Just One More Morningstar

Venus still shines bright as the dawn rises,

just one more Morningstar I don’t need now.

She is still in my head from closing time,

long pale red hair, crowning her sweet head.

Washing a beer glass with a rag, singing low,

a distracted beauty, as I left to face the night again.

Venus, shining bright, I have seemed to guide

the days of my life by her whims, reckless.

Morningstar told me it would bring freedom,

but it all just ended up ashes, maybe pretty words.

I think of that pale red hair, and her soft song,

and wonder if love can come from sentiment and lust.

Backyard of a friends modest little place, a fairie tree,

sitting in his little girl’s tree house, cursing Venus, but I followed.

Cursing Morningstar, but I followed him too, greedy for fix,

greedy for a touch, greedy for the fire that warms only once.

Try not to sleep again, make the day something, something good.

Dream of that pale red hair, but maybe sentiment and lust only fail.

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For The Sky, For Love

The lights of the glass mansion shine in this September night,

a distant star, a tiny sun, a light of another life, not ours.

She in her red party dress. stockings, high heels off, running

her feet over the water of the darkened pool, singing a sad song.

Me in now untucked shirt, jacket and slacks, black socks,

glass of champagne, watching her, as if she were a fey come above.

The lightning bugs are long gone, and there’s quiet here, but for the hungry

insects and humming stars, and the peaceful fury of our wild hopes.

She is a child of the water, but the wormwood of this pool, or stinging

regrets that have made there home in it, but it’s all we have tonight.

I am a child of the air, of the warm autumn winds and winter gales,

one or the other, blink of an eye from September to February.

We walk hand in hand to the river, crystal and cold, and pure because

it’s teeth eat our blood and anything unguarded.

We strip naked and walk in, crying out with the chill, and the stars

are all the light of our cracked spirits, as we touch, we kiss.

Beneath the water, dark and velvet blue, one in the dark, in the silence,

coming up in an embrace, those stars in her eyelashes showing His Blessing.

We float, side by side, naked and shivering, watching the night sky above,

knowing we’ll be back her again, after the universe spins back to us.

She sings that song, that still prayer of yearning, for the sky, for love,

for a moment’s peace as The Devil makes dissonant all thoughts of tenderness.

And for a moment, our wild hopes are pure, and the hungry insects are full,

and the stars are enough, to light our way back to Eden, to each other.


Angels Who Weep Still

Caroline walks in the cemetery, end of summer,

end of the day, wandering among regal tombs

and the black stained angels who weep still.

The falling night is still warm, air radiating

with the leftovers of the sunlight, and the

sunset haloes those mournful angels.

They say ghosts are here, and maybe

they are, maybe demons too, and those

that call upon them in the dark.

And, in the wind, wind with a chill

under the warmth, of the failing light

and bitter nights yet to come……

Caroline.”

She hears her name, feels something

cool coiling around the ache in her heart,

the ache that brought her here to be alone.

“Caroline.”

She stops, unsure. Looks back behind her,

wondering if a demon is claiming, or

a weeping angel is calling her back home.

She walks again, thinks again of the name

she curses, and then looks up at the starlight

starting to peak through the leaves of gnarled trees.

Maybe an angel is calling her home, it’s tears for her this time……….

Lingers

LA, sun is bright, but it’s cold.

I walk, caught in a dream, her.

A face kept forever, before my

world came to be, she was lost.

Somewhere a ghost remembers,

and the airman came home again.

Ritzy hotel selling a promise, a smile.

That wound makes a demon come.

A young woman, sitting on school steps,

that I stand before, smoking fumes of ghosts.

No one’s face reveals the days end.

Half torn and mocked in a blasphemous pose.

A fancy hotel, the night come, things go on

and they stand still, and hum like power lines,

the juice to memory and vengeance and loss,

to the bright stars that we make of the dead.

The streets are just a moment, changing,

but we’re still the demons and the angels,

the sharpened knife, to too desperate kisses,

and the hope that damns us time and again.

All To Loss

I see her, out in the water, the distant face
and long black hair of the mermaid.

She watches me, wary and curious,
not sure, and not coming closer.

Our eyes lock, and I smile for her,
but hers in return is ghostly.

