Tag Archives: death

Rocinante’s Secrets

The worn grips where I held you tightly,
through foul winds or gentle breezes;
the subtle change in color there, pleases –
where hills become valleys resting in those old wraps.

Every scratch, no matter the size,
when I carried you impatiently from place to place,
or tangled with you imperfectly at my own disgrace,
are hints at the strength beneath your skin.

The dirt that hides in strange corners,
the oil, the grease, the wires, the gears,
sometimes too much, or too little are my fears,
that the care I can give you is not enough.

The way the two of us consort,
inspiring the earth to move, the wind to blow,
and in that ambiance becoming only the now I know;
free, finally, from times attempt to capture me –

Soft words whispered to eyes keen enough to listen.

Guest of Honor

It stands against a marathon of sand
creosote winds playing the air in scented ribbons.
The way it feels;
                  the way it is –
        quilted together like conflicting fabrics.

Too great a thing to be disregarded,
too great a thing to accept.

Sanity keeps it always obscured,
                              out of focus;
the malignant veil a mere lifetime away,
too close for comfort.

The Rope Dancer

The world, a hollow husk on strings,
begs for the vitality it once entrusted.
Countless efforts shine like stars in the night,
while the sun silently hides, claiming to be a star itself.
Be not silent in that darkness, but,
loud enough to fill that space,
to name it – or at least replace it with dreams.

When you wake, wake with open eyes ready.
The end, random probabilities,
radiant whispers in reality
bright enough to see, bright enough to pursue,
labor over and finally celebrate;
having met the source of the echo you once were.

Those sounds we make resonate.
All want a voice that enjoys being heard,
climbing over them in toccata only welcomes discord.
Listen long enough to find the harmony,
make music you can be proud of,
songs that will be heard long after you’ve gone quiet.

Sympathy for Deceit

We know only fantasy,
lies we’ve carried throughout history,
on backs, on packs, on animals and carriages,
on everything we could put our name to,
because those are lies too –

A sound was uttered without intent,
echoed, and intent was gifted.
A place was found to celebrate,
loved so much it became known,
shared, and then claimed, owned.

This is how the story goes,
on and on with momentum.
What we owned owning us,
assigned value, printed on paper,
that we depend on –
to be worth more than ourselves.

Still, all these feints in chorus,
compose a symphony of notes
someone told us were chords;
love, heroism, virtue, justice;
a life fulfilled, a place to be,
a heart, a time or feeling for which we long.

Honesty in this late stage,
is a cruelty, not a kindness.
All those colorful fables,
that line our hearts and minds with aspirations,
if critiqued, practically and with reason,
are suddenly
and dispassionately
gone.

Hotel Room

An itinerary:
The room empty but echoes
of a voice miles away;
playful with so much space.

A single timid light,
huddled in the shadows,
anxious and dim company,
leaving the room its secrets.

A laugh shared,
some flint and steel,
to ignite the cold fire,
that distance put to embers.

A foreign bed,
eager to be what it is,
but, so often,
too much of what it is not.

There is no knock.

In silence a figure enters,
with confident strides,
and a club in hand,
they cross the sea of darkness,
from the door to the bed.

They beat the man to death,
in but three strikes,
erasing all the moments past,
and all those to come.

There was no fight,
absurdity is its own concussion,
only some bewildered protests,
labored breathing.

On the other end of the phone,
who knows how far away,
a voice asks questions:

“What’s going on,”
“are you alright,”
“can you hear me?”
The things you ask,
when you already know the answer.

For a long time,
they keep asking.
Absurdity is its own concussion.

The Great Escape

Long tendrils languishing in fire
the coarse wind set against us, excites;
in concert, we begin to gossip and conspire.

Would it be best we act at night,
when eyes refuse to see such subtleties,
beneath the somber tones of the moon’s pale light?

Or would the day be enough to appease?
The brighter things keeping errant minds entertained,
just as flowers incite the lust of bees.

Perhaps the twilight hides our greatest gain,
the way it moves, like slurred speech,
what we do then, might seem less insane.

Or, is it that in this, no peace can be beseeched?
whenever, however, we choose to retire-
it is a bitter end we reach.

The Race

To frame a scene you need time,
the theft of which is a crime
for hours are not ours to give;
we live in this paradigm.

We capture all that we can,
like amateur shaky cam,
hoping to fix it in post-
at least for most that’s the plan.

We are not photographers,
nor are we biographers,
we don’t have that kind of view;
closer to cryptographers.

Drowning in information,
searching for causation,
to create more chaos,
or a cross of damnation.

It isn’t until we’re done,
that we can learn the lesson;
leisure is the right response,
but everyone wants to run.

Just a Chair

Bobby climbed the stairs to look for a chair,
to discover the places where gifts hide,
tall realms where secrets quietly reside.
Mother would caution, “Look not there, beware.”

Bobby’s father, his mother had declared,
carried the chair to the attics embrace,
the darkest nook of the old house’s space.
Sister would oft’ warn, “Look not there, beware.

the bugs that settle there will breed nightmares,”
but Bobby, bold and defiant as can be
brushed off spiders, ants, and worms with no plea.
Though everyone warned, “Look not there, beware,”

Bobby’s daring heart refused to be impaired.
He opened the door with a hint of pride,
only half noticing what was inside,
part of him begging, “Look not there, beware.”

Not glancing up he claimed the lonesome chair,
grasping it by its sprawled and feeble legs,
and tugging it past the ones over head,
while still muttering, “Look not there, beware.”

The commotion startled his mother fair,
she rushed up the stairs towards the vexing sound,
and was devastated by what she found.
No one had warned her, “Look not there, beware.”

She screamed out in fear, grief and despair,
and grabbed Bobby’s face, veiling his young eyes.
stumbling through sobs and anguished cries,
pleading with Bobby, “Look not there, beware.”

Since that dreadful day Bobby only stares,
at his food, his hands, the water’s surface,
even at his father’s funeral service,
he just hushed softly, “Look not there, beware.”

Transcendence

Beautiful you,
    I love you, for

    all your finality, for
    your outrageous irony to the banal, for
    your desperate questions, for
    your sober answers, for
    not caring that we don’t hear them.

Beautiful you,
    the compass of those abandoned
    the comfort for all great burdens
    the compromise to every cost
    the combative reply to injustice
    the end of all roads and the igniter of passions.

Beautiful you,
    oft I yearn for you to ease yourself upon me
    take me in your arms and squeeze,
    like laughs upon a deep breath
    as eager for the contents as their release;
    but I will not plead, not again.

Beautiful you,
    be always out of reach
    the distant sun that has set
    the word bound in paradox
    heard but maligned and unspoken, until
    at last,
    I have earned you.