Poems from the Pit
By Kenneth Paul Jones
Copyright © 2011 Kenneth Paul Jones
Cover Art by Christine Croken
What follows extends either from my novel The Pit of Raeben: The Final Lie of Gelon or it does not… regardless, at some point I inflated its tires and wrote it all the way home.
All characters, places and events are fictional; regardless of alliteration, rhyme, lyrics, limericks, ballads, irony, satire… or how hard anyone else might also have been peddling.
Smashwords Edition
All Rights Reserved. No portion of this book may be duplicated without written permission.
Oh Angel Baby Will You Answer Me?
Wailing Graceful Grey Whales Graze
The Shedding of Supernatural Leaves
Amongst the Respite of Shadows
Breathing (An Exercise for the Soul)
The Wholly Unholy (at the Gates of Null and Void)
(Positively) Glowing in Cellophane
Sliver (The Plagiarism of Skin)
Part I
From the Pit...
Welcome to this pen in hand
where ink blots thoughts emerge to land
and metaphors may seek to find
a sanctuary phrased amongst like minds.
Welcome to this chance to gain
a retrospect not so insane;
a fleeting glimpse; small recognition:
this pen scribes skin with each page written.
Welcome to my solace― my doom
where crafted lines converge to swoon
or perhaps just hang in hollow halls
like petroglyphs on crumbling walls.
Welcome to an acrostic sea
of hopes to share a melody
though sometimes I confess to hide;
leave paper white and thoughts inside.
A finger traced the face of Earth
and moved an axis towards rebirth.
Waters fled to find their crowns
exposing lands in foliage gowns…
Sunlit airwaves warmed the base
of hemispheres in endless chase
while fertile oceans boasted wealths
of survival instincts born in stealth…
Then Man crawled forth to build his fence;
"To keep things out" was his pretense.
He designed more castles; higher walls
on paper dreams— with crayons tall.
If but one word of this tale is proved to be a lie then let me, Arbutae— the offshoot of both Gelon and Nyan, be cursed— including all seeds I might, in future, bear.
Let us grow in barren soils and upon rocky hilltops and let us hunger.
Let us grow twisted and gnarled; and never so straight as to allow our face to bathe in the quiet consoles of Sol.
Let our leaves wilt and shrivel, though still cling to us, so all may discern our squalor without ambiguity.
And even at that very moment when we would accept what meager shelter even those pitiful leaves might afford; let them crumble and diminish as if figments of ash— figments of our imagination.
Let our bark turn the very dimmest shade of blood.
Let it blister.
Let it peal from us— peal from us in endless mocking sheets of paper— curling and tearing with the weight and rust of their deception.
Hence if but one word leans aft of truth let the preceding depict my doom.
So has Arbutae written; and so let me wither.
Beneath this bark; my so-called skin
who knows what lions lay within?
Distinct from the Neth’r Rings of my kin
there is a layer where I begin.
Red peels of conscience flutter so thin
in the delicate wings of hereditary sin;
thus I shed to find myself therein
—I shed with hopes I lie within.
We are the spiders of Mari Mari;
we stitch your garments— light and airy.
So do not run— do not be wary;
we do not feed upon which we tarry.
More silvery robes fit for a fairy
that smell of pine, of mint and cherry.
We are the spiders of Mari Mari;
so do not hide— we’re not so scary.
We are the Spiders of Mari Mari
who’ve left their webs in such a hurry
to come and save you from the touch
of the fiery one that burns so much.
Our hides are thick; our eyes are small
thus Sol can’t glint our flesh at all—
but yours are soft and weak and fragile
and you can’t run— you’re not yet agile.
So we’ve come to save your soft knit skins
from blistering rays and nights so thin.
We will warm you; wrap you; clothe you;
swathe you, drape you as we fold you—
and do not fear we may do more to you
for we’ll do less than all we’ve told you.
Seven Came to Tea
I’m an old Nori warrior with a hide of sesame
That’s
thicker than the bark
Of a one-eyed tree.
I sat bole-legged in
a jelly-crab trap
And I wagered on a rose
... In a butterfly
hat.
I reached out quicker
Than a lard-hog’s tongue
And I
taught ya how to holler with a pickle-pitched hum.
Seven, seven,
seven came to tea
But they wouldn’t have sushi
With a man
like me
And how could I blame yah
When you killed the Aburage-
bee?
You stuck it to the Nori; do not try to lie to me!
So I
twirled my chopsticks
Till ya all gawked at me
Dippin’ my
sushi in my tepid mug of tea.
There was honey-suckle donuts
And
a belly full of love;
That were all hand-rolled by a single
turtle-dove.
Seven, seven, seven came to tea
But they wouldn’t
have sushi
With a man like me.
And should I come to ask
yah;
Well don’t you ever hesitate
‘Cause I rarely share my
raisins with a wrinkled blind date.
But if you like it on the wild
side
With a dash of Gekkikan spice
Then I’ll get the kettle
brewin’ and we’ll baste the onions twice.
Maguro, Hamachi and
a pound of Sashimi;
With gari or wasabi
—daikon radish is for
me!
And it doesn’t really matter,
I could care less; don’t
you see?
‘Cause all I need is my poncho and my ragged-leaf tea!
Wriggling, resting on a pier
four fat mice and one blind seer;
Boasting, b-besting their stray bonds;
they dreamt of reaching safer ponds.
