i think fog unwraps itself
to show what lives beneath
takes off its clothing graceful slow
removes its wispy sheath…
and naked the earth stretches out
languorous and sure
and becomes whole as I look on
my hurt heart’s ever-cure
Category Archives: Poetry
Crushed In Switzerland
that illusion is breaking up
like ice squeezed tight and crushed
in the fists of inevitability
and spring
there is no such thing as neutral
in a world pulled tight, pulled taut
between that endless winter
cold and bleak
and ravenous in black
consuming every weak
meek heart and undefended
and the coming
time of harvest
when all things
are marked
paid in full
and the ever-day
dawns without the sun
and sings unto the moon
“olly olly oxen free!!”
But you, like the ice
must be broken up
must choose to become
either water, or air
or forever frozen
in evil’s horrid grip
You must become
crushed in Switzerland
and thus set free forever
Moon Glow Sky
in the rosy dusk
aching, beautiful, fragrant
present…fading…gone
Miss You
I miss you…I miss you so, in tears
I miss you with nerves frayed
nerves ‘fraid
and nerves numb
but never quiet
I miss you in rainbows and winds
and the stir of the leaves
amidst the plum blossoms
and wild cherry petals
streaming down
like the tears I cry
in my longing for your
presence.
Abandonment
This poem is one year old…I wrote it last year trying to deal with my worst enemy in this world.
I wanted to repost it, because frankly right now there is a great deal of uncertainty in my life…forces vie and swirl around me. People are easily inconsistent and squirt out in weak places…some vie for power, and some seek to judge from outside observation and have no clue about inside motivations…to give up power in deference to one who seeks it, only to have another assume that I am shirking my duties hurts me immensely.
I think most of those feelings are exacerbated by my old enemy:
Abandonment
You, long my nemesis and hater of my soul. You’ve chilled my days and frozen all my long night’s coal in hours of stark terror and silent desperate screams on razor blades I’ve la…
Source: Abandonment
Marking Time
i’ve been marking time since day one
day by day by day by day by day
and for each spin around the sun
i carve a line within
i haven’t figured it all out,
not quite, not yet, not all
whether those lines mark the way
out of these bars or just pass the days
but now they are my act of faith,
my memorials stark and blue
and some day i’ll slip between them
or simply pass thru to you
i am marking time, my countdown to you
Like Blossoms
I fall in love with
you, like cherry blossoms fall
utterly to earth
in the wind my kiss
wanders, floats, and my desire
aches to find its home
in your arms always
if not, I will fade away
hoping in the dark
In The Heart Of My Heart
there is a small living fluttery thing,
inside me, inside my heart.
in the heart of my heart it dwells turbulently
colored yellow and red and green tufted wings
all hidden in browns and lonesome strange things.
it pummels against the bars of its cage
inside me, inside my heart.
in the heart of my heart it aches and it bleeds
from its rushes and thrashings at bars that won’t break
all the loneliest ache of my soul.
if i could discover a lost sacred knife
and cut my way into my heart
in the heart of my heart i would slice, i would gash
a bloody doorway rent with one razor slash
so that bird could take wing at long last.
crystal slim blade and dark russet wings
inside me, inside my heart.
in the bosom of my heart twine two holy things
the one who beats at me, the one that cuts free
in the heart of my heart of my heart.
Insomnia
i sit at the window
in my rosy chair
wrapped inside my blankets
missing cosy sleep
i stare into darkness
and try to lift the night
with an act of my sheer will
I try to light the sun
but the dark is heavy
it resists my grasp
claims that it has kismet
over my soft heart
everyday the sun comes up
and the dark recedes
but my captive heart’s still torn
and the wound still bleeds
Blossom-Moon
stars, like blossoms strewn
gracious lace against the moon
fragrant night-time twins
Between Shadow and Reality
Your cannon eyes thunder without a sound
and the incoming scintillating round
whistles to me, till I look just in time
to get knocked backwards
into Kingdom come
you know, that tenuous tenebrous
gold-lined twilight of the soul.
It’s not nearly so glamorous
(or as agonizing) as that place
St John got so cross about.
