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Elegy Of A Lost SeasonI am the fall.
Broken in June, buried in August -
haunting September from the boughs of hazel,
where not even the rain could reach me.
How my limbs ached to feel its soothing caress;
but my limbs felt nothing, and I felt nothing.
And the season moved on, without me.
Once, long ago, I was spring,
delicate and pure; fragile as willow seedlings,
believing themselves strong, as they stretch toward the sun -
before the wind breaks their stalks, and they fall
defeated, drained, limp upon the ground;
crushed and forgotten as tears.
But no, I was summer -
when I looked into your eyes for the first time
and forgot to curse the sun.
Tiny beads running down my neck;
hateful, so hateful - ignored, as you ensnared my senses.
You were summer, too
cradled in the branches of oak,
bright enough to burn my eyes and scorch my skin,
but never close enough to touch.
Until in your arms, I became summer,
and the sun could not outshine us.
But now I am winter -
numb and cold, faded, stripped and desolate;
Dark MotherBleed your colors to the ground,
let them swirl in the vortex of your breath.
The gathering chill escaped from your lungs
whispers the green earth into death.
Dark Mother, keep the spirits
you hold within your hands.
Souls eternally bidden,
soaked and seeped into the land.
Dark Mother, keep your fury
quivering deep within the ground.
Harm us not, but let us hear
the power of that sound.
The wheel is turning, always turning
as the sun falls from the sky.
Mother can you tell me,
oh can't you tell me why?
Dark Mother, stir your cauldron
deep living waters of rebirth.
Wash clean this wretched wreckage
we have wreaked upon the earth.
Dark Mother, shall we reap
all that we have sown?
When spring returns will you be there?
to light our path toward home?
The wheel is turning, always turning
as the seasons slowly die.
Mother can you tell me,
oh can't you tell me why?
Will you exhale a merciful breath,
to warm our world once more?
Or stop the wheel from turning,
leave us trappe
I thought about how I cut my palm
falling on sharp rock
while we searched the lost and found
of the sea, hoping for treasure.
I wondered if the ocean
would take our lives as payment
for the wares it could not recover
until high tide -
when we would be long gone,
warm inside the cottage on the bluffs,
admiring our pilfered discoveries,
safe from the sinuous fingers of waves.
While outside the foghorns bellowed
and the mist crept in
through cracks too small to see,
seeping into our seaside refuge,
to once again caress
the lost shards of its kin.
I watched the blood swirl in the water
as white sea foam rushed forward
to collect its bounty:
a willing sacrifice.
I knew that I would cherish the wound:
a memento of the windswept shore.
I cradled it lovingly, as the pain throbbed
and I resumed my search,
studying discarded skeletons
and abandoned homes, now too small.
I wondered if their inhabitants
were ever homesick, ever felt longing
for those husks they had outgrown,
for the misshapen piec
Today, I Am Still ThereToday the wind is warm
and carries scents that spark my memory.
Today, I am not here.
On a day much like this
I shattered my spirit;
splintered shards slid from my spine,
through shattered vertebrae,
and clung to cracks in walls,
then scattered on the wind.
Today I can feel those fragments,
I can smell it in the musty scent of books
that takes me back to the house made of paper and words.
Some fragment would remain there, I know,
even if not for the fall.
Today I smell roses,
I feel warmth against my skin,
and hear birds chirping hymns to the spring;
sometimes I can almost hear
footsteps on the deck,
and I wonder
if I even miss the sun.
Today, I am still there.
Today I can feel wind in my hair,
and if I close my eyes,
I can catch that fragment that still flies,
zipping past the sidewalks
on legs strong above the blades.
Today, I ride the wheels I long for.
I've always heard I was was an air spirit;
sound and scent my guides,
...scattered on the windWe drive the path of thorns
through dark summer streets,
stagnant air shifted
by rolled down windows, speeding.
My head in his lap,
his eyes curious upon me,
She, ahead of me,
notes drifting back,
entwine our rising voices.
Both their eyes upon my face,
and with soft, endearing notes,
seamless terms -
she gives me away...
I KnowI remember
when you were born,
you were so small
I was afraid to touch you.
But you came to me, right away.
I know you wanted
to be my child
and I obliged.
Yet I often wonder
who it was that rescued whom?
that cold November day
when you cuddled against daddy,
warm inside his coat
and fell asleep.