Come back! Save us! Do not go!
C-cried the mice in n-n-notes of woe.
Y-yesterday,
you thought us blind,
thrice bewitched and half in m-m-mind—
but are you wise enough not to wish
for a second helping of this c-cold dish?
Little Mosquito— fetch our foe;
seek out Warthawk; let him know
the time is come—
and at long last
for him to see beyond the past.
Little Mosquito—
fly you fast;
end your misery— plunge your rasp
then spit the
blood of Cyren there—
amidst the feathers and matted hair.
The time has
come; the die is cast—
now go summon Warthawk to this task!
Little
Mosquito— end your woe
for days grow short and blood must flow!
Slowly, slowly everything stops,
Time is erased and all is forgot;
all aware yet breathes not still,
etching descriptions of when until;
for all to believe and then to be
if left untamed to dream so free.
Cornered then chained, entangled we fall,
heaped sand of the hourglass one until all
and all dreams and visions we held as a child
are lost and forgotten and shook from the wild.
You touched a baby and time lay deep;
deep— in the coals of a sighing fire
where the naked memoirs of lost sleep
were doused to scatter all desire.
With blinking eyes and small bare feet
the dreams are trampled as perspired
from a trickling forehead 'midst the heat
of aspirations left uninspired—
a mire of kings crowned to retire.
Perchance to dream of such a time,
when poets soared but naught was writ
with revelry lost to life as lived
and should you choose to live in these mists;
it's a stage in the rain on which you exist.
Oh Angel Baby Will You Answer Me?
Angel babies born of snow
with innocence your hair does blow
in scattered drifts cast to and fro—
too soon your fragile wings will grow
to tempt you to our worlds below.
Angel babies that reign the sky,
flying, oh so, way up high;
free as birds— so could you fly…
Do feathers tarnish to hear our cry?
“We too would rather moult than die”
Do angel babies grace our land;
trace our steps; shape our sand?
Is proof of thy existence banned;
your footsteps swept away— or fanned;
and have you ever held my hand?
Oh angel babies that warm our sea
why saturate your wings in me?
Has freedom of choice abandoned thee?
'Cause in thy dilemma—what would I be
—the anchor or the bird so free?
Oh angel baby will you answer me?
Oh angel baby will you answer me?
But if it be Monsters
And if it be gods― send gods!
And if it be angels, then send us angels!
But if it be monsters— so let it be;
Send monsters and I shall greet them no less!
And if it be kings― send kings;
Queens; so shall we welcome them also.
Princes, princesses— to them we shall race!
But if it be demons— send demons;
For to them we shall race also and meet them no less!
“Send fire, send rain and send chains―
Hitched to jackals like wolves in sheep’s clothing.
Send ravenous ogres wearing dainty faerie masks— we care not!
Send gargoyles riding upon the shoulders of carnivorous, fire-breathing dragons.
Send dragons— I plead thee!
For I will meet them— one by one or all at once
As to their own comfort— and choosing;
So long as they cease to dither.
Hear me, for I curse this day—
Even this day for which I’ve waited― so long!
I curse this black of night and all its hours—
Even until the dawn and all its meandering kin to come—
For naught comes swift to challenge me
And so I stand, ready and waiting,
My heart exploding into random veins;
And all my thoughts— reckless with self treason.
Send monsters— I beg thee!
And if naught comes tomorrow hence will I curse it also;
For I cry not ever again― save only for lack of monsters!
I pray that colors seen from the places we lie—
reach beyond shapes and shades more pleasing to eye.
I pray our eyes find forever the means—
to envision realities wrought first through our dreams.
I pray our hands to form and to mould—
perspectives more unique than any finger they hold.
I pray that our feet continue to stand—
upon the hard ground of conscience; not regret’s shifting sand.
I pray that our words may stretch ever as long—
as the deeds of all those praised heartily in song.
I pray we find strength when others aren’t near—
and we never forget— doubt perpetuates fear.
I pray we never run when there’s nowhere to hide—
and that we dig in our heels with more reason than pride.
I pray I remember that my will is my might—
when the darkness feigns steadfast to cover my sight—
and― when black thresholds loom, dragging shadows along—
let me fall prey to dreaming as I sail through new dawns.
It was said to be the start of the first great crimes of
Man
in dividing hemispheres of night and day as if an equal
span.
He was told to take his numbers to the Mountain Goddess
trees
and have them scattered amongst more aged tones of leaves.
But Man refused to banish them to a Seven Sister
breeze
choosing instead to count the wings of the dove-like
Pleiades.
Thus their father, in his shame, took their world upon
his back;
leaving his daughters to mourn as stars upon a limitless
void of black.
Then Man counted all the world, churning numbers as
he gazed,
slicing at his stubborn heart until it beat in
second-handed days
and thus the measures of Man diminished as he
focused all his time
to grasping for the ends of strings; which
made them all the more unwind.
But a single star took pity on him, the very
youngest of the seven;
and falling as a ray of hope (though she'd
glimmer less in heaven)
she forfeited all her brightness in an
effort to reveal
that only by power of thought might ANYTHING be
made real.
But Man’s face awoke too late to see her sunset
bow—
and skies of blue ticked to black; no hands could stop them
now!
Thus Mortality was bred of chords; frayed and long
unsung,
unveiling Man’s umbilical world unto a charred and
black-holed sun.
