Guttural sounds
are lost then found
memory bound
as I recall
It once chided
now subsided
suicided
to bring my fall
Such need have I
for troubled cries
that I might die
should they be stalled
Or so was thought
but all for naught
the ending sought
could not be bought;
I am no thrall
Though the sounds end
I will not bend
before the wall.
What great purpose does our life give?
To but live.
Where is found nirvana’s likeness?
In kindness.
What value does life afford?
Its own reward.
When the whole world you’ve explored
the last of your pages now penned
there is left one truth in the end
To but live in kindness, its own reward.
Wind settles to rise again
Tacit words in the darkness of our mind
both maligned and constrained
What future would bear their weight?
Even the past refused the encumbrance
resigned to slumbrous fate
And thus the wind will collapse
as forgotten phrases from long ago
They flow, fall, then relapse
Yet still they both hide a storm
the scent of distant gray clouds in retreat
like peat the sun made warm
Regrets are the ghost of life
ever they rise again to haunt our thoughts
the mind caught amidst strife
We charge the mic with our song
but often old words hold new words captive
the active words made wrong
The melody thus silenced
we find solace in the moments between
a routine of violence
Witness the corpse of our muse
but bear in mind not all is truly lost
the cost of fear recused
But it will wake in the sea
the crashing waves of errant thoughts at night;
dying light sets them free.
It was so hard to love you
difficult – but no less true
not for our lack of trying
just crying and failed pursuits.
I adored what you should be
if you had ever been free
to choose us over the fight
for the right to always flee
You so loved being needed
until us tributes pleaded
for your need in return
a concern left unheeded
I sat for hours on the bank
a stowaway on the plank
hoping for your kind reprieve
left there to grieve as I sank
I imagined I could tell
that I knew your car so well
to identify the sound –
all I found were my dreams quelled
‘Twas never your car.
cold and alone with the stars
waiting for you to arrive
still alive – gathering scars
These days I’m a parent too
trying not to be like you –
I too feel the need to flee…
look at me – nothing is new.
We should go out
tonight
more often
we are
like songbirds on a wire
alone
waiting for the migrations
in each
strange cloud that drifts past the
other
There is something down there
hidden in the anxiety
I can feel it here
The vibrations crossing the distance
to shake hands
Introduced – we both scream
internally
reduced to sounds and knots
pregnant with them
but unable to birth them.
Hush now
Run
There wasn’t much to go on then
but I’m glad you were my friend
When I kept running
you kept up with me
you saved me.
You were music and love and humor
You were intrigue and guidance
You were the high-water mark
when it felt like I was drowning
There wasn’t much to go on then,
but for a while
we made our own paths together
and those paths exploded into new routes
had you not been there, mine may have ended.
You see
There wasn’t much to go on then
but there was you,
and for that
I would go through it all again.
Torn fabric
threads scattered to the wind
reaching out for others
finding
nothing.
but reaching
Reaching should be enough
to overcome deep cuts
but it’s not anymore.
Once we were confidently clothed,
but deep cuts make
torn
Fabric
and we are made naked and anxious
holding rags
acting like that’s going to
keep
us
together
A broken rock split by time // Aeons spent apart
The world moves on between them // smoothing out the flaws
Their soft round edges betray // hostile origins
Never to embrace again // but better for it
The hands reaching for places they should not
feeling what is well and the gaps between
while the gears stutter over echoed thoughts
drawing out the whirring sounds long and obscene
a betrayal of the bright golden sheen
and the expertly crafted mechanics;
a token of wit and genius pristine
with disjointed and broken organics.
They keep winding, but no one sets the time
Polish and shine but no one climbs inside
as if admitting damage is the crime
and thus the past is where the now resides,
the future an unspoken thing implied
while savage moments spin along unchecked
and give cause for our fictions to divide
until at last ourselves we will dissect.
Grow Gray With Me 