perpetual decemberwould you give me your december?
i am holding out my frail plywood wrists
and begging you for something
too heavy for either of us to hold
[though you are somehow cradling it
in your fractured celestial mind].
would you sing december to me?
would you play it in thirds
and mold it into something i can see?
i would give the dying bamboo
on my window sill to feel you again
[like when you cut your hands on raw selenite
but they don't bleed].
december is slipping out of our reach.
she is slipping quietly out the door
and i have my hands held high
like sentinels of the sky
and my eyes closed in patient rapture.
you are slipping quietly out of my reach,
out the door
[you did not want to interrupt me;
me and my goddamn emotional revolution.
i am awake and it is not december anymore,
but there are dead leaves on the kitchen table
and it is time for me to go
[i am left with falling in love with people i don't know,
i will see you again].
I Have Always Loved WinterI have always loved winter
With its caressing touch of icy-bright fingers
That stroke past my flesh with a tingle that lingers
A crystalline splinter
I have always loved winter
She was constantly cold
Her skin was of porcelain, her hands were of snow
And timidly soft into my hands theyd go
But her lips were more bold
She was constantly cold
Like embers her kisses
That latched onto mine like a coal hotly dropping
Down fast onto ice sheets without sign of stopping
And sputters and hisses
Like embers her kisses
But I liked the cold best
That bit of her most like a clear, frozen shard
And it pleased me to see her grow pallid and hard
More than the rest
I liked the cold best
And hard she did grow
When the winters invidious, envious chill
Slipped into her heart and set out to kill
That angel of snow
And hard she did grow
I crept into her tomb
Before they could padlock and shut the door fast
I crawled quietly in for a parting look last
At her in her room
I crept into her tomb
Of treesDeep ghost-groves of freckled aspen
burn white beneath the winter sun,
whisper hoary adulation,
canticles for the Holy One.
And in the trees, the spirits dance
betwixt the motes of starry snow
illuminated by the lance
of lightning flash and candle glow.
All lights within this place combine,
reflect in splendour, white on white,
and mingle in a trance sublime
that breathes in peace through winter night.
The lofty heads of stately pine
rear up and brush the lowered sky
as if they could, by straightened spine,
so please the God who built them high.
Their incense needles, fragrant, fall
in silence to the chapel floor
and still above, they shade the hall
where ghosts who come by night adore.
Black on black, and brown by green,
create a hush bereft of light
where one may linger safe, unseen,
and sleep in peace through winter night.
Winter's Kissi saw winter dancing
so i grabbed her
and pulled her in for a kiss.
with a sweet, slow
i swept her off
and carried her down to summer.
MY WINTER EQUINOXFalling, slowly falling, snowflakes intertwine
themselves with the crystal maelstorm in my veins,
I feel them melt the noisy grime from my skin
moonlight pale, sometimes I wish I could glaze me
in the tears and haze of Spring's gentle unfurls-
but Winter has always been more real to me, her
bloodline pulses with the essence of Purity,
and Eternity pine-scented, her snowflakes help me
to find my tears as she melts me into an endless
kiss, but I still wish for the frosty Stars to
smile their light on my bruised lips and cleanse
away the blemishes from my warm white interpretations
-then I would be free, I feel her compel my hurt
to shine like Starlight in the shadows, caressing
my self-induced prison into a new independant state...
I can taste the cold defrost its virtues on my tongue,
a duel of silver notes and blank pages as yet unsung,
into my eyes snowflakes melt-until I can see where
Winter walks by, my reflection leaves footprints for
my equinox to follow-deep thoughts and ideas ha
to be born in the rainThe sky's cold tears fall
mingling with the salty trails on my face.
I am born with a winter's rain
caressing my newly formed cheeks,
stiff limbs taking first steps through puddles -
tiny oceans gracing black pavement.
So this is what it feels like
b r e a t h e
fresh, cold air floods tender senses,
tingling and full of a thousand new smells
connected with sights and sounds.