Silence spills from paper cups—
just ask the trees that grew too much;
Silence glides upon the air
on wings of birds no longer there;
Silence laps against our shores,
bleeding languished pools of black ink moors.
Silence lies with every touch
of hateful thoughts— greed; war and such;
Silence pushed this pen in time
ending accents of both gloss and rhyme.
As the Crow Flies
Twisted, laughing Cheshire cat,
mocking all,
opposed to that;
sweet meows, fried twice in fat;
with folded
ears, pressed down by hat.
Caffing, jeering, coal-eyed crow,
have you
nowhere else to go?
Heckling, both, your friend and foe
―
black as night the dreams you sow.
Robust, wrinkling rhinos— us;
unable to see beyond the tusk;
whether we charge or choose to stay
weather can change in less than a day.
Mighty eagle, swarthy hawk;
little time have we for idle talk
and so we shall all fly away,
perhaps for good— though who can say?
Zebra Tank
Know— no fear; no form of fear.
Rage— against a dying sun;
I need— a coffee, to calm myself
so that— I do not come undone— come undone.
Throw me in the zebra tank—black or white;
your stripes won’t stick to me.
Tattoo taste upon my tongue
till tangs of salt― pepper me with parody.
Stuff me in your glass tip jar—
just don’t count on me ‘cause I don’t make change.
Don’t trade me for some latte dough;
don’t trade me for some latte dough.
Chase me down with dogs of grey
though fanged or free― this world’s farfetched to me.
Just a Matter of Time
And where will you run to when there’s no place to hide?
It’s too soon to feign sleep— for one of such pride;
the roots of your soul― know your body is mine
‘cause it’s always been a matter of time;
yes, it’s always been a matter of time.
And where will you lay when the ground has no floor?
And how shall you leave when there’s only one door
― that leads to my arms; outstretched waiting for you.
You know it’s always been a matter of time;
yes, it’s always been a matter of time.
And how can you sleep when there’s so much to do?
How then will you make your last promise come true?
For the seeds that you sprouted have all taken wings;
though it was always just a matter of time;
when you made yourself a matter of mine.
Never trust in the tree—ee—ees to break your fall;
they will bring the autumn to— us— all.
Remember when you took your final bough
and a new leaf turned to shed your vow.
Never trust in the tree—ee— ees to break your fall;
They’ll be the autumn of— us— all.
You swore you’d come back― to her― somehow;
never seeing the roots― that bind— you now!
Never trust the in tree—ee—ees to break your fall;
They are the autumn for— us— all.
So sleep, my sweet Cyren, and rest as you may
your ballad will be sung for still many a day—
but your footsteps will fall― as if they were mine―
‘cause it’s always been a matter—
your bones and teeth will chatter till I’m tired of the natter;
ever since you made yourself a matter— of mine.
Erode
I am ink unto your parchment absorbing all that’s
you.
I’ll run dripping from your edges as your body-length
tattoo.
I’ll erode in you, baby― ‘cause this heart you ran
straight through.
I’ll erode in you; dissolving worlds we once
swore to be true.
Paste me upon transparent skin and I'll draw
breath through you;
inside out and outside in— more oxidized
than blue!
I am white-washed in your essence; every shade that
colors skin;
I am lost without your presence; tracing strings
where ends begin.
I will wade each depth of ocean and I will scale
all hills unseen
till I will seep into your curves with my black
heart of nicotine.
I’ll erode in you, girl cause you’re all I
ever knew
Let me erode in you, girl till this old grey heart falls
through.
I will rest against you always; though never will I
lie;
I will keep your wits about me as the catcher in your rye.
I
am fetched upon your insides like a stain of ageless rust
and
enamoured as a porcelain soul to be the cling stone of your trust.
I’ll erode in you, girl; I cannot be shaken
free.
I’ll erode in endless love or I’ll just cease to be!
I’ll cry decoupage each morning; eyes bleeding
tears of clay.
You’re a song without a warning and I’m a fret
that’s worn away.
I’ll sacrifice truth and wisdom for another
minute against you.
I will tarnish to a haze and implode for want
of you.
I erode in you girl; you know how much that’s true.
I
erode in you girl; somehow you always knew.
Those things we think we wish to hear
― a kiss of hope or song of cheer;
the sweetest sap you’ll ever know.
Life’s rings entwined unto the flow
of truth for need of a heartfelt lie
imagination reigns as the
crow doth fly.
Scarecrow
You left in a drifting down of feathers,
absconding thermals of thinning air
while I pretended to stall the wind.
Arching my back, I feigned having
more than a hollow heart of straw.
These beaten limbs, long worn away,
could never break your fall.
I lie but a distant memory; so grievously small.
The sunlight bleached my hair till,
threadbare, it hung awaiting summer storms
and the sweet smell of fermentation.
But as the rains came, filling my heart till bloating,
I burst; swollen with false pride
to slide from my post into stark, muddy water.
Fuel for the fledgling houses of spring,
I shall scatter with cool winds, tumbling far from all at stake,
having made no impression— not even for all I was missing.
Exhaling Second Nature
The smell of cedar brims the air
swept past by breezes— laissez-faire;
the crush of needles underfoot;
baked in oil— spit and soot.
Branches claw for breath of air
in rows of crosses everywhere.
The root balls huddle in mass graves
as florescent neon ribbons wave.
The ravens’ Gollop, is oft misheard,
imagined like some forgotten word
as silence preys upon all things
not least the gentle touch of wings.
