[2am lullaby]

2am—eyes don’t fall
sheets of rain—the old man snores
never could love—nor hate—this moment
wishing for more—than—pelting rain
wishing for melted notes
2am—keys for words
too stoic—for this moment
no—color—no—soul—no—illusion
try to spell with things you hear
counting rain.dro.ps—on my window
fluid nocturnes—wishful—thinking—
something of a melody
lullaby—go. to. sleep.
hear the song—
eyes. keep. falling.
2am—mind is—still—

Tea Party at the End of the World

Come away o human child

To the water and the wiles

Where a dying star unfurled

A tea party at the end of the world

Where Alice and the Hatter

String up quantum threads of matter

The hands of time begin to spin

And teacups break to Dawkin's grin

Come away to a pre-cleaned cup

Where the probability drives up

And the delusion clings 

To a blind god's dreams

Before the star erupts

And the time never stops

But it's always six o'clock

The butter spreads the clockwork's threads

And backwards everything's read

Here the crumpets run on thyme

And the nonsense never rhymes

But never ask the Queen of Hearts

How many angels can dance on a quark?

I never think so I never speak

Of projections acute or oblique

But come and dance

With those who look askance

At my "theories of the world" critique

Parliament Murder

And all around the Parliament crows

The blackest murder in stiffened rows

With beady eye and narrow beak

The gathered still for the rook to speak

The king descends for balances and checks

His black and white opponent interjects

With queens and nights of forgotten lore

Calling forth the shadows to fall once more

His case he pleads with graveyard chills

Ascending the spine of the storytelling's quills

Etching in sand with bloody ink

Stains the carrion feeders drink

The defendant's screeching slowly dies

In quickening silence the Nothing replies

The murder's intent the prey's fierce cry

Outs him 'til his eyes tear dry

loss of presence

birthed by the same Creator, yet there is "I"
such a lonely stranger as I hear whispered echoes of mysteries I cannot know
then-
something felt.

breezes translated against my ear
my arms raised to see for my blank eyes
presence lingered and I knew (and was known)

hearts held by each other
our voices still-
dawn rose quietly to surround us as we rested so softly
we were suddenly (and quietly) taken

the dappled and dewy light now hides you
all the world seems to droop these days
the sun no longer just rises and sets
it seems to be an eye that turns down in all the corners of the earth

it is autumn; the moon is full with its harvest of souls
(invading even mine)
the leaves aren't rising with the wind
turning under, they wreath my head as I sit below

innocence is not my crown, but rather, experience
-right before it falls and fails.

night lengthens and canopies me under-
(dusky intimacies)
bending 'neath, such weighty joy.

(the feeling of absence is still more profound.)

Re-live

It was an August afternoon
when I heard the tip-toe sound
of something trying to end.

Our memories,
long placed on pause,
had decided to stretch
and grasp
for the remote control
that lie breathing slow
under my couch cushion.

That powerful remote
controlled
your presence in my life.

At my touch
the tape went fuzzy.
Black & white
bobbed under strobe lights.

I heard the splash and buzz
of a thousand interrupted scenes,
conversations,
feet next to each other on the coffee table,
blown kisses,
movie kisses,
hello-again kisses,
kisses that lacked zing,
kisses that meant everything;

late night moods that revealed our inner insanity
and connection,
and our most embarrassing laugh.

I wanted to dive for those memories
collecting around my ankles like pools of water.
I wanted to chase the liquid of them
with a force
that would cause evaporation
to surrender.

But I couldn’t.

For a moment
I saw everything clearly.

And the next moment
made it all disappear.

spinning tunes of gold
whirring and rushing round
lights playing
with the tones of your voice
rings of sound that settle about
(rippling love-lights
like eyes that are full)

blurry eyes peeling away the unapproachable horizon
(to a highway of roaming eyes that search
beyond)
how i and time would crawl to reach
-so, i flew.

separation grasped with hands by a wire
(but i only feel
impressions of you)

missing you in absence
wanting you in presence
(the truth is so undeniable.)

my heart-
caught.

Puppeteers

Because it's you and me, marionettes on the stage

And the whole world's with us behind the scenes

We sing and we dance, in manifest chance

Creeping the pages of recorded time

'Til our strings entwine in the bitter design

And our scenery falls with our painted dolls

Brief candle dissolves to halted applause

Revealing the puppeteers behind the play

But your world isn't my world all lost in a dream

My world doesn't turn on a perfect routine

Life's but a poor player

We're all puppets on the stage

This life's just a game we pretend to play

But today I'm removing the mask

So much longing, so little time

There is a song inside a meadow
four continents away
and a letter being written,
expressing just what I would say
if I were listening at the door
of two children talking quietly
in the dark,
with a flash light,
under bed sheets.

The Horror, The Horror.

A light shines bright in darkness,
Revealing all it can.
Talent brings forth progress,
Uniting man and man.

Darkness always lingers.
It’s but a breath away.
Genius breaks through boundaries,
But pride leads to decay.

All the opportunity,
Both the worst and best;
A chance for light or darkness,
It all in one man rests.

A word a bit too forceful,
Or perhaps a strong wind blows,
The candle flame will gutter,
And darkness will enclose.