Then she flips her tail, swims away,
back into the depths that are no shelter.

Our world makes it all go dark, all to loss,
and nothing will remain from our greed.

Her eyes, ice white and sharp, stay in my
mind, as the day begins, humanity marching on.

An Adored Man

Bathtub, to recreate the suicide, the drowning,

of the tossed aside lover, driven mad an adored man.

She floats in cold waters, eyes distant and starless,

as he paints the vision in his head, a beautiful death.

She is driven mad by an adored man.

Winter snow falls, sooty and ugly London,

the snow unable to make the city beautiful.

She floats in the water, in grand emerald gown.

He cannot be made beautiful, no matter his visions.

She is driven away by an adored man.

The night falls, and she changes, feeling his eyes.

He can make her seem angel with a crown of crimson.

He can make her a miracle, but he cannot shine a warmth

of love or light on her muses’ skin, cannot see her face

She is driven to despair by an adored man.


Sound and Thunder

Caroline lays upon the couch, eyes closed,

the wall of warm noise in her headphones.

It’s night, and the stars and the city shines.

Alone, the music embraces, soothes, quiets her.

Overlapping guitars and that angel voice,

that mournful woman, haunted and holy.

A cocoon of sound and thunder, the words

half heard and wholly felt, taking her to the sky.

The night is warm, her heart is full of love,

and she dreams again, for the first time in so long.

That mournful woman, calling back something lost,

but maybe in calling it back, it can be made whole again.

Maybe Caroline can be whole again.

The Great, Grey Sea

She’s asleep in the back seat, at peace it seems.
Maybe she’s having sweet and beautiful dreams.

A soft love song plays on the radio, soothing me.
I’m not stopping this care until we make it to the sea.

The stars are more than I’ve ever seen, angels at rest.
We’re leaving home, those bastards, devils of the west.

 

I glance back in the rearview mirror, at her sweet face.
A cottage on a barrier island, that is just the right place.

I don’t want we’re running into, but know what from.
A tarnished wedding band, and a piece of land, got the sum.

She’s sleeping without the demon, for the first time tonight.
We’re hounded by things both within and beyond our sight.

 

A love song can put magic spells to the madness you feel.
Make it a solid thing, a thing you can believe is real.

The road’s wide open before us, and hope, if nothing for sure.
Love and hope, a place to be still, that is the angels sacred cure.

The sea changes and is still the same, like her, like her wild heart.
She will be scarred forever, but we have a chance at a new start.

 

Sleep and dream, my love, we’ll be free in the morning.

Christmas Eve

The snow is coming in the bitter night,
and all the hushed candles and candy lights
and cheery hymns can’t chase The Devil out of my bones.

At the crucifixion, when Jesus was taken down,
Mary Magdalene washed the blood from Jesus’
swollen face, tenderly, maternally.

They did not let me wash my son’s face,
or anoint him in oil, or wrap him in a white
and pure burial shroud.

At the tomb, Mary Magdalene saw the stone
rolled back, and an angel, bright as the noonday sun,
telling her he is not here.

The room is empty of him, just a dull, low whine
and all the knick-knacks that don’t add up to a person,
and no son of light is telling me he’s come again.

Jesus touched Mary Magdalene’s face, wiped her tears
away and told her to tell the others, tell the world, He
was risen, he was coming again.

Sitting on his bed, too tired and worn out to weep,
there is nothing to touch, and he was not condemned
but by his own heart, his own mind, his own dreams.

He will not be back again.

A Memory On A Pink Morning

The highway above the city, too near the sky,

and angel or a demon came near, touched my face,

emissary of an unknowable God.

A cool summer, cannon fire on the border,

drones watching and reading faces, tea leaves,

this emissary came close, alkaline taste on my eyes.

Stars distant but still my home, light and fire cutting

the words of a God who will not speak for himself

on my skin, scars are the truest holy writ.

And I lie afterwards, looking up at the starry sky

that is giving way to pink morning, like revelation

gives way to punching a clock and perfunctory kisses.

The thing, good or evil or just a girl, came to me

and visions more felt than known lingers, like the

warmth of it touching my face, a memory on a pink morning.