But along the roadside one remains,
a sway-backed sentry— scarred by chains;
wind gusts slap— its face bends down
and a seed cone falls from a dangling crown.
Autumn of Love
The snowdrifts of our love have froze
each autumn heart— staked in repose.
Every pollen of thought, lost and consumed
in wanderlust and thorns that groom
― but rooted does resolve remain
implanting notes of sad refrain;
echoed by trees of kin and kind
in silhouettes and silent minds.
I feel you swaying next to me;
complexities of bark— now hard to see;
I pray our roots may remember the clays
― of hilltop views on better days.
Stuck
Broken lies a body, abandoned by its mind,
unleashed into the grey mists― unfettered by worlds of time.
Déjà Vu
The stars are raining lightening
and Sol has ceased to glow;
the moons did cast twin shadows
and my mind was freed to flow.
I felt those twisted fingers
and I buttoned up my coat;
they shivered along my backbone
as they clawed towards my throat.
Déjà Vu
It’s a feeling, it’s a hunch you’ve been somewhere before...
it’s the call of a memory lingering strangely at your door…
it’s the hint, like a trace of a smile upon a face;
just a shimmer of a glimmer and you wonder in a daze.
It’s a finger; it’s a touch that’s pressed upon your mind;
an impression, perhaps a lesson that’s somewhat similar in kind…
it’s that inkling of a winkling in the blink of an eye…
it’s a notion; it’s a feeling as you’re left to ponder why?
The Vengeance of Spyters
Sing a song of recompense,
eight legs farfetched in rhyme
of rhythmic drums and scorching sun,
spinning mirthless webs through time.
Venomous in gall, the goldenrod we trust―
to lead us to a Promised Land
of the Firstborn flesh we lust;
and Ossimer will fall forgotten
while pecks of blackbirds buzz
and save for vultures, blowflies and crows
no one will ever know― he was.
Standing Akimbo
I stood outside of myself marveling at all I was and wasn’t.
I had blended into a plethora of grey tones and black shades
I never knew existed.
I was not afraid; there was no need― for I was untouchable.
My mood was light and airy and so too did my footsteps fall.
I danced into a sea of grasses, quickly becoming swallowed
by the hoi polloi of mingling shadows that beckoned.
I let my thoughts grow dark and heavy and found myself
buried beneath a large boulder. It was colder here.
This was the breeding ground of damper thoughts―
thoughts dank and clammy, hidden by the weight of their own gravity―
entirely devoid of all pretenses or facsimiles of light.
I closed my mind and stood beside myself, content to become
my own shadow once more; with arms folded smugly across my chest.
The Shadowlands
For every shade of grey there lies its nemesis.
All things must have their counterbalance;
symmetrical in temperament and equally offset.
Both sides faultless; the black, intangible and mysterious;
and the white, so dazzlingly bright it can become impossible to see.
Still, an unmistakable peace draws lines between the two―
so many grey areas; distinct yet readily defined, each in their own right.
Unsullied by presumptions of color, a new purity unravels
for all of us loiter upon the similarly poised page of future days.
It is so easy; like picking daffodils out of seas of green;
except there are no greens― or yellows for that matter.
We are all letters— black and strong; smooth and flowing.
Some of us etched rather snugly; some of us more random
― but all letters just the same.
Some walk idly entirely alone while others stampede, willy-nilly,
in great herds, trampling all white from a once pristine canvas.
It is that vast landscape canvas, that great sepia tapestry,
that enables us to mingle and coexist.
Written there, upon such pages, is all we are
and everything we might, one day, aspire to be.
There is no trick; no hitch; no blinding glare or shade to avoid.
No― it is simply the coloring of things that must be avoided.
It is all about balance; prudent timing; and a healthy dose of luck!
Consider how many inferences might lay hidden between heavily scribed lines.
Everything lies surreal; but no, look closer― for it’s plainly black and white.
Hesitation is the black― yet so much more for obscurity begs possibility and therefore potential.
Once born, all fresh pages effortlessly draw the light and all that might yet further prove to be―
for each and every one cannot help but add some new grandeur to dawn.
The world previous is a delusion; it rises a distraction,
sensationalized and fraught with self-glamorization.
Such life is purely window-dressing― a hallucinogenic buttering the senses.
What is of import hides beneath this mirror-like charade of seductive pastels;
for it is beneath this thick slathering of provocative brush strokes
that one finds the world to be a far simpler place.
Things are not so complex; we only make them so; gratify them as such.
Everything is essentially black and white once one learns to envision it in the right shade of light.
Then again, new found bliss often proves short-lived
as other revelations will undoubtedly follow suit and tumble down upon us.
Within the world of shadows it is impossible to distinguish stains of blood from those of ink.
Thus, while these new ideals ooze from our heads, we may in fact be bleeding to death.
Drawn
If my skin was thin as paper and my beauty half as deep?
Would you crumple all my waking dreams to leave me in my sleep?
If I wrote of ink lines dancing, would your feet follow in good time?
Would your pen waltz along beside me?
Could I trace your curves with mine?
If I drew a thick lined circle would you step inside with me?
Could we orbit there forever or would you need to be set free?
If I took your last breath in and held it as my own—
Would I asphyxiate of angels? Might my soul fall free of bone?
The Spyter Chorus
We are the merry, merry spyters;
none are known as better biters!