Birth is a cold, fresh, marvelous thing
pulsing and swaying to the discordant music
of new life.
Frozen MemoriesBy accident,
I found her tombstone.
It lay buried beneath snow,
encased in ice,
under a canopy of white held aloft by the trees.
I had been walking,
as I often do,
on the clouds of steam rising from my mouth,
and what they meant to me,
when my foot caught hold of the crumbling cross,
and sent me tumbling down...
I caught myself on hands in a sea of crystal white,
flesh stinging from the cold,
my foot aching in pain,
burning hot in the winter wood.
Why would there be a grave here?
What poor soul would be forever lost in this hollow?
in the cold,
throughout the fading light,
and into a darkness of falling snow,
I worked to unmask the grave,
and reveal the name of the damned.
I toiled for hours,
until my fingers went numb and bled,
spilling red upon the white,
a contrast so stark in hurt my eyes,
but in such beauty that was not lost on me,
until I could reveal the faint carvings that were letters.
Her name was as beautiful as I'm sure she was in life,
December BuddhaDecember cracks open like hazelnuts,
crinkled brown and brittle, dry from the fire,
cold-crisp and crunching as needles of pines.
As usual, wisdom comes just in time,
reminder to hold on to my forest,
to my stories, to make myself buddha.
I am lacking, no quiet rain-buddha,
born, as I was, a tight-curled hazelnut,
but I do send roots into my forest,
and in summer spread Colorado fire.
I find that more and more I pass the time
among the kings that are my totem pines.
In North Carolina, December pines
not for sun but for a softer buddha,
a figure to remind the month that time
ends not with January; hazelnut,
it curls in on itself, warm with the fire.
It is my roots, winding through the forest.
Some days I wait for rain in my forest.
I love how it trickles down my crown-pines
to soften days and keep away brush-fire.
In the spring I am not a flame-buddha,
want only streams for floating hazelnuts:
all my riddle answers are, "time, time, time."
The mackintosh flesh marks the passing time:
the skies are grey and
soft and soundless,
the old hills rolling slowly
frozen solid and
the trees bare
ancient bloodless fingers
grasping at the horizon.
We move slowly and without precision and
our tongues twist and turn and whisper secrets,
our language a huge bright thing
we wield always like a
We are a winter people:
the seasons shape us strangely, we become
old ghosts of ourselves,
thick-haired and lumbering
through the darkness except sometimes
we are roused by circumstance or occasion,
we catch a glimpse of the blue mediterranean
and feel ourselves
our skins thicken, our blood burns, we are transformed
into fiery heroes of legend
and ache with the triumphs and sorrows of a million men
the sun sets
the cool horizon folds us back into ourselves
and we are reminded
of slow, unsatisfied hunger,
the smell of snow.
Peace On EarthFreedom is not free
Love, it never lasts
Forgiveness has its limits,
We are trapped within our pasts.
all the bodies fall,
all the blood is shed,
Where is the " g i f t " we fought for?
Is there a reason that we're dead?
And one tin soldier watches
Santa versus AtnasAtnas the bad, mysterious, sly
Travels the world on his sleigh in the sky.
Santa's old friend, now inglorious foe,
This age old story is something to know:
They started out well, as partners in crime
Until one Christmas when Atnas got time.
Santa and Atnas were felons you see,
They robbed, plundered, stole - things so dastardly.
The plans were devised and thought out by Old Nick
As getaway driver he drove oh so quick.
The strong and fit Atnas brought life to the schemes,
And there was the set up of our daring team.
Their usual targets were the rich, banks and stores,
"We have little money, you won't miss some of yours"
This was the thought behind Santa's bad ways
(And he says he'll regret for the rest of his days).
Atnas was greedy, unbelievably so!
He suggested stealing from children, but Santa said no.
