Tag Archives: death

Gentle Monster

The thunder of the music in her ears.

As it roars her head finally, finally clears.

She’s come so far. She’s come so far.

Still playing her favorite teal guitar.

Dark of the club, not even a light show.

If she were to cry, the cheering wouldn’t know.

No longer smoke filled places, like in her youth.

Even if he was here, they wouldn’t sneak a smoke on the roof.

The crashed car. The headlight pointing to the black air.

Crying, wiping the blood from his face with her long hair.

The black stained red, a veil that he passed through.

“Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me! Our world isn’t through!”

And the music is a lulling dragon whose fire is cool.

In it’s teeth the peace of her voice can finally rule.

His ashes and his grave spun into a melancholy thread.

If she still loves him, still feels him near, he isn’t dead.

And the ringing in her ears, the thumping in her breast,

this gentle monster still the exorcist that soothes the best.

And still her teal guitar, that she bought when he bought his own,

still bright in this dark place, still the devoted weight, tender millstone.

Advertisements

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……….

Embraced By The Sun

Over the Rockies from Denver, as winter came,
and the snow began to fall, wispy and delicate,
down to San Diego, to the sea she never saw.
She was a high school girl I loved so tenderly.
We’d talk between classes, at lunch, study hall.
Sometimes she’d hug me. Like being embraced by the sun.
All those years ago she was killed. I watch the light go out.
No reason at all, other than someone else was cruel.
They said God made her a martyr. It was a lie after the fact.
Still, the ache hurts and is sweet and is filled with venom.
The memories of her touch softly, and leave burns on me.
I promised I’d see the ocean she never saw, wanted so badly too.
I sit on the beach, morning cool, salty and harsh wind coming.
I see a girl there by the water, wrapped in a blanket, looking at sunrise.
I don’t know if it’s her, or my broken heart’s wish for a better world.

The Cross Stands As Winter Comes

Nicole: Who were you?

The name in pink on a

purple cross, on a lonely road,

out in the open fields and farms.

Young and dreamy, maybe distant

and angry, maybe on top of the world.

You were loved. You are missed.

The cross stands as winter comes.

The high school is nearby, did a boy

cry when he heard, heard his love was gone?

Does he dream of you at night, or remember

a first kissed shared under a starry sky?

So many crosses on so many roads,

so many endings in lonely places,

so many that can only remember now

those who were the world to them.

She Carries The Lamb To Heaven


The Summer After

The girl is lost, in the tawny wheat of the steppes,
in the cold waters of the river washing past,
in the ruins of the city and corpses their.

The girl is lost, and I am lost, the world burned.
We hold close in the empty field in the summer after,
holding on like drowning sailors to driftwood.

The games we played are echoes in dreams
and voices and laughter half-remembered,
a phantasm of something lost.

The first kiss as we swam in the cold river.
Chasing each other through the tall wheat.
Looking up and the endless stars.

The girl is lost, and I am lost, our world burned.
The cannons and gunfire is silent for now.
The city built again.

It is the summer after, and we hold close,
her head laying upon my shoulder as she sleeps,
and I look up at stars that have never seemed so distant.

Valentine’s Day

The sky is clear and starry. There is no moon. The street is sparse. A
man. A couple. A diner at a cafe. The air is crisp. I pull my jacket
tighter. I hear footsteps behind me.
I wish I had a cigarette. I quit. She made me quit. Helena. Red hair.
Smile. Hands soft as silk. I remember them on my face.
She had survived once. So many didn’t. A shooting at school. We
thought that was it. We were safe. Footsteps.
Helena. Unchanging. Beautiful. Seventeen forever. I wish I could see
her get old. Gray. Wrinkled.
I keep this day holy. I keep it pure. One year ago. Bleeding on the
resteraunt floor. Gunshots. Her tears. What was happening?
I pass a couple. They are laughing. I look away. Wouldn’t you? I
almost remember. Not quite. Just almost. A summer day. Hands soft as silk.
First kiss. A Promise.
Footsteps are closer.
End of the street. Couple go into a shop. Man is gone. Diner leaving.
I turn.
A man. Plain. Cold. No plumes of breath. He has a gun.
Silenced shots. I fall. The man walks away.
My turn. Now I’m gone.
Stars are bright. They are cold.
Will I see her now?

Eyes Upon His Wings

The Death Angel stands in repose, eyes upon his wings

blinking open and shut in fluttering waves;

lives going away, lives just coming in.

A bright spring day, almost warm, birds singing,

and the world’s coming alive again, green overcoming grey,

but you aren’t here with me, your favorite season.

Our daughter cries in my arms, hungry or tired, and I try to

soothe her, calm her, promise her the bottle of warm milk,

and a soft song to quiet her pain.

The Smoky Mountains are green and mist covered, still an emerald

against the sapphire crown of the sky, still were dreams, ancient and cool

call me, still were we felt so close to whatever is behind the sky.

Inside, feeding our daughter her warm milk, calming her and quieting her.

A pain overcome with a sweetness, round and round even at the start.

Sorrows come and sweetness washes through, and then washes out.

And that Death Angel’s eyes blink open and shut, lives coming, lives going,

and I still feel you near, and a soft warmth with the ache and loss,

and an eye opened with our daughter’s birth. May it be sweet before that eye

closes.

An Ocean Once, Long Ago, Now Almost Dry

A ghost in this worn hoodie, blue and deep,

               An ocean once, long ago, now almost dry,

               Like finally my eyes, that she is gone and lost.

 

               A scent, faint, of her sweet perfume, the funk

               Of her sweat, the smell I knew holding her close,

               That was sweet too, as was her washed, in bed.

 

               Still a pack of smokes in the pocket, not what did

               End up killing her, just bad luck, bad day, bad shit,

               And the cigarettes are stale, just rags of wasted death.

 

               I wear it in this cold season, walking home on dead

               Streets and boring stores and empty skies, keeping

               Her close, feeling her spirit in fabric soaked with her life.

 

               But it becomes me, sweating in winter, and my scents

               Chase hers away, and the cigarettes will eventually be

               Thrown out, and it will only be me, me chasing her out.

 

               Even ghosts are worn down by tides and seasons and life.            

The Song He Always Sang

It’s starting to get cool at night, the first of September.

               The stars look so magnificent now all cities are dark.

               Such lights and clouds and clusters of white in the black.

               The ashes of the fire rise on the flames to touch the sky.

 

               She lays in her sleeping bag, Army Surplus, once her dad’s.

               The flames are hot on her face, and soothing, and so kind.

               She does not want to go into the tent yet, wants to be here.

               Watching the flames, feeling the heat, as winter comes down.

 

               She tries to call that song he always sang for her as a little girl.

               Tries to call the sound of his voice, the scratch of beard on her cheek.

               The nauseating smell of his aftershave. The color of his eyes, exactly.

               The feel of his arms hugging her. The roughness of his hands.

 

               All shadows, half formed, flickers in the darkness of her memory.

               All the pictures burned when the city fell. Memory is fickle and fades.

               She can’t put together the summer afternoon that was perfect,

               When it was just her and her dad, picnicking on the open plains.

 

               She sighs, and gives up trying. She gets out of the sleeping bag

               And goes inside the tent, gets back in, and through the open

               Mesh of the tent roof, she looks at the stars, countless, infinite,

               Until she levitates into the sky, and is one with every miracle.