Monthly Archives: February 2017

A Fleshly Sun

To All Wishes Spent

Mermaids know freedom, deep in dreaming waters.

Know a secret star, a childlike god, for their children.

In the sea that fills the stars with desire and lust,

and a touch of grace in the things so distant

A song that sweetens the desire to leave for the sky

and wash away the face we are bound to in a home harbor.

Out of the corner of our hearts they slip into dark depths

and cannot be touched or captured or brought to the sun.

Without form, without birth, without the bones tied to death,

hearts full of wine and silver threads counting down to dawn.

I can see her swimming somewhere past the bow, as stars weep,

and a memory goes from bleeding to only shedding gold on my palm.

Mermaids know freedom, and I know loss and shame and regret,

chasing after those mermaids, to the end of my days, to all wishes spent.

I Knew The Virgin When She Was King

The naked dancing girl,

as I drink away my lost days,

as I watch her smile and flirt,

as I slip into a waking, deathlike sleep.

I still see her in my dreams, The Virgin,

the one that led us to war, to victory,

to a return to the sun, before the darkness

tried to blot out that sun with treachery.

She is still young and slight, light of angels,

light of my most distant and sacred heart,

light of my homeland, light of God, His Child,

she’ll turn to me and smile, a sad look in her eye.

I remember her on her milk white steed, The Banner

flowing in the winds, her hair beneath mail and helmet,

golden and as light as the sun, wings invisible but shining,

a small girl who was the Hand of God, tender and crushing.

I remember her, praying over me, near death, bleeding out,

and I remember The Light and The Voice and The Kingdom,

and I remember waking, with her hand holding mine,

tears in her eyes, saying she brought me back, for I was needed.

I remember The Virgin when She was King.

And snares laid by serpents, vipers on two legs, venomous bastards,

could not corrupt her or her spirit, her pure and innocent valor,

the words of brilliance she spoke, her faith in what He had for her.

They cut her down, but she escaped them to touch the sky.

And the kingdom restored, I drift to what I was before her,

crude and proud and given to vices of desire and dreams,

The dancing girls and whores and all the drink that will numb

the pain of having seen an angel and having lost her to corruption.

On the pyre she was burned, and her ashes raised up to the sky,

and she was taken to heaven in the flames that poisoned the air,

and the ashes spread to the world and the seas, and we all knew,

knew of The Virgin, who was relentless and kind and holy above us.

The dancing girl, with her warm and supple flesh, smiles for me,

and the beer only feeds my lust and melancholy, my lost heart,

my broken soul that lost it’s light when she was taken back by Him,

and I want to love this dancing girl, to know debased regret and pleasure.

I ask her to dangle her hair over my face, to feel her silken strands over me,

to look up and only see her face, the broken and betraying world shut out,

leaving only the dancing girl’s face and her smile, a minor sun, a moon reflecting

the light of The Virgin, that was the sun, that was the light, that has passed from me.

I knew The Virgin when She was King.

“That Sweet By and By”

A road trip, open highway, plenty of time to talk. We say nothing.

A religious station, an old hymn, a woman’s voice offered up in praise.

“That sweet by and by.”

 

There is the expanse of creation between us. Once, we were one.

Words are fluttering and empty. Once they called down God himself.

They once brought us together.

 

The sun is a golden halo in bright and shimmering clouds. Like heaven.

Promise of place beyond silence and distance, and loss in close quarters.

Promise of a return of once was close and effortless.

 

“That sweet by and by.”

Song Uncoil

It’s so loud on the street, It’s so bright in the lights of the night.

The traffic and the crowd and construction and the flashing lights.

You sit by the door of the Chinese Restaurant curled in a ball,

Your head wrapped in your arms, as you breath fast and shallow.

 

I kneel before your, put my hands on your arms, and sing to you,

That soft song of your angel crush, to call you back from this pain,

From this crushing noise and overload and the roar of this world.

I sing that song, and your breathing slows, and you start to uncoil.

 

And you look up at me, eye to eye, your own eyes wet with tears.

I smile, and meet your gaze, and keep singing, and then you smile.

You smile and I pull you into my arms. We walk on down the street,

Your head buried in my side, and I sing, keeping this demon world away.

A Soldier On Leave

A tulip, red and white, like your flag, your home.

I pin it carefully to your well worn jacket, as if

Pinning a medal on a heroic soldier who showed

Such great valor and bravery. You did, in a different

Kind of battle, a different kind of war.

 

You kiss my cheek, and curl your fingers in my hair.

An armistice has been reached, and tonight, right now

The cannons of demons, the mines of intrusive thoughts,

the napalm raids compulsion and vicious thoughts,

are stilled, and you are just a young woman, in love.

 

We walk hand in hand under garish neon, rich smells

Of food stalls, the loud noises of traffic and music,

And the rumble of commuter trains, just enjoying

This each other’s company, a soldier on leave

That the meds and love can only keep you for so long.

 

The war never ends. It all fades for a few moments.

A few days, a night or two. The war goes on and on.