This is the place that sits
on the dusty outskirts
of that land he called
the Dark Night of the Soul.
The wind blows across the mouth
of those cannon eyes and I swear
that in the mindless cheeping
of the springtime frogs I can hear
John Wayne out-shouting
John of the cross, declaring
“there’s a new sheriff in town, pilgrim!”
The laws and logic of this place
hang in that suspension of being,
where soul and body swim
and are different and liquid.
Sometimes you eat the temporal
and sometimes the temporal eats you
while eternity is always hard to bear.
Shell-shocked and alone, I remind myself
that the logic of God is so different
to the logic of humanity.
Yet I still chase after shadows
a haunting enticement of so much
substance without being and
the substance of myself.
where reality lies
and where shadows seduce.
On My Way To Trinidad
I saw the eagle soar that day
on my way to Trinidad
to walk from sidewalks, shops, trinkets
to redwoods tall and shady deep
That eagle, beak hooked, gleaming bright
a yellow barb to hook the sun
and pull it there behind its flight
into the always never-end
of trees, and fogs and oceans song
of silences and sounds of streams
I was on my way to Trinidad
and melancholic bitter-sweet
In The Quiet Rain
here
here quiet
here quiet in the rain
in the dancing rain
the water
washes clean
the water washes all things
clean in the rain
and so
and so my clothes
and so my clothes no longer fit
at all in the shrinking rain
so I
will clothe myself
in veils and showers
of rain fresher than
the brand new spring
and older than my skin
Here Among These Ruins
I spend a lotta time out here,
in these ruins made so soft
with moss and time’s unceasing flow
that rubs away the razor edge
and dulls the sharpest aching grief
that haunts and sanctifies those things
amidst the stones that sing of glory
here, abandoned and now gently
haunting precious mourning here
among these ruins
At The Rim Of My Soul’s Furthest Reach
There’s a universe inside me, bound
between my soul-yearn’s furthest reach
and my bleak body’s dullest beach,
a nexus edge, of light and dirt
Bright pin-prick sharp stars pierce my heart
and shards, a thousand brilliant shards
release their shattered broken song
in full throat glory greater than…
and I swallow my tears, my pain
and my hurt too and hope this gain
this extra gravity jars loose
those stars from my deep skies inside
and shoot them streaming fiery
and hopeful and without limit
thru endless skies within my soul
until they finally hit that wall
at the horizon where my body
and my spirit dance…just at
the limit…and if they, perchance? Should MEET?
Oh…the Fireworks!! The GLANCE!
And then shall the night finally
become complete and my soft eyes
shall finally close and come to rest,
my heart shall at last breathe it’s best
there…
at the rim
of my soul’s
furthest reach
Of Such Hot Indifference
when you walked into the room
you smiled and blew out your breath
upwards, at the locks that impishly
strayed into the wide clear fields
of your forehead.
they puffed backwards, but danced
on the verge of mischievous descent
back down into your field of vision.
when you saw my dusty hands
you smiled and thought pastry-thoughts
and rumbled your tummy in ever-hope
of tidbits, delectable deliberate sweet nothings
such as you had become accustomed to
and assumed would be ever-there…
but your hair fell again
across your face and in your eyes
and it fractured your line of sight
…and thus it was that you failed
to notice that the dust on my hands
wasn’t flour at all
but just the remains of the body
cremated in the fires
of such hot indifference
Eternal Spring
wind stirs the mirror
reflections rise from the depths
and the blossoms fall
The Glance of the Moon
as tears well
(it’s funny that tears
well most well
when I am not well)
up in my eyes
and they go all limpid
I limp around the room
I see the angles, the planes,
the endless lines
and sharp edges
of your geometry
and I am glad I am going
even though it hurts as much
being gone as it did being there
it’s just that my lines are round
my planes are spheres
and I have no angles
in the softness of my heart
and the glance of the moon
I Like The Rhythms When We Love
i like the rhythms when we love
the way we move in time as one
and yet distinct and separate
and yet not separated
they come, the movements, just like waves
we wash up on each other’s sand
and drink up each one’s offerings
from shallows and from fathoms deep
and fingers move like lacy spray
and arms and legs like breakers sure
and hearts like rocks, like booming waves
and souls like everlasting sand
yes…
i like the rhythms when we love
Enough Water
“A tear is enough water to float a desire to God.”