They argued and argued 'til blue in the face
Santa shot off enraged but Atnas gave chase
They flew round the world at neck breaking speed
Shouting and bawling but neither'd concede
Christmas DollIridescent pearls slid along
silken strands of ebony lock
Garland and feathers enhancing
The fragrance of pine encrusted misery
A young girl sits, back arched,
Hands clasped, nails preened
Christmas ruffles and bows
Encompass her small form -
A merry little doll of seasonal fluff
Her eyes, limp, with sullen pout
Her smile a painted decoy
Santa looks down at the child,
"and what would you like for Christmas?"
The camera flashes; her eyes glinting -
A seeming merry sparkle.
She just asks for the picture.
why i'm scared of ghostsdear ghost of christmas past,
it's christmastime. christmas eve, to be exact. i can't look outside without seeing the shimmer of the snow, like tiny fireflies etched into each flake. glistening strands of colorful bulbs christen the neighborhood, like they're declaring us worthy of a little light.
i'm shivering like i got caught in a snow bank, and i'm blinking like i'm hoping my eyelashes will tangle together and pull my lids closed.
i was wondering; if dreams are so pretty, why do they shatter like sherry glasses against tile as soon as we open our eyes? maybe they aren't meant for us to hang on to, cause the most beautiful things are only ever viewed at a glance.
(any more than that, and you start to notice the bloody color of the sky and the way the roses smell more bitter than sweet.)
and i was thinking that's why snow gives itself over to the wind so easily, cause looking too closely at your hand linked through m
Holiday TableauCrushed tinsel, sunken
atmosphere of the
glow - It does not shine.
Torn garland, empty
bottles strewn across
of the previous
packaging tape, bags
stuffed with boxes and
tissue paper - trash.
left behind, thoughtless.
Filled coffee cups the
morning after - warmth
to replace fading
revised, for the fast
approaching new year.
The Thin HoursI.
Those of us here in this skeleton time,
this time of the year when the nights are thin
and dark, and dark with anxiety, peeling
as layers of an oyster shell, brittle and effaced
and somehow iridescent.
When the bell tolls out the time the sound is thin
and reaches into fractured air and softly
seeks the spaces between the atoms and
misses the vital Os and CO2s in a lasting,
failed pinball. The bell sound dies in
some space between midnight and thereafter,
and each tock tock of slipping cogs is
a repeat and not a moving on.
The air is filled with each dull sound,
each tock a repeat and a repeat again. And the
slip between this old year and the new is the
slip of ice on ice, a thing that will melt and
lose its meaning before the sun can rise.
These dead hours can spin out with
no regard for time, and
no regard for the drub of a beating heart
and no regard
none at all.
The moth at the window is a silent ghost, but
the wind has
we should celebratei.
i tried to think of pain as a flower,
first it blossoms
it wilts away.
but i won't let myself disappear
along with it,
give you that.
(it's not the agony that makes
me scream, it's the flavor).
and you whispered softly
"i'll rip your heart out and replace it
with a song,
it's christmas soon, and
we should celebrate".
you've always used my scars
as a calendar,
as a way to remind yourself
"today is tuesday
and i still exist".
(it's morning now because
i can see
through my eyelids
a bright summer day,
the flowers are
Phantoms Of Another UniverseLook.
I'll tell it like it was.
Static clung to the air
like ornaments on a Christmas tree
and we were graced with the odd arced lightning.
Oh, it was cold.
I remember not seeing,
my fingers frozen off as
feeling receded from them
like waves on a beach.
how could I even be sure
the forgotten memory of a sunset
lay imprinted on my brain,
and its absence made the night
emptier than ever.
we waited for the moon to rise,
for the clouds to shift,
for the e-lec-tri-ci-ty to stop
(like lost travelers stumbling
in the desert waiting for an
oasis mirage to shatter their
we waited, questioning our existence,
questioning this formation of
questioning the light that remained
(like questioning "how in the world did
I lose that!" and it turns out you hadn't
you'd been waving it, flailing it, even,
(incredulously) in your hand)
and one year later,
one eternity l
EnoughI'm holding on to secrets so tightly my hands start to burn.
