Roadsign

•April 4, 2019 • 10 Comments

art

*image found HERE

Roadsign

Sometimes I worry
that your lemonade might be too sour,
that too much sugar will kill you,
that your heart
will succumb to the utterance
of all the winds that lodge
in the wheezing of your bones;
sometimes I worry
about all the boats
you forgot how to build,
that pocket watches
now merely converse with you
about wilting and passing,
that you are more fragile
than the flowers
you used to pot around our balcony
like an acrobat.
Sometimes I worry
that your clothes are too
thin for the season,
that you are skipping breakfast;
your spot at the table became mine
and each day before attempting living
I sit and gaze at our blooming birch
as peaceful as the surface of your whiskey
used to be
and I know that
if your mouth could remember words
you would tell me not to worry;

but how do I teach stillness
to a dead bird?

*For NaPoWriMo day 4. The topic for today together with the poem selected to be today’s inspiration hits a little too close to home, almost completely, so this prompt robbed me of all eloquence, hence why my entry is as plain as I barely mustered it to be.

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Some questions for the Sky

•April 2, 2019 • 19 Comments

subw2

*Image from my Photography blog, Suburban Witchcraft

Some questions for the Sky

What was yolk before the shell was cracked
as though what were you,
before my eyes fell open?

In the morning,
you mirage all fabrics
on a woman’s shoulder
into shimmering
as they call their peonies
by your name
while I, much like a child,
seat myself on cedar flotsam
and could never ever
resist touching the water.

How do you sterilize my savagery?
How do you usher me forward towards the bus stop,
like a gouvernant
that turns last-night’s midnight
secrets and doubts
into breakfast,
chirps and whispers,
walking;

You’re propped against the universe,
and stare at me –
while I do all the talking.

I want to feel you,
much like a river does,
I want to compliment you
as though the sea does,
I want to spin you inside my chest
and make you dewy and blush
like a ripe peach,
something you can bite.

And when you are pale,
pale and cold
like a tear-stained embroidery,
gelato, honey and oranges,
and heaving
like a seasoned sailor’s hair in the wind,
electricity, diodes in the fog –

I forsake nothing
for nothing ever threaded my being;
no Babylonian blood,
no architecture,
no incantations of the Mayans,
I could care less about calendars.

The streetlights detach from your pockets
like cylinders
of fairy dust and mundane
need for sleep,
I want to
cradle your solitude
in my bosom,
I want to speak kindly and loving
to another
in the language of your blue;

when can I visit?
When can I stay,
when will my heart be a suitcase?
Does a meadow, perhaps,
somewhere out there,
have a staircase?
Should I sew, should I climb,
should I try some other ancient rhyme?

I am shadowed by atonement
enveloping the brink.

When will you seep,
how is light to be tended?
Do the reds of your dresses
need be amended;
the beauty, the vastness,
and all the hues oblivious to the masses,
how can I latch?

I ask and ask
while in the distant silence
the stars begin to hatch.

*For NaPoWriMo day 2. Completely forgot about it starting yesterday, so I am as usual late for the party. Today’s prompt spoke to me in the language of Nature, and it is a motive that follows me since my early days of writing, so it felt fitting to revisit it once again. I hope you enjoy reading and have a wonderful Spring day!

Vingt-neuf

•March 25, 2019 • 10 Comments
Better-Together-Chocolate-Vanilla-Birthday-Cake-1-700x1050
*Image found HERE
As it is a custom, every year on my birthday I like to leave you with some poems to read, some you may have not encountered before, for they are usually ancient, prolonged,old. Hope you enjoy reading them and if you feel so inclined, leave me a poem in return.

The Wizard in the Street

[Concerning Edgar Allan Poe]

Who now will praise the Wizard in the street 
With loyal songs, with humors grave and sweet — 
This Jingle-man, of strolling players born, 
Whom holy folk have hurried by in scorn, 
This threadbare jester, neither wise nor good, 
With melancholy bells upon his hood? 

The hurrying great ones scorn his Raven’s croak, 
And well may mock his mystifying cloak 
Inscribed with runes from tongues he has not read 
To make the ignoramus turn his head. 
The artificial glitter of his eyes 
Has captured half-grown boys. They think him wise. 
Some shallow player-folk esteem him deep, 
Soothed by his steady wand’s mesmeric sweep. 

The little lacquered boxes in his hands 
Somehow suggest old times and reverenced lands. 
From them doll-monsters come, we know not how: 
Puppets, with Cain’s black rubric on the brow. 
Some passing jugglers, smiling, now concede 
That his best cabinet-work is made, indeed 
By bleeding his right arm, day after day, 
Triumphantly to seal and to inlay. 
They praise his little act of shedding tears; 
A trick, well learned, with patience, thro’ the years. 

I love him in this blatant, well-fed place. 
Of all the faces, his the only face 
Beautiful, tho’ painted for the stage, 
Lit up with song, then torn with cold, small rage, 
Shames that are living, loves and hopes long dead, 
Consuming pride, and hunger, real, for bread. 