— Charles Spurgeon
— Charles Spurgeon
Oh God it is on oceans that
I float my heart to you,
my heart tragic and Titanic
and full of broken dreams
my tears feed every ocean that
ships sail upon so free
and so, will my desires, prayers,
and longings come to Thee?
as the passenger disembarks
and clambers from the boat
so I distinguish me from my
desires, they mere ships
to sail the oceans of the heart
to catch those winds so strong
and carry me home to You, God…
for this I ever long.
Lingering
in the forest, thru the mists
under grey clouds on the moor
I wander, wander…I linger
even though my time
here has passed and
so has day become night
and I a woman of the night
in all its mystery and splendour
and thus imbibe its secrets and its wonder
yet do I loiter…here in the forest
near the old house once filled
with glory and light and music
but now just an empty shell
under grey clouds on the moor
in the forests thru the mists
Cold Comfort
As it unfolds in front of me, that river
that river of green-streaked golden brown
that flow unceasing of time…that goes around
and comes around and goes around again
I can just make out in the flotsam and jetsam
all the refuse there that everyone has refused
to snatch up and drink and make a part
of their own will and way
I can just see those things that we threw
in together, wishing upon twinkles and glints
star-reflections ripply and quick on the river-folds
and they roll in time and show me their bellies to scratch
and I do, with recollections of willow days wandy
and star-nights silver thru the open window
wafting in the cool night breezes
that were the only blankets that we wore…
and the birds, singing songs of light, of times
coming hopeful and bright and all full of promise
and trees reaching, straining to drink the cool peaceful night
and so standing tall as our example, bending graceful
in the wind and standing strong in the rain.
And now, your hope and promise has arrived,
drawn in reed baskets from that river
and denial done, death thwarted
(for some time anyway, a go-round or two)
and I sit for us both, on the high bluffs
that overlook that flow,
that go round of time relentless
but constant and thus of some cold comfort.
Me To Bullies
That Space Between
it’s that space between
light and darkness
that rare mix
and combination
it’s in shadows I sit
in shades I live
and grey is brilliant color
variated and diverse
it’s the inbetween
that I relate to
that I am
Such A Long Way Home
I have such a long way home
such a long league of the sea
the last one, longest of them all
as I swim home to my True me.
I have come so far across
the desert sands so red, so hot
no water any where to dip
my tongue, my pen, my deepest thought
But here I am, the sand and sea
embracing in an endless dance
where there is both and neither here
as I transform in this last chance
to swim the promised depths, my home
in waters full of mystery
I have such a long way home
but I will get there, true and free
A Different End To The Story
All full of himself and stiff
gait wobbly, bopping up and down
walk waggly, blipping circley side-side
aggressive lean forward looking
for something to pierce, to rip
pent up all day inside the clothes of decency
but out now, unleashed now from the world of men
and striding like Colossus thru the realm
of women and children and all that rage
and self loathing his ticket to intoxication…
just looking for a reason, a place
to vent…and vent that place, tear it
to shreds and bloody ruination plunging
his vicious teeth deep into soft innocent
flesh not yet on the planet 5 years.
He wore his privilege like porcupine quills.
And then his tongue, bullwhip cracking
his pig eyes squinty and squealy and sweaty
and his anger was only surpassed
by his sanctimonious self righteousness
and utter unawareness of anything but himself.
And I? Constrained by bonds of love and consternation
responsible for hearts and souls, and yes his own as well
I bit my fucking lip until it bled, and imagined
my nails raking his face to shreds
the way his words tore the heart
from my precious precious angels
and here I sit, impotent work
with keyboard and words and tears
of sorrow, of ruination, of rage
and longing for the day when a man
won’t be such a dick.
I sit longing for a different end to the story.
My Exodus
I moved away while you weren’t watching
(it was easier than I thought it would be,
escaping past your X-Ray eyes
that look for flesh and blood and thus
missed my exodus)
I live by the sea, now, high
above the sandy shore and on a bluff
that looks like it leans out
but really tucks back in
and stands in stone throw
to the singing sea-grass.
