Tag Archives: connection

Amen To Wild Days

The recording she sent me, of our old stories of private gods and our valorous children,
has the cold wind of roaring February blowing her straight brown hair and her soft and
gossamer voice.
She sits in the field, our once mighty and eternal kingdom that has faded now, just a field,
as we have grown up, and the tales just slip away forever, you cannot hold them close,
cannot remain that child, even if you never grow up.
My tattering and navy blue hoodie, the one I gave her when I left for the war, from
Weeki Wachee springs, our last childhood adventure, all of sixteen, all out of grace,
the summer when mermaids were taking us down.
She wears it, and her t-shirt of the painting of Diane the Huntress, and blue jeans and
black boots, steel toed for her job, as she sits with our leather bound book of tales,
our own private holy writ of gods now lost.
Her soft, dark eyes cast down, light brown hair blowing over her face, the wind the edge
of tears in her voice as it swirls it up and whips the gossamer like spider webs in the gale,
ripping apart to send to the ancient kingdoms.
I watch this, laying down in my bunk, on my aging smartphone, still good enough for us,
and the working she is sending, of the brave monarchs we once were, the gods who adored us,
and the children we made out of dreams and voices.
I am away at the war, and her, with her mental illness, stayed behind, and she sends her magic,
her voice, our dreams, to me to protect me and anoint me and keep me safe, from friend and enemy,
and The Red Dragons that eats up children’s hearts.
Reaching the end, she closes the book, closes her eyes, says sacred words I cannot hear or pronounce,
and then looks into her little camera as if to look me in the eye, and smiles, beautiful and sad,
then says there will be another child coming from as last night together, this one in the usual way.
She turns off the camera, I turn off the video, and sit in the dark, the stars in the barracks window,
the stars all secret gods and valorous children that has been lost but still light the night and the dark,
and ours watch over us even know, in the war that will be The Red Dragon’s finally victory.
Amen to mad days, and the ones left behind. Amen to brave tales, and our loss that makes us sweet.
Amen to her, and what might yet be.

Advertisements

Weight Reassuring

November.
Long Vespa ride,
Mountain tourist town.
Her weight, soft parka, hands around me.
Calming in the cold. In the grey morning.
The wind is a hissing whisper.
Still people around.
Changing leaves. Christmas time.
Red and yellow leaves so bright.
A little boy smiles at her.
Shyly hides behind his mother’s leg.
We go in the aquarium.
Dim and blue, the water of the womb.
Womb of the ocean we were born in.
Womb of the fang, hunger and light.
We hold hands. Weight reassuring.
Mermaid swimmers at noon.
We sit close. She is momentarily childlike.
Just happy in innocent fun. Wide eyed.
The mermaids have bright tails that sparkle.
The mermaids blow kisses in heart shaped bubbles.
Ice cream after in the food court.
A chocolate cone. Her favorite treat.
We talk of being between two worlds.
Water and land. Love and fear. Heaven and earth.
She says her wings are growing back.
We avoid lotuses. Some much day left.
We must be awake while the sun sleeps.
We must be awake, in the fires to come.
She is holding on as we ride through scarred trees.
The hissing whisper has become a robin’s song.

 

A Place of Dark Magic

November.

Hair blue as her eyes.

Weight of her.

Soft, fluffy parka.

Vespa ride to the park.

Skeletal trees.

Cold, clear creek.

Roar on the overpass.

We smoke cigarettes.

We drink wine.

She shivers.

She pulls her jacket tight.

Night is falling. Stars come.

Wine is poor man’s infatuation.

Cigarettes are bitter almonds.

We sit in swings.

We talk of paradise.

I miss the weight of her.

I wish we could ride to paradise.

Or a place of dark magic.

I drop her off.

We hug. We shiver. We hope.

November may stay this year.

Hope a pimped out whore.

Hope may beat it all yet.

 

Teal II

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.

Will We Go Together To The Sea?

In the mountains, by the Alleghany River,
we hang out in a bare white room,
listening to chirpy pop music,
talking about God a mile a minute.
Your hair is pink again, and you
wear that ragged army jacket
your dad wore when he was in,
torn jeans, worn down Chuck Taylors.
God, something more, escape,
all the scattered broken glass thoughts
tossed out onto the floor helter-skelter,
making pretty colors for a moment.
I smoke another ciggie, try and keep up
and add my own colors and shards,
though I should just let you talk,
have the floor, and just follow you down.
We go outside this tired and weighed
down house that slumps it’s shoulders
and sighs with the excess of the wet winter
and misty morning, never ending rain.
You put you head on my shoulder.
Impulsively, I kiss your bright hair.
I think you smile. You don’t pull away.
You take my hand in yours.
The river down below, you say,
is like us inĀ  time, just flowing on,
until the end, death, the sea,
where we are all together in heaven.
We are quiet then, and still, and the
come down is sweet and warm
in our sleepless eyes and thrumming hearts.
I want to travel with you, down to the sea.

Harsh With Peppermints

Her breath was hot and wet,
Harsh with peppermint.

Her hair fell loose, veiled our faces,
As the stars sighed and were spent.

July 6th, but still fireworks explode,
Low rent razzle dazzle in the night.

She is thin, small chested, taut wire,
And a new Athena now in my sight.

This is life wanting to plant seeds of death,
To make and nurture an inevitable loss.

I am a pilgrim of pleasure, devoted to her,
Ignoring the light reflected in her gold cross.

Her hand is sweaty, moist, in my own.
She hums a love song as we walk up stairs.

On her thin, hard bed we quietly make love.
Passions, like angels, are made to be pairs.