We’ll smell you out― wrap you proud
and around you then our fangs will crowd
We come to taste your thick, sweet meat
and with your bones our drum shall beat
and when every morsel’s picked from teeth
we’ll suck the marrow you bequeath…
Eclipsing of the Solstice
Two moons reflect an atmosphere;
one so black― the other so clear.
A fog ship races ‘cross molten skies,
“All hands on deck!” the captain cries.
“Shatter oar― or back― for heaven’s sake,
this dark moon’s caused our mast to break!
Look! The morning star approaches fast!”
And the Solstice’s crew drew a dreadful gasp.
“Pull men—pull! Make no mistake―
or these red tiled skies will mark your wake!”
We watched the tiny Wiccan dancers twirl;
in paddle-churned eddies; away they swirled.
“Thick is the night; deep are its mists
to threaten us so with black eclipse.
Row now my brothers; away from here;
far from shadows of thought that prey on fear!
Stoke this severed mast into our gun
and I’ll show you how wayward moons are won!”
He fired the cannon at the black moon,
impaling its heart with the mammoth pontoon
and lava skies wept red despair―
though very little indeed did our captain care.
“Drop anchor boys; we’ll come around
and ram this dark moon into the ground!”
But the morning star had other things in mind
and to our hull― he was less than kind.
He marooned our captain― bound him fast
unto that splintered, skewered mast
and he hangs there still― even till today―
telling time in some old fashioned way
and should you ever see his eclipse pass―
it’s the paler moon that’s the captain’s ass.
The Charge of Cantank-rhinos
Even gentle giants shall leave in good time;
for as bees to pollen so does Death dine;
beneath beetled bark, no creature can hide
so fall they will onto horns stretched wide.
Struck still in groves of final thought;
with ears ‘tween hooves and mind distraught;
— save the one who stood so all alone―
it is him you herd and unto he you’ll roam.
Dissolution
Muted leaves twirl to fall, hushing notes of hope left for us all;
spiraling through web-filled seams in wistful gyres they land unseen.
Caught in such ebbs all shadows dance around grey circled circumstance;
ever conscious of the chime of day; half drawn by fate; half drawn by chance.
Let musing tempt our thoughts astray, captivating more than time or light in day
and a hoary focus pleads for peace as haggard fairies slip from beasts
while lichen castles amass dowdy grains awash in drifts of these drab plains.
The crumpling veins of drying leaves complete this portrait of unease;
scorched by palettes ripe with desire; smouldering apathy bursts to fire.
And stifled within this glut of doom, while stretched apart by eclipsed moons,
our molten bones are all laid bare to amend the chorus we now share.
Thus turn each leaf before it lands to vanish in such muffled sands
then drape it with your alter ego’s woes; igniting dreams of parting souls.
Hallelujah came upon the forests of the night.
She walked like a queen and behind her crept the light.
She danced with the shadows before they knew they could not hide
and they curtseyed and they bowed and were swallowed up by pride.
Hallelujah freed the song that sat moist upon her lips
and it fell like the rain which we drank in gentle sips
till it dripped from our ears, having drenched our thirsty minds
like a river down my backbone; like a shiver down our spine.
Hallelujah was her name and her name was as her song,
with all the vowels of a chorus and every syllable sung long.
Her voice danced as a candle with a flame so piercing bright,
it never flickered, never waned, as it preyed upon the night.
Hallelujah sang, “Follow me!” and all who heard it begged to run
and from valleys of great darkness we fetched our faces to the sun.
Hallelujah is our own voice in the middle of the night;
Hallelujah is a temptress, begging darkness towards a light.
Hallelujah, follow me to the hills where we belong.
Hallelujah takes us to an enchanted land of song.
Hallelujah is a warrior and her sword falls as a kiss.
Hallelujah, shine your light upon this pathway to abyss.
And our feet began to shuffle as we glided in a wave
towards that temptress full of song; toward that beacon of the grave.
Exhalation Marks
The door’s ajar and in my path; its rusty hinges churn songs of wrath.
A worn threshold begs thoughts astray; the wrought-iron knocker curls away.
Skeletons, rattling with the past, tempt pages from my heart so fast.
The doubts; they force my shadow still and succeed to stifle— last breath of will.
A peephole swirls with the aftermath; the keyhole passage to my epitaph.
My thoughts so dark they can only be seen in door knob glints of brassy-green.
More skeleton rows of keys run past; more rattling breaths; uncaged at last.
My pain, it draws my shadow still in one last black silhouette of will.
Leaves of paint flicker to floor; a slivered pile at autumn’s door;
these mutinous feet might abandon me save there is no where left to flee.
And so I dance through the archway of time; darkness fades for peace of mind;
and I am coming for you— my love. You know— I am coming for you.
For Alexandra
Still in sight full moons eclipse
beyond the clouds yet in the midst
of mist and all that does
exist
in moments fair Lxndra kissed.
Labyrinth of black air quandary, you aren’t so absolute or
free;
neither invisible nor invincible— I can see through you to
me.
Brought before the Alter Havens, sold to all that’s swift
and dark;
stealing flight from wingless ravens,(mocking breath of
meadowlark)
lacking every veil of morning; my back bends against
the harp.
Labyrinth of dank air carnage, and all omissions sewn to skin,
lend me all your magpie graces like white to black— being next of kin.