My house has seven windows
my house has one pure door
thru which no shadow enters
(for you won’t come to visit)
straight from the greenwood do you run
straight past my house without a glance
because the sea has given voice
to great desires, and great hungers
but you fail (as you once remembered)
to grasp the truth…these waters sing of me
my ever fall and rise, my adoration of your eyes
my ever in and out, my weeping heart, my spirit-shout
because I live between the forest and the sea
on a bluff there…I live
I live in that gulf between
you and me.
My Vibrant Words
it’s strange, how my words
are vibrant now, and safe…
my words are safe in themselves
they used to need your eyes
like vines need their trellis
eyes constant and seeing
and singing in the wind
like that trellis
whose sharp point
kisses the depths of earth
with its piercing pressure
insisting on being
a root descending
that trellis whose strands
thrum beneath my words,
and echo them to the singing winds
but they
(my words,
not the wind,
or the trellis,
or your eyes)
are strong now
and own-rooted
in depths and dirt
and though they
feel the twinge
of regret in your retreat,
they don’t mourn or weep
they are own-winded
in their own-rootedness
they are own-trellised
they are own-sung
they are own-caressed
and the sorrow in the wind?
it is the wind’s tongue in the gap
where my teeth-words used to be
Heart Words Passion
that thing where people
cover their bodies with
ink and needle kisses
and waterfalls of memories
become tangible roadmaps
into the past thru the mist
well maybe that will hit it
but it has missed my marks
and maps and mists
because they are tattooed
in your heart
in my words
in my passion
The Blood Of Its Escape
the cry of the old house crawled out
between the bars and scrabbled
hard up the frozen-bone branches
it wrenched itself from the icy
grip of frosty-crystals and leapt
into the wind
into freedom
but the blood of its escape
remained running everywhere
and that lock still snikked shut
tight against the chain
and those cold long links
that stood arm in arm
against freedom
while the blood of this effort
was left in trails
smeared everywhere
in gory evidence of how
you turn it down over
and over and over
true freedom
“That Is A She”
my home lies
deep in the forest
near the roots
of the mountains
it is a space
from which eternity
pours effortlessly
right alongside sorrow,
longing and giving
and receiving,
that one unity
of space and going
to and from
that receptive deep
opening within
passing from
this world of woe
to a deep place
that’s not a place
but the echo
of my home
deep in the forest
near the roots
of the mountains
Salty Faithful Circle-Heart
The seasons of my heart are on display
thru the rain-flecked windshield
and the squeaky blinks
of the wiper blades
thru the tinted window glass
underneath electric humming singing
of the sleepy crickets sleeping off
a sunny lazy hangover day
thru the tines of the thrumming rake
so red like my cheeks and sharp
like my nose running to the tune
of winter’s coming tramps
thru the falling snow so silent
against the dark so thick, transcendent
pointing to the circle never-ending
the seasons of my ever-changing heart
thru the wonder and the hope
thru the suffering and love
thru the dying and the crying
thru the healing and the rising
salty faithful circle-heart
Afloat In Holy Black II
in the silent frosty middle
you know the place, it dangles
from a frayed and rotted rope
by its twisted, broken neck
never climbing to the heavens
never rising, never sinking
finally to hell…suspended
still-born in the dead black moment
struck hard by fiery unjust suffering
lightning bolts of frozen mystery
electric silence of a God
who seems to become floaty-fog…
…and go missing in that moment…
that cold and lonely hour of greatest need.
And Defiance?
And Hope?
And Memory?
And Wrath?
Or Mercy?
God’s absence…ever-present metronome
clicking seconds tangible
but measured in life’s lurking horrors,
haunted concentration camps
shrieking dust-wreathed empty chairs
silent tables lacking breath
just one long open exhale
lasting always occupied
by aching absence of the Loved ones
gone…just gone…replaced by absence…
lurking pervert, shadow present
of God Absent in the hanging
in the hollow hanging black…
Or is it
Holy Black? Yes.
Afloat in Holy Black.