For all the choices made,
And all the chances lost.
For all the roads untaken
And all the travel costs.

What words will one man utter
When he discovers what he’s lost?

Papers on the wall

I'm grinding and spreading 

in this mortar and pestle 

all the words I know or think i know,

adding my thin paste as I cut open

my creativity, that vagrant raincloud

(seldom there when the earth cracks),

and out comes this: 

an ambition, an aspiration,

a waltz, a zenith. 

So I tape up scribbling to my wall-

a muse to invoke at my convenience

(a self-induced muse, that is). 

No matter,  it happens when time goes down: 

a scratch on the frontal lobe

and I forgot the shape of the pestle

(how was this before I forgot?). 

The wallstriking and facepressing,

oh, the upwardlooking, the templescratching,

and then it pops, sometimes: 

even if you forget the shapes of things,

the molecules don't change. 

Truth, truth, truth, why do I 

view you as a billboard? 

And after I pick up the pestle

and set down my words into the mortar

(between my ears, somewhere)

it's: back to it, worker. 

Ban the downtime. 

Dear Sculptor

In a city framed by faces

this world named by places

with those hands you sculpt me

your hands of a dreamer

and heart of a poet

 

sculpt me

to look more like you

 

a distance somehow manageable

all too unimaginable

while I sit under this thing

called time

but I’m fine with waiting

 

my chest aches with this thing

called time

because I have too much

and I have nowhere near enough

to please you, my master

with my heart that lifts then falls

and speaks too soon

 

look at these hands of mine

now empty but so loved

oh, graceful ownership

not a second less

than forever

I am yours

 

sculpt me

to be more like you

 

 

Dress Up, Tehachapi, circa 1993 (before the world caves in)

Sometimes I still feel like
seven years old
standing in my grammy's dressing room
a mirror on every side
convinced her heels almost fit
They were blue
(I remember because she let me keep them)

The dresses were huge, waist down to my knees
I had the choice of anything in her closet,
anything at all,
as if you can really choose

Her make-up counter was free-reign too
Might as well have been Macy's,
(it had the same smell of overwhelming perfume)
Again the choice: dusty rose or peach blossom
The world is before you
and your choices now, so vast, so irrelevant

I wanted then a way to make my freckles blend into a smooth brown-ness
like the pretty girls, with the curly hair
She didn’t understand my request and handed me rouge instead
(That will smooth you over, that will fix your perceived-problems)

I think now that I may have known as much then
about choices and not-choices
and how to be and how to blend in
and how to settle for nothing because that makes it easier

And it doesn’t really matter who you become

Because I can’t shake the feeling that I am still,
inside, that seven year old
with the world of choice before her
and not even a preference for peach or dusty rose
(and not even a clue that the shoes don’t fit)

Reason Is

Curtain shades sending sunlight scattering
Diffusing amusing catlike reflexes abusing string
Thoughts fade blending frame-rates chattering
Confusing diluting sound-like apexes failing to sing
All the while contemplate the waiting watching
Until the awe inspired enframing stops containing
The Rhyme

the apricot truth

You peered from under A-framish brows

in my direction, maybe past me

and prompted a reassurance routine.

But it is not even just a regimen,

not just one: 

clarity requires a say-so;

this truth protrudes as pure

as a lone apricot, healthy

on a tree fertilizing itself with the dead.

Yeah, maybe a lot of things in my life, sure. 

But with you, darling, I don't have to endure. 

Cold Tucks Us In

Find me suspended above rooftops
As mist and chimney smoke drift
Hold on before the clock stops
Tearing the penultimate rift
See clearly - how our eyes shine bright
Brighter still before they open
While all we hope in
Disappears with first light
Dream with me for one last night

I Miss You

Your side of the bed still smells like...

The sun’s warmth …
…the wind’s peace

Everything...
…everything

that’s right for
…me.

Just A Sign

My nose and feet are having a contest to see which can get the coldest while I stare at the wall – chewing my lips and playing with these dry and chalky pale hands of mine.

Befriending visions of places I have not yet seen or long to see again brings me to my knees in a forceful rush of air, sprinkled with spice and scent such as pepper and pine.

 Perching on a word in a cage near a clock, with fists made of crumpled leaves and budding weeds, I find myself scattered and collected and broken and unbroken, so I’m waiting for a sign.

Just a sign.

I am filled with so many worthless things

I am filled with so many worthless things


My soul is a junkyard

Leftovers of selfish endeavors
Scraps of prideful desires
The filth of a lifetime
Of folly

These are the things I have chosen
Wasting all of the spaces in my heart
That were meant to be filled
That were meant to be
Fueled

By the unfathomable beauty of
Grace

What's Going On?

Hello Lovelies!

If you are here and are a member, that means you can post (anything, anytime)! You can also comment other poems.
Let's try and keep this place about poetry. Vignettes, quotes, flash fiction, etc. are all welcome, but we don't want this to become a "blog." I want this to be a poetry club, without the tea and coffee and warmth and voices. We'll have to find ways to make up for the absence of those things.

I'm excited. Let's write some poetry.

Advice for Sleepy Poets

You should be able to go into a room and when you come out know everything that you saw there and not only that. If that room gave you any feeling you should know exactly what it was that gave you that feeling. Try that for practice.

- Hemingway