Monthly Archives: May 2019

The Wind Is Cold In April

The snow fell yesterday, the plain between the mountains soft and white.

The snow fell yesterday, but it was gone and all was green by the next light.

The blossoms of the mountain flowers would soon stand and sigh so kindly.

The blossoms of the mountain flowers would soothe those stuck down blindly.

 

The plain, open and waiting for the closing of the mountains, for spring flood.

The plain, open and waiting, the waters washing away the tears and the blood.

Mountain flowers will be picked so I can make a bright flower crown for her.

Mountain flowers will be picked so I can lay them on her grave, and to God defer.

 

The wind is cold in April, and it’s not warm until June, and I dream of her often.

The wind is cold in April, and memories and their aches will maybe one day soften.

We are high above the sea, and she said she walk into the water, become a mermaid.

We are high above the sea, I will hear her song past the breakers, this I have prayed.

The Styx Uncrossed

20 yrs on, then that was past too, the anniversary of the dead and lost.

Now it’s end of May, and I want you to not leave yet, the Styx uncrossed.

You will not cross the Styx if you stay by my side, keep you behind this door.

You will not be lost to me, I will not be alone, and I will have comfort for sure.

 

20 yrs on, but April becomes May, and the mountain flowers bloom again,

there blooms bobbing in the winds, like children in prayer during chaotic din.

The days go on and on, and I no longer dream of the endless Pacific opened up.

I drink hot, sugary coffee, and I keep an eye about, never throw away the paper cup.

 

20 yrs on, and I feel only safe when you’re here in my arms, in the closed bedroom

with the black out curtains over the windows, not making a sound, unfound by doom.

The mountains could swallow the sky tonight, and chew up every star in the firmament.

The bobbing blooms in prayer come morning, would just us afraid, just as impermanent.

All The Way To Colorado

I deliberately picked a woman narrator for my audiobook,

reading a love story, sentimental, that ends is death.

A woman’s voice, telling of affectation and grace between

a young couple. Telling of death from nature, not violence.

A woman, a sop to a lack of closeness, against the plain

and banal talk that makes up my day.

A woman, as a dream of love, as paranoia and useless words

keep me from ever come close to anyone.

 

I dream of leaving my own home, which has never suited me,

and finding more love stories ready by this tender voiced woman.

All the way to Colorado, to those tall and cold mountains, over the

plains listening to her tell of doomed love, and the grace that is given.

Young lovers who aren’t weighed by guilt or regret or the bitterness

I have let take over my heart, my mind, even my very deepest dreams.

I will find my heroine’s grave, if I can remember just a little of before,

when love was easy and freely given out, and I followed my heroine.

Carrie

I try not to think about her. The girl from high school.

A year older. A year wilder. A year of more guile.

Long auburn hair. Hippie chick scarves, long skirts.

And, of course, black Doc Marten boots.

 

I try not to think about her. The way are trailed after her.

The way I wanted to be anywhere she went. The ways she

could smile or twinkle those brown eyes to lead me to her.

The way she could flirt any favor or compliment out of me.

 

I try not to think about her now. The excessive generosity I

thought would make her fall for me, as if love could be bought.

I try not to think about how it felt so good, so warm and open,

when she would envelope me in her arms for a hug.

 

I try not to think of her large breasts, and fiery eyes,

and soft and warm skin, and round hips that I wanted

to find myself between, her legs locked around me,

two flesh made one soul, one light in the dark.

 

I try not to think of how much I adored her, and lamented

over her, and how the thought of her lifted me to the skies.

How filled with wonder and light where my dreams of us

together. How even the ache of it was so fucking sweet.

 

I try not to think of her, or how the last time I saw her,

she was disinterested, and I was worn out and fat now,

and the light was gone out of her, and it was also gone

out of me. She was an angel fallen to earth, just mortal.

 

I try not to think of her, and how I feel dislocated and

empty, like a sun bleached beer can in a roadside ditch;

used up and without meaning, but still there, still existing.

Reflecting the sun above, but with no face of my own, anymore.

5am Smoke

The waitress is on a smoke break. 5 am. I am sucking the dregs of my iced tea through the straw.

A song from my high school days plays. Lost of all context and meaning. Just noise now.

My favorite waitress is not here. I fancy she might love me. Anything to not think of death.

I see the waitress outside. She blows a cloud of smoke, and looks at the sky, full of awe.

Saturday

Early, and my thoughts are not soft on waking,
All the weight of anger and despair already
Here with me.