In the times of Holy Black…
This Holy Black when God seems absent
in our need, we are too small,
inconsequential lost in mystery
I ask where is God? Where am I?
Where is Divine Mercy Sweet?
How can I (or anyone)
Slip that rough coarse choking rope?
I go forward
They are not there,
backward, but
I can’t perceive Them.
When They act on the left,
I cannot behold Them;
They turn on the right,
I cannot see Them.
And yet I find in anguished cries
against God’s absence, They are present!
Present in my blank assumption
that Their Silence equates absence
and tenacious faith in God
who seems so distant from our pain,
and silent to our acrid cries,
and absent from our acid world.
In the face of certain suffering
how else can I affirm God’s presence
in my midst except by taking
issue with injustice in this moment
of God’s long apparent ringing absence
God’s abandonment in the midst of towering suffering?
My protest against God’s pressing pregnant silence
would be deprived of dignity and meaning
if there were no Presence behind the Silence.
mercy and justice are enthroned
in a higher heaven still
and in this Lenten season,
in our hungry self denial
as we blindly grope around
in that towering Spiraling Darkness
of our own imperfect vision
and our wakened apprehension
of our God, we will to wrestle
with God’s absence so we can come
to experience the presence
of God in a different way
not that hanging purgatory
twisting in the idiot wind…no
Us and God…Afloat in Holy Black
“I have heard of you by the hearing of the ear; but now my eye has seen you.”
Fungus
i tried to explain
the majesty of mushrooms
who grow best in darkness
and thrive in the damp
and flourish midst breakdown
and live in the bullshit
but he just laffed derisive
and opened his wolfmouth
and said you are still
just a fungus
I Am The OtHeR
they sit beside the brook
its merry song tinkles around them
music from the heart of
the earth’s blood clearer than diamonds
more fierce than oxygen
and all they hear is the sound
of piss bouncing off stones
and fouling the dirt
in the presence of waterfalls
roaring with the immanent joy
of the void becoming UN-void
and spray like pearls on the way
from nowhere to as yet pregnant
oysters in deepest seas and
deeper sees
all they hear is a vague
annoying buzz of
an insignificant tramp.
and at that shore vast
that shore that makes them
wistful, hopeful, weak, strong
in, out, shrinking, growing
never changing never same
and the thunder of the deep
calling to Deep…
they cast their trash
and drop their gum
after taking my picture
On The Way To Scarborough Faire
by a frosty window, cracked
just a bit to let the roasty room
(and our toasty toes) sip some
air so fresh and crisp and clean
that air, smelling salts cast up
and out and in by the sighing seas
that rose and fell contentedly
as you lay there…asprawl by me
our night so many years ago
and yet it never happened
except in our hearts twining
(or in mine anyway, cus
I am allus pining for what
has never happened but could have)
and me saying “I am in love with you”
and you asking “does that mean I love you?”
and me answering with lips, with tongue
and you opining with moans, and lungs
yours, mine, in, out, heave, sigh
and the seas…so content
and so restless
and so content
and so restless
there on the way
to Scarborough Faire
It’s On…
it’s on the naked branches
stripped bare by winter lashings
frozen crushings and dim light
dark night and the howls and owls
and the lonesome silent music
of lost longings and long waiting…
it’s on the roof built solid
so snug against the cold
and cupping all the golden warmth
that glows inside the heart
and sings inside the soul
of Spring returning fast…
it’s on my face that Mama splashes
all Her Love, Her Grace and Peace
She beautifies my ashes
She oils my grieving heart
She clothes me in Her Raiment
and purifies my spirit
and I sing once again
reborn and free again.
My True Name
the sun scurries from the rim
of the far horizon, hurries
up to its important stage above all
things beaming.
it’s gonna have a helluva day
throwing shade at everyone
especially me, this moonchild
that sunshine passes thru.
the sun forgets everything
but its self-important run
to heights to glare down from
imperious, impervious, and naming.