But you fight on, and I hold you near and wash the blood

Of your broken thoughts with my tears, and soothe with

The softest of kisses, until you can return on leave again.

Score The Moon

The rust colored hair, like hazy and softcore photos of an aging glamour.

The freckles where all the angels kissed her as she slept, especially after it all.

Fast company but fun at the picture show, silliness we no longer value but do love.

 

Pacific Coast Highway it all went to black, and the driver watched the stars, bleeding.

No glass coffins but the camera’s lens, that keeps the beauty and blood as it ages.

It all burns brightly, wherever she’s gone, whatever reward she received by the sea.

 

Compiled and collected, two dimensions are the best hauntings for ghosts and past days.

The fire passes on no matter how we light the stars or score the moon or seek a better lust.

The Pacific remembers, and loss before birth still steals kisses that angels had set aside.

A Change of Season

Mussy, short cut hair, and those bright blue eyes.

               Too large flannel, long sleeved shirt, dark colored tee.

               Fading denim jeans, and worn out Converse high tops.

               First of autumn, evening coming crisp as dry, dead leaves.

 

               My palms are sweaty, and I’m hot despite the cool air.

               The stars starting to bejewel the blood velvet of sunset.

               You smile, but don’t look at me, as I try to gather my nerve.

               My hands tremble, and the damp smell of leaves is sweet.

 

               I take your hand in mine, and squeeze. You sigh, turn to me.

               We face each other, eyes bright and clear and as open as the sky.

               I stroke your cheek, and you close your eyes, lean into my fingers.

               Leaves fall and the trees die back, but life is ever bright and warm.

 

               Unsure, I lean forward, our lips touching, and you kiss me back.

               My hand on your cheek, your fingers stroking my curly, wild hair.

               I am warm like I swallowed the sun, wrapped in eternal, divine light.

               The season has changed, light in the dark, as we walk hand in hand.

Shared

Shared

 

               This was a secret world, among the thick green and tall grass, a lush little grotto by the clear, silver creek. The sounds of the highway and the shouts and noise of the people in the town did not come here. It was a shard of Eden.

               Gabriella was leading me by the hand. That hand was small and warm, and felt so light and strong in my own. We did not talk, as this was sacred.

               The branches and leaves of the trees hid even the twilight sky, though honeyed gold lit us in robes of flames. She pulled her hand away and faced me. She smiled, then placed her hands on my shoulders, signaling me to kneel in the dirt.

               I did.

               Her smile grew brighter, and she did the same.

               Her fingers brushed my cheek, and she looked me in the eye, locking me in her light, which was grey like starlight, and as ancient. Her eyes were the color of the water that was the only sound, deep and resonate and without blemish.

               She kissed me, softly, tenderly. Her fingers curled into my hair.

               A light began to emminate from inside her chest, crimson and pulsating and rich, the color of blood and life and birth. She put her fingers into that light, and pulled her chest open.

               The ball of crimson light came out in her hands. Our sacred place was like an unshed womb, dark with nuturing flesh.

               On her face was a shy and intimate smile, the light in her hand she was handing to me, to my hands that waited and trembled, in this most intimate moment, our most delicate bonding.

               She was handing me her soul.

               I held it, and it was heat that did not burn, a dream that did not wake, a wound that was cut and healed at birth.

               I felt the light of her, the essence that had drawn me to her, helpless against her wonder, was in my hands.

               We were one, this angel and me.

               And I felt all the sweetness of my life return, untarnished by loss and the fall from grace, I felt the times the light of heaven had poured through me like the river crashing in white capped power down the mountain, washing away all else in it’s past.

               If I had been unworth, we both would have burned away.

               And in that fleeting eternity, that sweetness of her glory, she knew all there was in me, and all I could be, that I would be, for her, for us.

               And I returned her soul to her , and slipped back into her silk and soft flesh that closed around it, and sealed in the light.

               She looked like a young woman again, hiding her power and beauty.

               Again, she reached out and touched my face, stroking my cheek.

               Again, she gave me a soft, tender kiss.

               The tears wracked me then, unable to absorb all that had happened, that we had shared.

               She drew me in her arms and kissed my head, sang me a song from some happy land.

               I cried, then slept in her arms.

Bright Colors

They want you in black and ashen finery, the harsh angel.

               I prefer you in bright colors, the girl next door, an autumn day.

               The pictures of you laughing as the leaves fall around you,

               And you seem joyous and full of warmth the sun is putting away.

 

               All the pictures in a folder, the autumn dreamer, the summer lover,

               The winter sweetheart, the springtime saint, all the brightness freely given.

               Unlike the faces you procure to perform and cut throats and rule in movies.

               Unlike the reaper of blood and damnation the other so fervently adore.

 

               A dream, unmade in its casting, the tenderness that is a shard in my heart.

               You and me and a happy world, silly movies and domestic happiness

               And soft and mischievous love making, and talks into the night,

               Sad songs and cuddling and so many bottles of red wine.

 

               I don’t want the demoness. I want the girl.

               But neither is real. All our faces are dreams.

               All eyes see are mirages and not the sainted sun.