Winter has come full-force, wind sending the windows quivering against their panes and snow blanketing the Earth in an ivory sheen. We're all bundled up inside, pressed together for warmth to maybe give a bit of it to the not-still-living locked up in a metallic casket no bigger than a shoe box. The mix of flowers yellow roses, her favorite and the musty smell of the funeral home permeates everything, makes my nose crinkle up and eyes sting, spilling over with tears.
The sea of nameless, faceless acquaintances part as I walk forward, cold hands on my back and muted, guilty I'm sorrys assaulting my ears, prolonging my mission. I meet the table, watch my Aunt sniffle and move on her way, pausing to wipe her tears on my shoulder and hug me tight.
I take my turn, all eyes on me. They know,
Her face stares back at me, a dozen pressed beneath glass, her hair in a bob the color of driftwood a
Stories From the Psych Ward (2 of 3)I'm so cold I feel it down to the bones,
sitting in the dining hall trembling
over my cup of tea. A huge Christmas
tree twinkles merrily beside me in red, blue, silver, pink and gold.
Patients huddle together outside to talk,
but I'm forbidden to join them,
trapped inside the ward on a category four.
They're all strangers to me, I've spoken to no one.
Smoking their cigarettes in faded pajamas,
looking tired and worn down,
lips twisting into smiles as the smoke
curls down into their lungs.
Nurses find me hiding from evil spirits in the cupboard.
They let me stay inside, safe until the panic stops and
the shadows disappear, give me blankets
to stay warm, until they take me by the hand and lead me out.
Two psychiatrists come to speak with me
While insects pour from my lips
And satellites speak of the death of stars
The voices scream at me
But I talk.
They want me to trust them
They want me to stay alive.
A nurse takes six canisters of my blood,
a deep frothy red. It pours out of my
The icicle crests of pine-needle tiaras
Had settled onto the crisp craniums of pale
Rouge and foundation-frosted pinecones.
The multi-faceted snow-tipped noses were open
To the hushed aria of breathing with undertones
Of whispers suggesting: sway shatter.
He registered ashen snow and Fibonacci sequences
In the scales of the pinecone, in the evergreen
Needles, and in the steadily increasing flurries.
At a stalemate for minutes past dusk and hours
Until dawn, the evening's lunar fluorescence had
Peaked in reflective moonlight and begun to dim.
Skyward flurries took of frost as he overtook
Diminishing footprints; the soil had lost its warmth.
Presently the frangible flakes were solidifying.
Tireless sets of footprints, encrusted by an iced-glaze
Like a frozen sheen of sweat and dead grass parted
Like a middle-aged man's baldness, were visible
Beneath the conifer's knotted limbs and the
Tin-to-the-touch snowflake-threaded needles.
Photonegative greys and gossamer silver ton
FrostbittenWinter is her favorite time of the year.:thumb214099159: :thumb291735197:
It's beautiful. Silver and blue dance around with one another in a waltz of freezing passion as snow and ice douse the land in a blanket of boreal glamour. Glass windowpanes become easels for falling snowflakes, frost etching into the smooth surfaces in intricate and unique patterns.
Winter has always been her favorite time of the year, and it always will be.
It is not because of Christmas--no, even though she loves the holiday, it is not what sparks her strong fondness for the star-colored blanketing across the land. Her infatuation with the snow and ice and everything cold has to do with something that most people don't truly believe in.
A boy whom she met long ago.
She still remembers the day like it was yesterday. Running around in the forest, laughing and tasting the snowflakes as they fell down into her parted lips and melting immediately on her tongue. All bundled up as a precaution, even though the winter has always been kind to h
Winter's SongMy grandmother used to tell me that on a clear summers day you could find the colour of everyone's eyes in the surroundings. I could never find the colour of mine, on those beautiful days where the sun spun my hair into gold and the wind tickled my cheeks. I could never find the exact shade, but I didn't tell her.
At dusk today I found the exact colour in the sky. I have winter song eyes. They are the colour of the sky when the birds have sung their last note and tiny snowflakes have just begun to fall. Snowflakes so small that you can never catch any; if you did I'm sure they would taste of magic. Maybe winter songs only come along once every decade, only when you need to feel that the world is at peace.
