shadows on your desk. 

"a cold hallway"

unpaled by retracting footfalls 
who spoke you so silently to make you shake so deep?
shedding paper thing hymns from your feet, 
washed clean as freshly fallen snow
catching on your eye lashes,
mounting cities out of frozen flakes,
beckoning out icy awes of reverence
for the defeat of ancient skies 
from whence the words once came
aching smoke to just be still awhile, 
for our skin to settle down
with all our thrashing around
to forget that we're still sinking in the earth's deep black
reserved for beings to disappear to their own liking
so swiftly that the space they once inhabited 
never seemed that empty at all
or so hauntingly slow that their breath
lingers at the edge of our ears,
their footsteps still fall with some folly
on the persistent cold of the hallway's wooden quiet.

"a rainy graveyard"
damp wild, trodden and soggy 
from the sky's fallen grace
but keep up the pace, 
i'm trying to say something here.
peachy florals rising to the surface of your skin
to brush the steely coolness of the passing gun
to pass the time
to pass the vibrations of your rhyme 
played out by bony fingers
ringing out bells for every lost
buried deep, but not deep enough
to keep the rain from washing the worms away
from wasting flesh and worn out wanderings
amongst these burial grounds, 
collecting dharma in leaflet pages
spread out across your southern sky, 
to realize the whole of nature, 
the throbbing of reality, 
thunderous and utterly alone
spoken suddenly to the edges of what our eyes fathom, 
no less than yesterday.

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