To Be Or Not To Be, Is Never A Question

I am, I was, and I will always be

Though in this haze obscured, often hard to believe

For this cacophony of souls sometimes will drown or disguise

The animal crouching behind green eyes

To suggest that I have forgotten the blade

Or vows freely spoken in those empty glades

Is to belittle this heart I have chosen to save

All that I stand for, and all that I gave

Forged in fire, in flood.. in bliss

I am your thorn, your dream, your kiss

I am this person, an accumulation of time

I am freely yours, but I am always mine

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Dreams of the Pumpkin King

Winds of Autumn softly whisper

Their poetry is ethereal, glistening with frost

I shiver in the grass

 

Solace holds reprieve,

Basking in the crisp stanzas of twilight

Breathing frigid air with a grateful smile

 

October has come to play

When We were Stars

Sometimes I think it would be easier if we could be alone, but alas, we are an animal that craves the comfort of its own kind. Because of this, we are constantly giving up small pieces of ourselves, and filling those empty spaces with the pieces of another. Constantly compromising ourselves for the company of others who, despite their love, are cloying and ignorant of the stars behind your eyes.

So you attempt to bank your inner fire so you don’t burn others, but in loosing the flame you have lost the heat. Desperately you reach for the warmth of another, even as your heart craves the solace of mountains.

Struggling to maintain a balance between empathy and entropy, you age slowly in the privacy of your pages, recalling the nights when you shone fiercely in the darkness, burning with prose, and others made wishes upon your light.

It Was Late In the Evening

An acute progression of time

Moments compressing in memory until…

Only impression remains

 

The ghost of a name

A lifetime confounded by pathways

Choices

Made in the darkness, when you believed

In your own light

 

How silence became a challenge

To speak your mind to the wind

 

How has it come to pass

That one who’s bare foot was knowing in the moss

Now at a loss

For a scent to follow?

 

A snake mayhap, though once a tiger

Still I move amoungst the grass

Knowing in my age, my page

The Hunt is in my breath

 

It’s not my poetry that whispers, it is the wind

Inside me

When a flower blooms, my petals unfold

I feed the hungry bees who come to glut

They in turn pollinate the blooms of another

As they flit out across the luscious, intercontinental web of meadows

Of WordPress-

As if one could press, squeeze the fruits of my knowledge

Into a simple post

 

Please

I am not so easily quaffed

 

Still…

I offer this stream to you

Of consciousness flowing clear and true

To sip and wash the salt away

From the ocean of apathy you keep at bay

 

 

Journal/poetry entry 12/16/17

 

The cold brings me back, as it bites my bones

To those aching hours spent alone

When the brush of my pen was the only sound

In pages that whispered on frozen ground

Immutable mountains looked down without remorse

A river cut stone in Her sinuous course

And beside her I ran, where a pathway cut clean

Sharpened  my edges, and made myself lean

Hard enough, to stand firmly with ease

Yet soft enough, for my prose to appease

 

A poet disembodied from the roots of her craft

Must make of circumstance a feasible raft

Constructed from metaphor, closer to any truth

Than all the bald faced lie of youth

 

Night winds blow through my shallow layers

A solitary moon receives my prayers

This moment is made to reflect, refract

That ambiguous line between TRUTH and fact

It has been too long, my arrival here

This seat, this home, this blessed year

 

I give you now my friendly eye

This blackened thought, this starry sky

Sit here with me as it grows far too late

Let us ramble… pontificate

It is the time when REAL is relative

To what you are willing, or unwilling to give

What do you stand for, as you stand beneath these stars

Can you sculpt something beautiful from the passage of scars

Or are you a detriment to my current of flow

Have you no mind that seeks the puzzle of prose?

 

In this moment I am shifting, evolving as it were

I make no apologies, I’m not a caged bird

A thought flies now to the roots of the matter

Where shaky insights inevitably shatter

Why always the moment unspoken, un-captured

That holds the ever present rapture?

I try in vain, to convey this wind

How it stirs the plants, the trees, my skin

How cold cuts sharply into my wit

Revolves around the chair I sit

Spinning these words, these thoughts to you

And in this moment the current is true

So I thank you dearly for tossing with me

In choppy currents as I find the sea

As every river does, in its eventual course

With gentle persistence, and awesome force

Cheap Wine and Philosophy

This is for Kellie Elmore, may she weather her storms with strong roots https://magicinthebackyard.wordpress.com/2015/03/14/and-theres-no-such-thing-as-nine-lives/

 

It was dark… but you know

That’s when you can see the stars

Or, so I told myself

Glass half full, except

It was very bad wine

I drank it anyway

It was that kind of night

Trees whispered things I did not wish to hear

So I ignored them

And in so doing

Did not hear the wind

But whatever, no matter, nada to me

I just thought about a particular person

Among millions of people

Sculpted dead air into the well-loved features

Of his oblivious expression

Hanging hopes on his branches

Gossamer strands of fragile words

Woven with tearful song, impossible wanting

Which his torrents of breath, sharp knives of teeth

Would cut to ribbons every time he spoke

Children build castles made of sand

Joyfully aware of the incoming tide

And that is not beside the point at all, really

When you reach the bottom of the bottle, you see

As I did, reflected by that bare green glass

How we all build our castles, our walls, our security

Yet unlike the child, refuse to see

The tides of life barreling toward us

And when they consume our carefully constructed life

Wipe it all away in one fell swoop

We are left only with ourselves, and we decide

To revel in renewal or weep for death…

To live in the moment that has just passed

Or live for the moments you have yet to create