Maybe, I should stop at the park on Saturday morning,
Sit in the swings as the sun rises, take comfort from what
Seemed like a wonderous world.

I sit in the parking lot at work, listening to a sad song,
Love unrequited, and try to her tender voices call back
Even a sweet sadness.

Blackberry Winter

A blackberry winter, cool and mild in May.
She again wears her navy blue hoodie,
Soft and warm, soothing her troubled heart.

She remembers picking blackberries as a girl,
Her little fingers stained with the purple juice,
Her arms and wrists pinpricked from the thorns.

A blackberry winter, when she was sixteen, so cool
On May Day, her first kiss from a gentle boy, passionate
About what the world could yet be.

So much older, the coolness of a spring day, without
The sweet treats that drew blood, or the hope of the
Future or the touch of a kind lover.

A blackberry winter, her hoodie is soft, warm, soothing.
She hopes she’ll find wonder again from what’s left,
That she’ll find one worthy of letting touch her face

Domremy-La-Pucelle

Sleeping in the fields outside Domremy-La-Pucelle.

I watch the stars above, spin and dance, try to heal.

She walked here, long ago, in her girlhood prelude.

A faithful child, pious and bright; God, angels wooed.

 

The stars above, so ancient and faraway, still like then.

I look at the stars she saw, lay in her shepherdess glen.

I am still touched by her grace through time, in this place.

But I will never see her in her pride, never touch her face.

 

I am a broken pilgrim; can I be used, can I be strong, brave?

Will there be even one hurting soul that my love would save?

Am I good enough to be her admirer, to follow her ever higher?

Am I a good man, even if rough and hewn, like her man La Hire?

 

Ghosts haunt open fields, this town where she was born and grew.

Far away from this forests and friends was God waiting to take you.

I watch those stars who saw and looked after you, in that long past time.

Will I be a lost lamb you find in the night, as I call out with this tender rhyme?

 

 

Saint Rachel

She rode the second hand, silver and red BMX bike through the green and wooded park.

Stopping by a pawnshop, after walking and wandering, she bought with her little money.

She rode it, her wild and unkempt hair blowing in veils and blinds, until well after dark.

She hid among the trees, not a prophet or full of grace, earing locusts and the wild honey.

 

She felt she needed to stay close to the green and wild life, stay in this pocket of growing.

The trees and grass pruned and shaped, but still alive and still like the world she knew.

Deep and dark forests and wide open meadows, the winds the dandelions were sowing.

Swallowed up by God’s upon mouth, the clouds his verdant tongue in skies so very blue.

 

There was a Garden of Martyrs, and the Saint Rachel had her coat of arms born there.

She dreamed of Saint Rachel, now and again, but no longer held her hand, lost all faith.

Faith wasn’t the sanctuary she was promised, the friends not noble, so she fell to despair.

Saint Rachel was an icon in her wallet, no whispers came now, no touch, Holy Wraith.

 

Yet, as summer was well and truly arrived, she rode out into the dismal city, to fight.

Her battered and reliable bike, her heart of spells, her true voice thin as onion paper.

Saint Rachel wept in the garden, and Judas grew impatient for War, knuckles white.

She rode onto those streets, swarming locusts, abandoned honey, on a moral caper.

In Memphis, She Headed West

Not only is sex evil, but it’s gross.

She turned her head away from him,

blocked his mouth with the flat of her palm,

watched the city pass outside the bus window.

 

He turned from her, miffed and silent.

The body and all it’s working, it’s hungers,

and it’s frailty and disgusting detritus,

was only redeemed by soft, and simple touch.

 

She wanted to hold his hand, cuddle close,

lay her head upon his shoulder, maybe fall asleep

as the bus drove on through the night to Memphis.

Even the kisses he fished for had the taste of sickness.

 

She watched the world pass by, past Nashville, into the west,

and she knew in Memphis she’d he heading out alone to Denver.

He wanted what he wanted, and would take nothing less.

The revolted flesh overwritten by the perverse pleasures.

 

Just touch me, leave all the other to rest.

Touching, the weight of another in her arms.

None of the mixing, none of the risk of new life,

and all the damnation it brought upon an innocent thing.

 

In Memphis, he left her. In Memphis, she headed west.

God only touched another when touch was all there was.

Sex, the evil of debasement and cruelty and vice.

Sex, the original sin, the most despairing, the least despised.

 

Angel might now keep her company in her dreams……..