Saturday, February 27, 2010

5:30 AM

The rain seems like a visitor more than a storm-
not a mindless mass of clouds
or simply witless weather
but the Sea itself, tired of it's lowly position.

So here it is-
banging on the door,
tapping on the window,
looking for a couch.

Papa

A little grimace
then a larger one.
Hard hands doing soft work

No punch clock,
no production line,
not the same kind of pain.

Love spreading frail roots
in the midst of a cratered countryside
the soil, like mist;
floating in front of the midday sun
and men, sweaty and tired,
fall to the ground unaware of the beauty-
save one.

A large groan,
a tug from a cold glass
and a clearing of the throat.

So much gore-
zeal for country followed by swift sentences-
an eye for an eye and all that;
but there was something beneath it all,
something overlooked,
sitting in the muddy trench
covered with the same dirt, sweat
and blood.

They were all moving forward
but there he was, unsure of his path-
his eyes open.

He sees the chaos,
the inches gained
and the flesh piling up on butcher's bill;
but through the fog
there is a figure-
his reason, duty be damned;
there was his peace.

The hard hands pause
knuckles crack, and wild eyes
stare out the window.
They see the sun,
they see the sky and clouds;
and when the weathered hands begin again
recounting the sunset with simple words on toothy paper
they write with love;
and we feel it.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Demain Matin

Treasures are nothing in the dark-
they are lumps of coal,
ridges on a distant mountain range;
they are shadows enveloped in the night.

Treasures locked in a glass case-
porcelain dolls never again to be held warmly by small hands,
teacups never again to adorn white lace tables;
they have lost their meaning
no longer coveted for purpose-
only finding small warmth in a cold,
passing gaze.

The treasures of dreams filed away-
thoughts of books set on distant shores;
sketches of paintings depicting truest love-
never to be penned,
never to adorn canvas.

Homes are turning into museums
graveyards for passing fancy-
what could have been
and what will never be.

You treasure the plaque on the wall
the china in its case
and the manuscript in the drawer
placed there years ago,
then you stare proudly while you yourself
gather dust.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

The Danse Macabre

Pulling hair
knees together, shivering
under a worn, victorian desk.

His progress,
his life in words, written with ink and blood-
fluttering about the room, parchment choking the air
like so much confetti.
Thousands of pages, millions of thoughts
skimming through the dark room
glimmering in the light of the fireplace.

It's all decoration for the Danse Macabre.

So easy it was, to be inspired by
demons and death, waiting in the night
and now they are here;
slithering and gliding,
called in from the cold reaches of elsewhere
dancing in great circles-

a grand ballroom full of shadows
and stolen words.

They will dance about him now;
close by,
for the rest of his days.

He no longer shudders-
but smiles a great, terrifying smile-
he leaps to his feet,
flames and shadows dance in his eyes.

the dance would be had,
then-
more parchment soaked
with ink
and death.

inspired by Neil Gaiman and his own 'recollection' of the 'danse'.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

The Northern Bay

Sitting in an old, wooden chair
on a single, musty pillow
trying to make something
meaningful.

Rain in the distance
threatening nothing but to clean the dust
from all about this house;
the garden is dry.

Noticing smudges-
old fingerprints on the inside of
worn reading glasses;
rubbing temples,
standing to crack vertebrae.

This place is often too loud
conversation, music;
laughter from across the road.
Tonight there is only the light rain
beginning to fall.

Candles are burning into the night
beside a rusted typewriter-

I am long since gone,
asleep in my bed.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

Bravery and Sweet Cowardice

1.
There is a chill-
a window, cracked to the storm;
water falling, slanted with the rain
the world beneath a gentle waterfall.

Thunderclaps in the distance.

For a moment there is only the sound-
water and its fate;
then a wimper-

somewhere within the house
down the stairs
and in the warm, dank, darkness
the little voice cries softly.

Thunder shakes the house, closer now.

The gentle waterfall begins to intensify
ripping the paint from walls and loosening shingles-

Flowers are drowning in their beds.

A great light surrounds
white and pure, only a moment-
but the sensation lasts and lasts.
In the light, the tear-stained face-
found,
no longer sad
acknowledged then held close.

The last thunder crackles
no tears.

Warm arms, and steady eyes
staring off into the storm.
The window is wide open now-

the chill is welcome.

2.
Words tattooed on a speechless heart
declaring that one day
this being will speak without fear
again.

Every night, the same blue twilight
trying to find bearings
by moonlit highlight and starry outline
learning how to discern shadows
from the silhouettes, reality
from false hope

Hour by hour hoping for relaxation;
an empty mind
and an unclenched soul-
only sweat and clammy skin haunts
as the light of what is tomorrow
comes too soon,
burning yesterdays eyes.

Sitting in soiled sheets,
feeling sickness take grip.
Moments of inspiration-
flicking the nightstand light on,
hope manifests itself in the way of
barely discernible scribbling in worn,
coffee-stained journal pages;
the lamp flicks off again but there it is-

the dawn, full and immovable
what hope is there for the speechless heart
when every night, creativity is dashed on
dawn's shimmering shore?

Curtains are drawn and the being shuffles
about the dimly lit apartment
once craving the daylight to observe the world anew,
now hiding within cool walls scratched by the fingernails
of a 'common' consciousness,
fighting for normalcy-
singularity
then murdered by sweet eccentricity.

Pale and broken,
it waits beneath the bed,
amongst the mildew of forgotten laundry,
waiting for the night
and another try.

Words will come.