Fledge to him the ancient pathway; an impasse if minds delve in chagrin
for prevalence of vindictive dimness lies where speed of dark begins.
Let me conjure the key of entry, absorbing shape from all he sees;
let bleeding color flee pale rainbows and bow to shades more thin than free.
Keeper of The Caduceus
Mortar— marrow— pestle
stirs the essence of a heart
into beating bleeding blindness
o’er a bridge to realms apart.
Pestle― nestles― mortar;
bones ground silken unto ash
like the runes of winter mortals
finding weight to each eyelash.
The Keeper of the Caduceus;
winged serpents intertwine
for the Seer of the Second Sight
brings a taste of fate to mind.
Boxed
Lying in my solitary box without monkey or a weasel;
hoping for a handle to turn so music might flood my ego.
Inside of this wall I am just a rag doll― a marionette without strings.
Outside of my thoughts I am barely myself; just a puppet without any means.
Round and around every handle does go; I’ve seen it all in my mind.
How long before we answer the call? It may be till all end of time!
Wings outstretched, broad strokes of death,
vanquish air before it’s fetched
while eight legs low run just as fast
to chase and claim your final gasp.
(ii)
My (i i) are stuck on
you,
staring vacant-- somewhat blue.
I (i i) the things you do;
the way you walk; your heart so true.
I (i i) the way you
care;
the words you choose are always fair.
I (i i) your hand
in mine;
those precious moments lost in time.
My (i i) are
stricken with you
and I know my love you feel it too.
I (i i)
the dreams we share
because I know I'm always there.
Writer’s Block
I feel my way along the floor; darkness, masking every door;
a way around is all I seek; for every word lies bitter sweet.
What looms before me in my path? Whose face is this that begs my wrath?
The Cube of Abyss stands in my way; swallowing every nuance I might say;
I pound against it with both fists till even the echoes surrender and lisp.
I run and run but find no end; my feet don't move― they just pretend.
Finally― up, up; I pry the stone―a mass too great for one alone
and revelations are revealed at last; the thoughtless cube is falling fast―
so many visions pass by my eyes; too much to absorb with crumpling thighs―
and with one great roll my die is cast; grey matter flattens― and I'm free at last!
Scissor Shadow, far left of light,
feigning requiems of octagonal sight,
a sullied soliloquy, a martyred queen—
a sacrilege of rights unseen!
Webs of lilac entrance a theme
of sweeping you into my dreams;
whispered reason stuck to rhyme
where heart-kissed souls endure sublime
― and didn’t you
hear her footsteps fall
with fragile fears— and no feeling at all?
Sister Shadow, less hindered sight,
begging limbs tread memoirs of night;
the dance of afterglows, nestled and wise
for under a greybow my potted soul lies.
Wailing Graceful Grey Whales Graze
Wail-ing grace-ful— grey whales graze;
wee- idle- eyes— wandering odd in a maze.”
A faerie queen rises above worlds of circumstance,
“Fall prey to prayers,” upon a mouse she chants.
Morning mist reflects enticements of tail;
“Wail-ing grace-ful— grey whales graze,”
while Sol lies mourning, stretched of all detail
“We- idol-ize— wondering; awed in amaze.”
People impress peepholes and sunships unfold sails.
“Wail-ing grace-ful― grey whales graze.”
Wide-eyed Harp Moons ascend totally unphased
by eclipsed lips, whispering, “sooner than forgotten
are the rogues put on sale prior to turning rotten.
Wrapped in Canvas
You are shape scraped to my easel
and the breath of paint on skin;
you are red tied up in yellow,
shedding orange peel veins of sin.
You bring beauty to all that’s graphic
— as far as my eyes see;
you bring contour to a locket;
one more still frame missing me.
Recusant
A recusant, fattened in all his ways
was deviant in every mile of face
and, shameless, he relied on cheek o’er paths
to find a way back to a smile that still lasts.
Ink lines drawn out of a well
by paper buckets so thick they fell,
dousing spirits of a maiden voyage
anchored too deep to letter tell.
Snipping short-cuts into realms
while wearing skin pre-shrunk to fit;
immune to implications of Man’s wit
for all those times we asked what if?
A window has been opened
―its sill heralds the dawn
in dancing waves of memories
through fields of hope beyond.
In the midst of our mourning
there rose a rainbow clear;
while eye satin shadows preyed
on mists of morning drawn too near.
Far beyond temptations of sight
and meddling dawns of endless tripe,
a whirlwind swirls through eyes of blue,
begging hazel skies: permit me through.
Visions of rapture silhouetted to pillows
in wind stolen breath and kisses from willows,
bending tall tales masquerading in moments
I remember in shades of you; huddling intense.
Lingering fingers, loitering stairs,
out on a limb where nobody cares;
ah, but those roads we might've followed instead
save for fool’s gold and the weight of the dead.
Blinded by Brightness
Unto the Gods of techno triumph
we seduce the glare of synthetic suns,
letting gravity bend this rainbow timeship,
forcing hemispheres to collide as one.
Expressing air, we breathe in wonder
— suppressing aires long since begun.
Whole
My eyes stare only backwards searing holes through thinned-skinned
flesh,
forcing things I once thought buried to arise with new
found zest.
If I force my fingers through them (in this emptiness of mind)
and then claw and claw and claw; can a past be rendered blind?
There’s a hole that rifles through me— I can see you far
behind;
there are footprints in this tunnel— everywhere your
light has shined.