I could look straight at it
but if I did, it would be quenched
in my knowing, darkling gaze,
my look that sees the backside
so I look away as it names me
wrong, other, afterthought
aside, and that old flame would
just as soon burn my ass.
but in just mere moments
when I lower my gaze, the sun
forgets I ever was, except maybe
to laugh and snicker at the moonchild
but the moon remembers
and so do I
the moon, soft, beautiful
receives me
knows my name
my true name
That Line?
that line?
right there.
the one stretching out
from somewhere to nowhere
i crossed it
but not just stepped across
on dancing feet
i danced across
and caper on its grave
Demure In That Sunset
you looked out on our landscape
the one we saw outside
that just mirrored the one
we share between our hearts.
you said that it was beautiful
and though I did agree
I said nothing, and did defer
demure in that sunset.
the winds blew cold, freezing
like un-freeze-able ice
that twisted round our toes
and nipped sharp at our nose
but it did not seem to phase you
there in that beauty sprawled
as stars began to sing
and blood began to bring
you to my yearning soul
that never will be whole
in this night breaking bright
we held each other tight
and then our lips did meet
the wind paused, then attacked
and drove us closer still
love you I ever will.
In The Still Hush
in the hush, in the still hush
of the dying day, the waning day
see the sun, ohh the setting sun
shining rays, rays trickling
down the winds, on the breeze
to the beach, in the reach
of ocean waves, wild waves crashing
to the sands, the sparkling sands
in the cold, the rush of cold air
all around, and fresh in us
on that quiet, quiet darkling
winter evening.
A Gulf So Imperceptible
the distance between you and i
is the same as that distance
between myself and me
a gulf so imperceptible
two souls that intertwine
and yet a smokescreen intervenes
and my heart never to be touched
my inmost parts so liquid, so creamy
laying fallow, uninhabited
thinness, membrane thinner than
a butterfly wing, or maybe even
just one molecule thick
but never can be broken thru
never can be jumped across
to stand there with you
That Sacred Mountain
“I reckon she tours 45, 47 weeks a year” he drawled
that soft spoken voice crawled out of wiry limbs
and a throat red and wattled and jiggly while he
wagged his chin.
“Why, she may clear two hundred thousand a year”
and those words drew my eyes lifted, my ears
and I couldn’t decide if he was more
Richard Farnsworth or Robert Duvall or
just a one-off salt knowing everything about nothing.
“What’s it gonna take, til she strikes it hot, clear
and becomes the next Joan Baez?”
I stifled my own mirth, jammed it deep
like musket balls tamped down the barrel
of an old long-rifle and lowered my gaze
like the sharp winter moon bending to earth
to harvest tides and turns and yearns.
But when she came out she was clothed in midnight.
She wore night sky round her shoulders adorned
with stars golden and shimmering in arpeggios, waves
rippling, flowing as she mounted the stage all gawky
adolescent walking into high school for the first time,
all snowy egret eternal and established and impossibly thin.
Thin, lined with years like irrigation ditches dug
by needy and loving hands from her dirt and her face
a sharp, flat smooth blade fierce, angular and unrelenting
until she sang, and
Mama picked her up and
she became more diamond brilliant and
turning than tossed tomahawk whirling fast.
She spoke
of the Sacred Mountain,
she spoke
of Blue Lake
and the Holy Hallowed
ground made ready
by the steady
devoted padding footsteps
of the people of the lake.
Her voice was red,
red smears on blacks and deeps
crimson moans in velvet folds
and bright cardinal ever song
over the burlap of everlasting deep.
Snow, rain, wind, beauty
swirled her round and fell
from her slopes in glitter-jets
and flocky-flecks and cloudy bunches,
fell to our listening hearts
yearning in the darkness.
And my tears fell as I heard her,
tasted her in this present sacred singing moment
while she spun her tales right down the rails
and into our true heart amber and yearning
and I recalled the Sanctuary she built for me
from her pain and need and naked suffering trust
that temple of holy hurt that I dwelt in, grieving
mourning the coming loss of love and sweet devotion
I dared not leave that place then
I did not want to leave this place now
but she reeled them off and some brand new
and rose from that folding chair grander
than any sovereign throne fashioned
from naked blades or fragrant petal
RedRedRedRedRedRedRedRed
And like a mountain
just up and walking off
she strode, spare glorious
slopes cloaked in snow
and feet clothed in rain
and wreathed in wet and
the blossoms of many trees
Walk On Daffodils
I can walk on daffodils
barefoot, light and free from ill
See, I have feet, light, beautiful
feet that walk on top of things
and yet so sturdy under me,
feet that will not crush flowers
yet will trod on serpent’s head
impervious to fang and tooth
impervious to words and hate
feet stained carmine with grape blood
but never wrath, never that
cus I just walk on daffodils
and tread the yellow golden road
Blessed Meek
Hemingway said that one should write
hard and clear about what hurts
but what if what hurts isn’t that
which stony lays heavy and dark?