I know you wanted
to stay always indoors
away from that wretched cold,
against which your dark, silky hair
simply was no match.
when you first spoke,
your voice so small.
How my ears perked up, and my heart leaped
when you tried to say "Mom".
I know you want
to speak just like me,
but for never saying a word
your vocabulary is superb.
And I wonder which of us
is the true poet.
when you tried so hard to walk,
balancing upright against the wall, so proud.
I know you want
to walk just like me,
and I'm sorry I'm such a poor example;
And my limps, my crutches, my misplaced steps
make your efforts all the more valiant.
those gorgeous eyes
blooming gold rig
Tomorrow I'll Be YouYou're twenty-five tomorrow and I miss you.
I'm twenty-four and I'm lost in your wake, yet again;
you were always ahead of me, one way or another.
I was glad you were eleven days ahead of me.
Twenty-five terrifies me even more than twenty-four,
and I shudder and shiver and wish that the cold outside would freeze me in place,
freeze time, until I can find my way back:
But the treacherous sun will rise despite me, and the comforting night
I surround myself with, begging it to remain, will abandon me
slowly, as I did you.
The day wakes and you are twenty-five.
I know it's coming for me, this number I dread.
I don't want it. I don't want any of it. Words are my salvation, not numbers.
Numbers are my cage.
I always knew I could make it if you could.
But this year you are twenty-five
The Ballad of SerenityA nightingale in a birch nearby,
sang a song that made her cry.
"Another note and I shall die!"
Her threat was met with no reply.
And so she rested by the stream,
and heard the crickets softly dream.
She watched the cattails kiss the stars,
believing heaven not so far.
"And here is where I shall be free,"
whispered fair Serenity.
The orphaned child, the strange young girl
born into an ancient world.
No elegance or skill had she
but the ballad, of Serenity.
She was cursed with just one song:
a ballad haunting, soft and long.
The words were never hers to hear,
but danced always beyond her ear.
On harp, flute, lyre she wiled away,
the notes that only she could play.
Yet she grew tried of just one song
and ran away before too long,
into a wood with stream of gold
where rumored lived the bards of old.
She found the caves of deepest blue
and told them, "I have searched for you."
Serenity the bards admired.
They gave to her the sacred lyre,
which bound her soul between its strings,
to find th
The Storyteller.Words burst from my fingertips like
Licks of fire, burning paper
Where they etch and score their
Meanings with absolute passion.
The faint, illusory scent of make-believe
Smoke surrounds me like a shroud:
An ensorcelled cloak, its hem stitched with a
Magical thread that imbues me with the
Power of words, its fabric dyed
Dark, shimmering with shades of ambition.
Creatures of all forms and ages begin to
Flit across my page with alarming clarity.
Voices - strident and shy, tenacious and meek -
All attempt to make their stories heard:
There are adventures to be spun in
Stimulating hues of royal blue and jade;
Romances to be told in the
Swelling notes of a sweet serenade;
Downfalls to be declared by the knell of
Death as he leads a doleful black parade.
Day after day, my Muse leads me from
Forest to meadow to coast to city, opening
Portals through which I can glimpse
Alternate realities and different lands altogether,
That I may understand the
Wonders of wor
the incomplete karyotype1. The First Mendelian Letdown
One by one, we unload our Punnett Squares.
There are traits we could cradle like nostalgia.
Some of us spent entire childhoods scrubbing
away our freckles, hoping either to extinguish them
or to capsize them like floating candlelight.
Some of us cried when we drew blood, not because it hurt,
but because that's when we realized that we were
blacktop scribbles, chicken-scratch genotypes.
There are traits we wish we could toss away, but like coins.
Recessive claims heads, dominant demands tails,
but when our inheritance rolls into the gutter
we have to know what we're worth
without our pocket change to back us up.
We mourned of Mom's miscarriage
as its ultrasound, a sprouting
of fingers wrinkled like
second generation snap peas.
Eyes unopened, we never caught
maternal or paternal reflection,
either blue glass or cold steel,
regardless of what he looked through
to see the sun.
He would have made a better mistake
than he'd ma
Of solace sleeping in today was the essence,
waking up the process of becoming singular
I want to end it
but I can't stop associating you with these images
: a season being flung onto the ocean, making a mess of color
there's an insect caught in my poetry,
trying to mend its broken wing
UnavoidedI used to know a girl for
the hunger in her voice;
she spoke of something
anchoring herself to
and sinking down
I'll drink away my memory, soon,
or pray for an Alzheimer-inspired
I can't keep waking up
on the wrong side of life"
Sleeping With An InsomniacIt's not simple anymore. This can't be fixed with disjionted apologies or
feeble explanations. There is no marrow in the bones of our love.