I have eyes the colour of winter's song, maybe you can find your peace there.
DecemberMy hands are
black with soot
and shiny with grease;
the embers lie low.
The air grew teeth.
We sit alone
in our separate dreams
and entertain the shade
of what was lost.
Our fingers will twitch
with phantom pain-
our mouths will run dry.
Everything I am,
by a fistful of
words with teeth;
as heavy as gold,
as poison as lead,
and I can't write poetry
because I said I would
leave you alone
and you never leave the lines-
you are there between them,
WinteringIt's a canvas of mouthings,
of open throats, that wave of grey.
Storm clouds pass like sails torn,
loosing their limbs to the wind
with each stroke of the brush.
There's a symphony in the rush
of them, howling their wolfcry, O -
breathings holes into the fabric,
Lethe leaving their lungs. And low,
tugging at the hymns that line the sky,
the moon, sister of a stone,
rises, rises with her hood of bone.
ghostin cold air
like a ghost
AirYou do not have to be empty.
Go, now, to the high places, the thin spires
of mountains and skyscrapers
the roof of your house, tipped with snow,
and fill yourself up with the air.
Drink it in, taste it, roll it around
on your tongue, feel it settle
in the caverns of your lungs. Feel the dust
and the ice crystals and the scraps of newspaper
brush your lips, and fill yourself with them, too.
Fill yourself up with the moonlight, the frost,
the dusky rose of the rising sun,
the night, the morning, the calls of birds,
the sillhouettes of telephone poles,
the shadows of people and clouds and alley cats
that dance across the pavement.
Fill yourself with the feel of your lover's hands,
the smell of the cold wind (mint and forests)
the taste of afternoon tea, the sight
of birds pinwheeling in the snow.
You do not have to be empty.
l'hiver.(you can't tell the birds and the snow apart in the sky:
the grand church of dizzying space - )
and the trees are yellowed in cowardice, raking the sky
to the ground and around and around.
listen to your organs: the almost grand piano of the
churches i'd never attend.
and never mistake the courage of the sky for the cowardice
of the ground. never frown, never frown.
listen to your palms: the salty swing of the old snow
burning up on silk and splendor.
and visit the dying snow birds in their graves of the
ground, and they drown and drown.
(you can't tell the birds and the snow apart in the sky:
a grand church of dizzying space will reply. why. why.
would my white birds die.)
the promises of winteri will wear gloves from:thumb277651414:
now until march. this is something
i decided last year and i am
determined to stick to it.
if there is anything to which i will
adhere, any self-set rule i will follow,
this will be it. and i will
know myself better for it.
when i am handed a
hot white mug of peppermint tea
i will not be burned because of
these gloves. and when there is
snow all over the place, when the
streetlamps are cold with it,
my hands will be
ecstatic with heat.
my only fear is the wearing-out
of fabric. my hands are put to
good use every day and i can see this
becoming a kind of problem. i will
have to guard my hands very carefully
from now until march. i will
treat them as glass.
Radioactive Snowflakes Oh boy, boy, boy
For the last shall be,
and that arctic disposition will melt away in time
written on a hearth rug, read it and then
turn the dial back and tune into Goodbye FM
"Oh boy, boy, boy
Goldilocks should have been clad in HazMat,
bear in mind the Gouda enacts the rat trap"
For the last shall be,
when fractals free fall from the sky
thickening icycle eyes, cementing prisms with time
measured it all in half-life
Oh boy, boy boy
-My Song-At this, my most precious hour, I am the one who moves
February breathes a morning sigh over the sleeping streets
As my footsteps echo through the loneliness, and splash softly through puddles
Tracing the slow moving constellations with my fingertip
I'll sing for you
Though my voice cracks on difficult notes
I keep singing for my love who has no love
Because tears don't suit me, I will not cry for you
My song is a melancholy melody
Floating though the darkness of this town on a hill
At this, my most precious hour, I am the one with a pulse
A racing pulse pounding through my body like lightning
Beyond pain, beyond the anger and sorrow boiling at my core
Determination, embroidered on my personal flag
I'm almost there, I can fly
Burning my frustrations in the marvelous dawn
This time with light on my side and rhythm in my step
I'll sing for you once more
My song is a triumphant soldier's march
Cutting the twisting winds with defying words
Memoir Of A Summer GirlI've been called an ice princess.