I can feel you seeping through me, filling void with warm,
soft flesh;
you’re a life-line threaded cruelly— sew a heart
back in this chest!
You’re the sail prop of a skeleton; stealing winds to fetch
my soul
and I cease to feel so hollow; you squeeze marrow into
bone.
Your light—it shines right through me; turning rock to
porous stone—
and my emptiness reaps laughter as shallow walls
invade a home.
Plunge In
Blotched red and grey we thirst;
left to bathe, in ourselves and our own ways,
too soon will we
weep— inanely absorbed.
Wrung out, releasing floods of sylphs,
imagination weeps uncontrollably.
Left naked and alone and bored
— our every pore
cries out for more.
We are nothing we do not touch;
devoid of sensation
we cannot grow.
We are but sponges: immerse us in you.
The Shedding of Supernatural Leaves
And through this land of wind thieves
Om and Nul crept past
a pitiful snag named Gelon;
so black, no shadow could it cast
thus fate fell unto a maze
of crownless, crooked trees
and the shedding of the last
of all their supernatural leaves.
Amongst the Respite of Shadows
Of aromatic wanderings
and a mirror held gaze
reflections caught between the two
crawl distant till a haze
but such are the ways of those
rarely meant to rest
amongst the respite of shadows
and its lottery of guests.
Fall
My
fingers are wide open strumming Braille talk to the breeze;
my
hair is flying backwards and I'm tremblin' at the knees;
my eyes
are pupils hopin' you will ground all that I see
though, no matter
what does happen you will surely set me free.
I
will fall hard to you; you bring gravity to my touch.
I am fallin'
hard to you; you have always been my crutch.
I will fall hard to
you even if splattered to a stain;
I am fallin' hard to you and
I’ve only speed to gain!
My
arms are reaching outwards, undaunted by the trees;
with hopes of wrapping round you as I plow into your seas;
I
left behind those memories that only sought to blame
and will shed
this skin to trust in things more outside than insane!
I
will fall hard to you and I will wash away your pain
I am fallin'
hard to you and against you— let me rain!
My eyes are windows
open; you're the only world for me;
my wings hang torn and broken;
feathers lost for weight of me!
Still,
I’m falling hard towards you; I'll implode to gain your trust;
I am fallin' hard from heaven’s heights in a wake of rainbow rust!
I’m embedded in this moment and I’m falling like a train
I am chasin’ after brand new ground; and I will never fall again.
Pitfall
I fell down this well
more than seven years ago
and I stink of its ink—
so much more so than you smell
and I can rub and I can scrub
but the pages scream to dream
perhaps if time were all mine—
I would write it clear to hell.
I
fall
swollen,
and full
scattered
thoughts in
droplets
exposed
consistency mixed
with inconsistency never
perfect
but ever submissive
keening for a gravity to touch.
Bursting, poised— acquiesced till
round; wingless, yet ever hopeful
plump with desire; rounded
in nature, wholesome
in truth.
I
fall.
Bore
by soft
wings of
intuitiveness
wary
of urgency;
vulnerable to charm;
elongated in anticipation;
limitations declared openly;
rament & pretences stripped:
past, present, future― all.
Bereft of companionship;
alone and naked
― but warm.
I
fall
soft
clear
timeless
uncovered
an individual
hopefully buoyant.
Devoid of expectation
or imposed indulgences
but simply a drop of gentle
sanguine succour; saturating
all I might touch, forever thirsting;
an unquenchable arch, undeniably
graced by coloured threads others
have chosen to contribute. Drawn
together, we begin to shine; never
too glossy― but bent, pliable,
eager and swift; we fall ever
unto a united finale.
What is hope but the breath of fools?
Exhaled
in the decadence of despair
and force fed to air on the coldest
and greyest of mornings?
How quickly glimmers fade, wisped
away by whirlwinds already in motion.
What draws dreams but
caricatures of the heart?
Plucked strings, feigning harmony, found
too easily in the deepest respires of slumber
where the freedom
of dormant minds deems all things possible.
How unavoidably
quaint.
What drives aspiration but the rhythm of an endless
drum?
Affirmations churned until consolations, mimicked without
cease… papoom— papoom— papoom.
What worth has a rainbow?
Untouchable,
unattainable and yet undeniable; tangible though illusion.
Mysteries
of colour admired so ardently they perpetually must bow.
Soft hues swimming in one another; liberated in semblance; unified in uniqueness.
Wings
of light fetching and reflecting subtleties of splendour from nothing
more than mist.
I think there is hope yet.
She
wore no armour, held no sword
though, through tangled forests of
adversity,
there
been many who’d felt her roar.
She heard Eden sob behind her
for being outnumbered ten to one
and a hundred glistening
tears of dew
begged
an vibrant archway from the sun.
It was her —and her alone—
who
stood before the gate,
the threshold to her paradise world―
some
longed to lay to waste.
Thus, in the vortex of a rainbow,
she
waited atop her pedestal of stone
for the very resilience of her
steadfast posture
had
turned soft toadstool skin to bone.
Her eyes burned green for
justice,
sunlight
blazing from her hair,
and never had defiance radiated
a
more fiery, gallant glare.
She stood before the single rose,
which
not only signified the cause
but every need and last belief held
by
any gravitational pull of law.
And as the hulking shadows—
came
near, chewing cuds with boundless glee
she pried a thorn free from
the rose
to
sting one like a bee.