Here by the curb, ye Prophets thunder deep: 
“What Nations sow, they must expect to reap,” 
Or haste to clothe the race with truth and power, 
With hymns and shouts increasing every hour. 
Useful are you. There stands the useless one 
Who builds the Haunted Palace in the sun. 
Good tailors, can you dress a doll for me 
With silks that whisper of the sounding sea? 
One moment, citizens, — the weary tramp 
Unveileth Psyche with the agate lamp. 
Which one of you can spread a spotted cloak 
And raise an unaccounted incense smoke 
Until within the twilight of the day 
Stands dark Ligeia in her disarray, 
Witchcraft and desperate passion in her breath 
And battling will, that conquers even death? 

And now the evening goes. No man has thrown 
The weary dog his well-earned crust or bone. 
We grin and hie us home and go to sleep, 
Or feast like kings till midnight, drinking deep. 
He drank alone, for sorrow, and then slept, 
And few there were that watched him, few that wept. 
He found the gutter, lost to love and man. 
Too slowly came the good Samaritan. 

 

***

Madman’s Song

Better to see your cheek grown hollow,
Better to see your temple worn,
Than to forget to follow, follow,
After the sound of a silver horn.

Better to bind your brow with willow
And follow, follow until you die,
Than to sleep with your head on a golden pillow,
Nor lift it up when the hunt goes by.

Better to see your cheek grow sallow
And your hair grown gray, so soon, so soon,
Than to forget to hallo, hallo,
After the milk-white hounds of the moon.

Elinor Morton Wylie

Augment

•March 21, 2019 • 26 Comments

augment

*Image found HERE

Augment
I am learning about
realities,
about how two, or more, or none
clash or fornicate
while there is a bunch of scientists
in white coats
in a circle
writing down their observations,
casually translating
entire micro-cosmic lives
to single digits, in a row, or one above another;
one in Fibonacci, one in crooked spirals,
one unconsciously in the exact parameters
of a small cottage on Greenland.

what does my chair think of me, whilst I think of you
and asking you really
pointless and foolish stuff
such as and to be precise
how do you see two paperclips making love
so I can see what my own circle of white coats
has to say about it;
how would it look like if we both
carved our names upon a stone in Nordic runes,
what is your favourite flower as opposed to
your favourite scent of laundry detergent,
how can we take feelings, lace them up with sound
then navigate them through the flesh woods
and into the storm of carbonized dust
and how do we name that a colour;
a colour that is pretty and looks amazing
on a brush?

How do I make sure that my statistics
do not pragmatise your beings
into a shaky patch of midlands
huddled under a blanket of cold war,
how do I not pry open the coffer
and disturb the sleep of something
that was supposed to stay dead;
Light is an intruder,
wed to the darkness it pillages,
addicted to the shadow it cracks open
like an egg;
knowing when to pray and when to beg
is knowing hope,
wearing it like a brooch,
always around your chest
and we know Hope never dies;
it becomes irrelevant,
and time is the garden house of irrelevance.

If I can talk to the machines;
and if the machines want to listen
then every council of my body
roars like the sum of all cicada
and if they wanna listen
I would ask them
to inject me with their god
of permanence.

*Shared with dVerse Open Link Night, go visit and have a lot of lovely reading!

Nothing

•March 3, 2019 • 9 Comments

Nothing

“Nothing”

Mixed media/ March 2019

Anesthetic is wearing off

•February 19, 2019 • 4 Comments

frosty morning in february

*Image found HERE

Anesthetic is wearing off

When I am making it with you
everything is blue
kind of like a mid February morning

like sunlight looking like
dirt
on suburban streets;
a man sits sells his flowers.
If you are pretty enough, he will give u one.

Do you want the flower?
how do you pluck it,
tell me specifics,
give me calculations and charts,
tell me coordinates
I’ll be subordinate
cause distance is the outstretched arm
of the pale in Renaissance paintings
dangling a cloth over an armchair,
a Thespian inheritance;
we feel real love in the spleen.

Hold my shoulders;
I won’t scream.
Pluck the wings.
Get it over with.
Don’t ever get it over with.
Don’t ever get over it

Think of candid forest paths
and deer that roam it,
think of mountaintops
and pines oozing out years
sticky and sour;
make innocence filthy.

When I’m making it like you
it feels like candy-nothings,
cause its so gently blue
kinda like my eyes,
kinda like your eyes,
kinda like sea at 5 in the morning.

Timing is a Red Coat

•February 1, 2019 • 15 Comments

the_model_in_a_red_coat___original_oil_pastel_portrait

*Image found HERE

Timing is a Red Coat

No fire can be started gently.
Flint against tinder.
Tinder against bone;
bone against bone.
Metal wheel against lighter fluid.
Tip of the thunder against a dry bush.
Right forearm against the dull edge of the table.
Skin against twig.
Friction against no intentions.
Twig against smooth rock.
Word against the forest.
Fairy lights against bewilderement.
Concoctions against organic.
Meaning against the mind.
Forest against mouth.

We guide the match across the box
in the velocity of our hunger for the light;
Go on, and ask it to burn candid;
Not to swallow, not to disturb,
flicker as it may against the canopy
of solitude it tries to break handless.
Sightless. Unquestioned. Heartless.

I will not come to you with torches;
I will not come to you with sunsets
spilling out of my pockets;
I will not come to you like a sermon
for the ashen dreams of a dried up sea;
I will not come to you held, driven and walked across
until I was timid and dead like charcoal
and it will not matter have I walked
or crawled or ran
and have I in my sizzling stared wide
at the wounds that I might make
or the wounds that I have taken.

I want to come to you godless.

 
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