If ever I loved a woman pure and true,
if ever I gave my best, it was to you.
If ever I chose to be angel, holy and brave,
it was for you, only you, as I knelt in the knave.
Train ride on a rainy night, I got left behind.
It’s still raw, the memory of you in my mind.
It’s not gone well since you left for Lincoln.
I fight all these demons, turn to often to drinking.
The city I’ve always known, seems dirty and small.
I can’t find my voice, knowing you won’t answer the call.
I cherish you, the tender wound in my heart,
for it’s still the best of me, loving you, an innocent art.
You’ve done well, and I slip into the same routine.
We were close on a place high up and inbetween
the summers of a small hope, and summer of loss.
I still carry you in me, hoping our paths will again cross.
The train comes to the station, I walk home in the rain,
I never made it to Domremy or the warm coast of Spain.
I try and fight on, like you always believed I was able.
I try and fight on, despite thee empty chair at my table.
She’s a surfer girl, and she’s been out all day
in the golden Hawaiian sun, a goddess,
a vision in distant blue waters.
I come now, end of my shift, as the sun
goes low, already drinking a magnum
of red wine
as she sits out there, in the velvet light,
sitting on her surfboard, looking out
into the sea.
One last wave, as she turns away from
the horizon and it’s secrets, madness
and glides, one with the water.
She comes to shore, and I offer the bottle
as she sits down next to me, takes a swig,
still looks out into that dark ocean.
“What do you see?” I ask, taking the bottle.
“The God That Made The World.” She says,
“But The Devil is coming very near.”
She sighs, takes the bottle and a swig,
gives my shoulders a squeeze, than leaves
with the bottle and any hope for tomorrow.
The war was over. The war was coming.
The war was eternal.
We had but a moment to catch our breaths.
Me and her, on the back of an old Honda,
riding to the lush trees, high mountains,
and first snows of a just begun winter.
The air cold and sharp, burning our lungs.
The sky grey as the eyes of a distant God.
The road open, deceptively endless.
In the distance, on the border, canon fire.
We could not escape the war, or loss, or death.
Just pretend for a moment, that all was beautiful.
The motorbike whined and I pulled the throttle.
She held on tight, and the blur was a mischievous dream.
Just pretending for a moment, that all was beautiful.
I saw her face through the crystal water,
the pool dark but the lights in the water,
and the moonlight through the skylight.
The water flickered and shifted, clear quiet,
as I looked up at her, chlorine stinging, tears
shifting angel face, pageboy and bangs.
The war was over, but another was coming,
always wars, rumor of wars, hunger for war,
the sacrifice poured out for our haughty masters.
She was distant; I could only see her face.
She was close; I could come up, kiss her lips.
She was a lover slipping away every night now.
I come above the water, and she smiles,
and she sits on the edge, her bare feet in the pool,
and I rub and kiss them, knowing worship ends in tears.
that shed mana for our untroubled dreams.
The silvery waves crash on the sand, still warm from the sun, still soft
from the moon.
A wind kisses our bare skin as we sleep on the edge of the jungle,
safe and assured of love.
I dream only of her, and this little place so sweet, children again
in our spirits, in our thoughts. Clean.
And, before the break of day, we’ll awake, go back to the sea
and ride the waves
and sink to beneath the rolling water, the reefs and the lost ships
and the sharp toothed mermaids.
At night, in a warm place, we have our home, and not even the sun
evaporates the mists of our dreams.
This I home.
I do not want to leave.
Don’t take me away.
She was barefoot and in a velvet dress,
and we left our footprints in the wet sand
as we walked down the beach.
She had kissed me once, years ago, here,
but that moment of affection was long gone,
and now she had the ways of death to teach.
The sea was dark and tempestuous, like her,
like the dreams of her I had every night, going under,
to the waters that birthed her from a spell.
The silver blade was in her hand, she cut my belly,
and ran her finger through the blood, took a taste,
and said: “As a boy, as a prince, as a slave, you did well.”
Call up sirens and spirits and things wild of another world,
and you cannot make yourself their master or lord.
They will wrap you in the silver bonds of cruelty, devotion.
And there is death in loss, and knowing nothing belongs to you.
She makes a cross on my forehead with my blood, the last binding.
She turns from me, back into the ocean, spent the last of the potion.
She pulls off the dress, free and not made by the god that made me,
and is free in nakedness and without shame, and down into the
slate and colorless waves she dives, leaving the best kind of death,
the little death of greed and emotion, of a paradise that tasted of
the iron tang of blood, and the aching loss in a poets selfish heart,
that makes cathedrals and sacred groves of a wild girl’s breath.
Ashes drift from the flames into the air.
I try to catch them, but they go through
my ghostly hands.
My words, my soul, my solace of speaking,
even only to myself in journals, so I could
put a name on this death.
Those sacred words, my holy writ,
scripture of the secret places in me,
are being destroyed.
I told of his hateful words, wild anger,
the fists that fell were others wouldn’t
see the bruises.
I am gone, and I am gone again, because
he doesn’t want to look bad. His good name
is worth more than my soul.
Ashes drift, his face Halloween orange, flickering.
Once I would have loved that. Found that beautiful.
I once found him beautiful.
My words, my sacred sorrows, the ink that drew not
blood when he drew mine, are gone, gone forever.
Sparks go through my ghostly hands.
Her hair dyed mint and teal, like summer.
A Holy Afternoon, she’s shelving books.
In pages I’m looking for God, Home and
a young woman named Alexandria.
That hair of hers, the color of a favorite toy,
a ’65 Mustang, I pretended to drive to LA.
What worlds does she know, what worlds shine,
in soft brown eyes, in the curated childhood chapel?
It might not be Pandemonium in me, not even a suburb,
just a lens that needs cleansed, and maybe we’d be infinite.
I make jokes checking out, and try to make them magic spells.
It never seems right to ask about a show down at the club.
But words I use to try and find the sky, and learn her truth,
and capture the light in these lines, that shine from soft, brown eyes.
A child, yes a child, a teenager, a young woman.
The war was turned, like a tide rolling out again,
pushed back by blood and light, unseen things.
No wedding day, the war had to turn, or all would
be subsumed and lost, but centuries later, it all was.
Her banner led her grace, bravery, before the night.
The fires consumed her, but the unconsuming ones
never touched her, her ashes up to the sky, to heaven,
to the God who chose her for this, formed her for this.
A child, a teenager, young women, heart unburned,
heart still pure despite the war, and everything else taken.
Whole and wet and ruddy, a relic when God was near.
Wide meadows by the forests and the silver, cold creeks.
Dreams beneath the sky as the lambs graze and gambol.
All was won, but all this time lost, but she is free forever.