A frigid queen that couldn't shake the icicles dangling from her heart or even melt the first crust of snowy powder along these veins long enough to feel something... anything at all.
And every time someone would say these things to me I would smile sweetly, numbly because I couldn't feel.
But yet, their eyes dance over my breasts as if to a staccato tune only they can hear, and their tongue wets their lips as if tequila were thrust in front of a recovering alcoholic that is still thirsty.
Again I tilt my head and smile, unfeeling, knowing their eyes are burning holes into my skin.
The seams of my clothing unraveling around me, fabric combusting, leaving me standing before them naked - a mass of invisible scars and bruised flesh where their lips once kissed me too hard.
I know they only see puckered nipples or the near-dampness between my thighs.
Not the girl in here.
Not the summer girl I had once been.
Their fingers splayed across my ribcage as if fe
December RainDecember Rain
So it was the end of December.
There was a steady rain touching the peaks
of our eyes' tiniest lashes
to shroud them in cracked drops
that would ice over as your breath did.
(why was it so cold?)
It was to make them as strong as steel,
though they crumbled like dust, nearly
collapsing from the wind flurrying around.
(I could trace it from the rain and
carcasses of leaves that stuck to its sound)
And each and every note that left your pharynx
was the color of a dead blue, blending in
so it was invisible under all the noise in the background.
And I stood, waiting for the time your mouth would just stop and
for you to understand how much time could hurt
when abused and left out to dry like a towel in the sun
on a day like today.
With each tick of the clock I rocked on these nearly-new feet
and tried to taste the remnants of autumn wafting from the lawn.
(that was my favorite season, though it won't come again)
Though when I saw the lights go out in your eyes,
FrostI am devouring chaos,
chasing it down with winter's chill.
Spare me your fingerprints,
summer's lovechild. Those knowing owl eyes
have me second guessing the wild churning
in my bones. You are the sleep that sweeps
my eyelashes, drowning me in my own daydreams.
When was it...
that you plastered yourself to my ribcage?
Th' Braw MountainsCome to the wild places, the high and lonely places.
Inhale beauty, in the form of icicle air and pine dust.
Touch it, the cold mountain soil, and rejoice.
Let the wind fill you and find the point inside all of us,
Where you reach out over the forest,
And fly without leaving the ground.
Sure and proud, like the eagles around you.
Let your hair lift and whip, flushing your cheeks
And awakening your bones. Spin at the peak of mountains,
Glorying in the cold clean height. Laugh for it.
And when you are tired from the air,
Come and rest on the rough hills, amongst the brown and gold gorse
And feel sunlight thaw the wind-seeds. Watch the loch and love it.
Not for the beauty but because it is there. The comforting age,
The bedrock of your soul.
Stand in the bitter river on sharp stones and know you live,
That the land loves you for its Maker's child.
Exult in the cold and the warmth and above all the immensity
Of the weight of the world around you.
Wrap the landscape around your body,
i swear, there is a ghost beneath my bones.
she slides around the rungs of my ribs, gentle like a lover's hands but cold, so unlike yours. i lay in bed at night, days after you have gone, your jacket and seven blankets struggling to keep me warm -but her arctic touch seeps deeper, slides its way past my lips and settles in places i swore only you could touch. and i am left gasping, arching, desperate for a body one hundred and thirty eight miles away, a voice that doesn't seem nearly as warm after traveling through the airwaves, a spring that only exists in your arms.
because i miss laughter, i miss your eyes, i miss the feeling of thawing after forty days in the tundra of my own heart, and two in yours.