what if tend’rest touch and rest
is what hurts deepest, what hurts best?
intimate soft whispers, silk
and lacy heart of cream and crunch
quiet whispers over head
of breeze on branch, what brutal punch
is gentle beauty, soft and blurred
by grateful tears, my precious pearls
slipped down my velvet slick white cheek
I write for all we…blessed meek.
I Burn So Free
Unmoored in the white expanse
chained by air and frozen flats
white as far as eye can see
and just one speck revealed there…me
red on white, no blue in sight
carmine bold against the night
a blood smear there upon that face
so cold, so neutral…blooming grace
I burn there in this gelid place
and nothing here to burn but ice
that smothers every spark and glow
and so I turn my heat high…slow
and steady, burning every flake
and fleck of frozen haughty glance
I use as fuel your silences
and melt the emptiness of chance
that random stark coincidence
of when you turn and look my way
but lend me not even a branch
to burn, just more cold arctic grey
It matters not, I burn my me
I choose to be a fire hot
and brighter than the silent white
I burn the ice…I burn so free
This Morning’s Purple Fog
this morning’s purple fog
slapped my cheeks hard
when I left the house
they were rosy red and pink
but now?
deep purple–
bluish violet blush–
heliotrope-tinged–
by the purple fog.
it shocked me
with its iridescence
and made me
bite my lip to stifle
exclamation, exhalation
of purple mist breathed in
thru my clenched teeth
and open heart.
and now?
with my mouth so bloody
so torn and pierced,
I seek to write and lips
my pen and paper yes,
I write with
my bloody lips
and scribe with
my bloody mouth
as the bloody breath
of the winter-sotted earth
rises from those
spring-dreaming dirt clotted lungs
and slaps
my cheeks hard…again
with this morning’s purple fog.
Letting Go Today
I’m letting you go now, even though
you don’t want to be let go…
See, the problem for me is that
I cannot live inside this status quo
not any longer…so I’m letting go.
I need someone who wants to talk
and giggle in the live-long night
and make hay while the day is light
and while away the time…
the time…
the time so fleeting
and wasted there on us
in heaping frivolous mounds.
I’m sad because so many asks lay dying
in inboxes and archives
and yet a scream of horror
or sadness or of sorrow
will bring a hurried call
today!! And not tomorrow…
and thus the status quo is kept,
our jailer, not our friend
and my heart languid bleeds red
out and fades away again.
I don’t know what a best friend
is supposed to do…
I only know what I do.
I’m sad and lonely
and letting go today.
Whether Cold Or Hot
when Truth a blanket insufficient is convicted
and self not be well covered over hands so cold
and madness gibbers in your shiv’ring teeth that chatter
and feet exposed to cold night air and bones that feel so old
I say it’s Self that must be altered!
For Truth it is the size that it must be
Seek not to grow the Truth, for it will alter not
But shrink your self to fit beneath…
whether cold or hot.
My Warm Song Ever Out
Grey charcoaly puffs
hurry past my face,
red-rubbed raw
by the same dog-winds
that chase those whinny clouds
over head,
over mountains short,
steep and rocky rumbled
raised up stubborn
not a whit like
those poofy powder puffs
that drop down low and
poof
puff
phooph
over thistles, scrub, leaving
their rainy powder wet and steady
on the sharp and sternish moor.
I cannot tell which I’m like more:
the puffy mists hurried, harried
the stubborn hill ready-rough
the moor, thistle-bound and stark
I walk on, and breathe
the cold air in and blow
my warm song ever out.
Charissa's Grace Notes 
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