He dreams with skeletons, and the mirrors rip his face in half. I reassured
him it was only a reflection, but he said
'no, it was a nightmare.'
Insomnia is the devil's work for those who scavenge for sleep. They dehydrate; rabid and molting. Survival insticts churning paranoia through a weary mind.
Exhaustion has blushed purple beneath these eyes. Sometimes I find
myself nourishing seeds of hate, but hypocrisy so easily points a finger.
She accused me of ghost bones, love without any marrow. I echoed
'yes I'm dead.'
'no, you're asleep.'
the less i knowsomething new: my breath hitched but the words meant nothing.
i owed the light peserverent flattery in the form of prose,
stories of what could have been.
the gloom in which i slept was a system altogether unable to measure up to the new universe;
to exist together in perfect cognition is first to understand that i never wish to be better.
how pitiable this impure form to which we all succumb
littered with stars. i am temporary like them, almost, always and never.
I have forgotten how to live. it is late mornings during which i upturn my lazy eyes to the sky
against it's will. there, like you, live millions- and my mind is reborn.
the day comes. easily her gentle beckoning fills our minds. the sky is golden-blue:
unmasterable. we retract our wicked claws and our majestic selves
are now only threats we cannot perceive.
we lie nestled like tired humans together in the cold grass, and the blades are shining
wet with the tears of the dawn. we're late. we're forgotten
you touch the e
An Ode of Many VoicesThe days fall like golden wheat
from Azrael's sweeping scythe to
soil the lavish harvest of health,
the only thing that is left. For them,
fang hooks sting; the jailbird sings:
Whippoorwill, will 'o' wisp, come to me.
My plea for forgiveness falls on deaf ears,
and autumn leaves fall from trees.
We are the resplendent wreckage left behind in your wake - broken edges jagged, sparkling.
The days are a thin film of ice between you and me
soon to thicken or to shatter, only time will tell
that I reach up to touch, but it's too cold, it pushes me away.
I'm left shivering alone, away from your warmth, separated from your light by the choking cold.
The days, the days...beings old and brown, or blue and shivering,
do not know of their redeath and rebirth;
you point the barrel to the glass of past, shattering shockwave of pleasant memories,
and I've felt the cool rush of my head, the wind, the blood, the tides
and the sting of moonlight on the back of my neck as the days swept away.
Circling the DrainThread the needle with disease
Incubate the hand that feeds
Sit on a park bench, watch the twilight
Hoard the memories 'til they're flat
Trade your Cubs cap for a black hat
Sit in the dark, watch cigarette tips
Green Jello, little white pills
Headache, backache, fever, chills
Circle the drain now, everyone must
What they never teach you about grief1.
You will not cry demurely in socially acceptable situations.
Instead you shall perform the walking
and cry hysterically, calm down, and cry, and calm
as you try to gather yourself on the way to the station.
You will be late for work - you will see the dress you wore
last time you saw your lost one -
and you will hold it and breathe into it as if maybe just maybe
you will smell them or feel them or it will change things
and then find you cannot hold it together while wearing it,
change, and miss your train.
You will find this happens over and over and you buy new things
so that they are not 'oh I wore this with you and now you are gone'
but also, you will stand in the fitting room and sob
because now they will never see how smart you look in this.
You will keep face 95% of the time and then ruin it
by crying in the toilets and being sent home.
You will still want to laugh and socialise and drink and kiss
but all these things will
Teenage TaoismGiving birth is the closest I’d ever felt to dying.
Before that, my near death experiences had consisted only of my silent announcement of pregnancy—silent, being that my social media accounts were all deleted almost simultaneously and I never returned to school in the fall, saying without really saying that I had caught the malicious disease of “teenage pregnancy”. I’m sure the whisper spread in the hallways like the Bubonic Plague. That September, sitting at home on what would have been the first day of my senior year, I imagined friends I’d never talk to again saying “she was only seventeen, and so full of life!” at my absence in the cafeteria tables, as if they were attending my funeral instead of talking about me behind my back.
"Full of life," I had snorted then, folding a never ending stream of what had once been my own baby clothes. "Literally."
I walked around like a zombie for the months of my pregnancy, deciding t
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