This Indigo Night Redux:

Hey, Constance, some of you read right away and some read much later…if you are an “early adopter”, consider checking out “This Indigo Night” again, as there was a hidden rhythm there which kept niggling at me…it was bugging me like a stray piece of popcorn hull stuck in my gumline.

I worried on it a bit, and it popped free, and now the poem flows in all its dark and sorrowful power.

I apologize for that…it truly oozes hurt and agony and that horrible existential loneliness that every single human has felt at some point in some way, even if it is but the shadow of the eye of Mordor looking, probing…and it barely hesitates on you there, cloaked under your fortunate sunny disposition and unfractured nature wrapped around you like an elvish cloak of protection…

…and even if I am the only one who feels thus?  Well, it is honest.  It sang true to the agony.

Thus shall it stand, and I the prouder of it for its courage.

Charissa the Sorrowful




i admit this is tough for me…
chewing it is like a steak that
aunt myrtle sacrificed on the
altar of cleanliness is next to “done-liness”.

and swallowing it?  HAH!
i always ask too much, expect too much
hope too much, believe things will work out
too much…and when that lump of
“not” gets stuck in my throat,

it grows hands topped with many fingers
tipped with sharp claws taught malevolent glee
and it jams itself sideways, stuck there in me
and declares “be ashamed!” “be nothing!”
or be both.

what i have overcome…what is that?
well, it is more like nugget, sweet and chewy
and promising substance, and then gone…
dissolved into nothing, just an aftertaste
torturing my longing heart.

but I am working on this.
I am gritting my teeth til my jaws ache.
I am saying I AM…subject, predicate “overcoming”.
I am drinking guilt by the glassful,
shame by the snifter and
terror by the teacup.

someday maybe it will be drained
to the last drop
and the ocean bottom will start to dry
at last there for the air to touch
and mess up its hair.

maybe…maybe then,
i will know being proud
of overcoming

A L’encre de tes Lèvres

J’ai saigné des lunes et des soleils nocturnes
Sous le ciel de ta peau, ayant un goût de miel
Me fondant sur ta langue ou à tes rêves diurnes
Que tu faisais jadis mon singulier pluriel.

Quand d’un geste fougueux, je me pends à tes yeux
Usant de l’imparfait pour taire les silences
Tu ignores les nuits où les terres en feu
Jaillissent du néant et remplissent mes stances.

J’ai enroulé mon cœur sur tes pages fébriles
Mêlant l’encre rouge à tes murmures d’amour
Et tu gagnes le jour quand ton âme érectile
Se suspend aux restes d’une larme au long court.

Un naufrage de mots s’échoue irrésistible
Toute voile dehors sur le sable émouvant
Ton souffle me parcourt en atteignant sa cible
Apaisant les sanglots d’un ultime courant.

J’ai déposé les maux sur tes lignes inertes
Liant l’arène de ta muse au bois dormant
Et je livre l’ivresse à tes rimes expertes
Nouant mon innocence à tes pouvoirs troublants.

Je m’ancre à tes lèvres et fusionne à ta plume
En t’inspirant des chants de divines passions
L’ombre de tes peines soulève mon enclume
Et je forge tes vers au sein de ma raison.

J’ai saigné des lunes et des soleils nocturnes
Sous le ciel de ta peau, ayant un goût de miel
Me fondant sur ta langue ou à tes rêves diurnes
Que tu faisais jadis mon masculin pluriel…..

Le 5 Avril 2011

This Indigo Night

what am I,
here in this current so swift,
here in this flow so crystal,
the color of none, of nothing
seeping from hearts of high mountains
whose tops are jagged and sharp,
sharp enough to shred endless blue skies
into ripped bloody red torn pink remnants
purple while day fades to black?

what am I,
feeling the kick inside me,
the writhing insistence and roll,
the knock knock inside my forehead
that sounds in nebula bursts
and sings in galaxy galas
inside my conductor heart
waving my rhythmic baton thoughts
emerging and piling up useless?

what am I,
feeling such guilt when I think
about all that I want you to know
all I feel and I long to feel with you
and I hear the desperate tremor
in your voice, I fear deeply that I am…what?
a burdensome ball that needs juggling,
a silly dead thing that needs managed,
another condition to cope with?

what am I,
in the dark heart of lean hungry hours
when nightmares slink bold and unwary
and sing in such sibilant hissing
that I’m not a what or a who,
that my sorrow and sharp disappointment
is hollow, is nothing so when
I shout “Marco! Marco! Marco! Marco! Marco!” over and over again
my desperate cry is gutted and added to indigo night?

what am I,
when I feel such life in my thoughts
and my insights streak thru my dark fear
like diamond-tailed powerful comets
fierce and unstoppable birthed, but
black holes of indifference they simply
yawn, stretch, and swallow them whole
and then check their watch sweetly ticking
for the truly important things?

I guess I am this at the least:  the sum of all of my fears.
Those things are real, at least they must be, right?
The way they tear, the way they bite,
the way they drink my blood at night,
the way they croon that they will take me, wrap around me, never leave me
they’ll accept me, treasure my heart’s living blood so spurty salty
gushy red blooms from the cuts the jagged mountains made when I fell
from the sky upon them and discovered that I was not
made to fly, or be a worthy bird, or even just a little pretty butterfly.

what am i?


Under the Surface

I never scuba dive.
I’m afraid of those sharks,
great white sharks
(I could never figure out what was so great about them).

I think what they mean
is big white sharks.
and they aren’t even really white!
(why do we call things white that aren’t even?).

Their teeth are white though,
white razors running
from snout to throat and down
(I think they chew their way thru the water).

Besides, I am in enough danger (on land)
from things called great (that aren’t)
from things called white (that are just pale fish belly dead)
from things with teeth (that are hungry for blood).