And the rose smiled all the longer—
for
not being trampled or trod over;
while all the cows wandered away—
in search of groves offering more affable clover.
Thus
the priestess of all things sacred to green
slipped
back into her faerie world domain
and ever after, The Guardian of
the Garden
rose
to shine as her one true and lasting name.
And You Were a Rose Petal
And
you were a rose bud unbounded by sky,
reaching for dreams with a
gleam in your eye
and you grew to blossom, saturated with
depth
for every shade of colour were promises kept;;
but
harsh winds, they blew you and the rains didn’t come
thus,
brittle you bowed your head to the sun
then the tears fell in
torrents of pollen and dew
and you longed for the spring time when
all felt so new
and you hid like a rose hip, all knotted
inside,
too scared to reach outwards; you thought a part of you’d
died
but you were a rose petal; satin arching on skin
adrift
with the fragrance of lost memories within
and roots started
reaching; you opened new leaves
and the sunlight, it kissed you
with a halo placed wreath
and you were a rose petal and I, but a
stem
both hoping for rainbows we might extend once again.
Wafer Angels
Plotting
through a paper feeding letters to the plough,
the quill of
accentuation tills inflection poised as song
And angels came
to grace a page with rose kissed garland hair
their wings drew
free as kenaf breath whispering visions soft in ear;
Syllables
wept in crescendo tongue; feathered down swept ink in time
(and it
was then I saw the face of the goddess Seshat there);
Weak
kneed, I hoisted pen to pad using a shipwright’s double pulley
and
I reworked most of what I’d scribed (for not every wisp fell
folly)
And the angels clung to paper edge, watching pristine
in white decline
and there were many a sweet moment I’d ‘ave
swore it was the wine
But then forty wings stole a unison wave
to greet an horizon eye
and they flapped away like memorized pages
of a dog-eared, earthbound book
(you know the kind— the ones
that read every line of you with each imprint of finger took)
But
it was in their gleaming wake that you saw it; a pen of blood
staining pages white
and you knew it was the only way to plummet
thoughts to flight.
Death
Death.
What
frail blanket for the soul?
What comfort?
What silence?
What
ease?
What resolution to grief?
What cloak?
—Shroud;
Deviance to light?
What eternal measure of escape?
What
meandering through time?
What signature to fate— destiny?
What
postponement— procrastination of tenacity?
What
depth?
Shade?
Preamble?
What closure do you afford?
What
increments of naught? (Tick tick, thick, talk)
What myths will you
slay?
Are there no indulgences to weightlessness?
We’ll
see.
For you are not my master
And I will fall neither slave
nor ****.
Perchance to more than dream;
Perchance to
float
Drift—
Find wings? Take flight?
We’ll see.
What
metamorphosis?
What hope?
There are no ends in circles;
The
journey lies neither ahead nor behind
It is with us;
We are the
journey.
We’ll see.
We’ll see.
Shade
crept, stealth as bark, embracing hollows as if kin
and every
flicker of light fled in peels of crumbling dead shed skin;
then
goose pimpled sprites arose, rubbing stubble chins,
once rustled
from their tangled webs, they wept with orphan ease
and bawling in
a banshee cry, lower lips surpassing knees,
for they knew there
was no hiding— no cavern they could delve
for there are no
fissures that exist into which the dark can’t squeeze.
An
Elf Lord’s posture heightened; listening hard, nigh to this cusp of
vale
his grey eyes slivered as he heard that eerie wind’s
wassail
then his tunic hardened to an amour, embossed by golden
dew,
he fetched his horn and raised a call so loud;
(or at
least some feign it to be true)
that neither cloud, nor wisp of
sky has ever been so blew.
First pranced the marigolds that
waved, in strands, from flocks of golden hair
followed by those
autumn eyes which held the grimmest stare
fingers took to steel
casting a faerie gleam of sun
and, from e’en the most monastery
moss, jade wept until a run.
But the black force did not
tremble; it fed on fear and thrived;
with push of spear, black
blood was drawn from all it did espy
and, as two ram’s heads
clashed together, once more the horn rang through
and night and
day stood detached by but the barest thread of clay;
the
champion’s call had been given— there’d be no turning from the
task
for as soon as horn parted Elf Lord lips, amidst knuckles it
did smash.
Then Darkness rose to greet him, beneath a
billowing veil
leaching warnings of evil as Death’s smouldering
stench prevailed
then flashed long fingers charred, black bones
wrapped ‘bout a book—
It was the Grimoire of the Glen and many
a stout heart shook
for all to walk forth freely, long since the
barter’d been set:
“No flower grew without a cloud or the dust
into which it wept;
No sun could shine without the night into
which at dusk it leapt.”
But the Elf Lord was not dissuaded
and thus came face to face
with the vilest thing his precious
lands had ever been forced to grace
and as he opened up his hand
away horn fragments blew
into that sea of darkness where they
scattered as if threw
and a mighty rainbow cheer arose; banishing
darkness and all it wrought
and the eclipse just receded until it
was— but a quieter, more subtle thought.
When
all did find their stead again, long did the Elf Lord remain
there
was no smile curving his lips (though the others saw it not) for
little had been the gain.
Time would pass, it always did— and
before too very long, the dark would rise again
but, next time the biggest difference was— there’d be no answering refrain.
I believe time is a means without end; truth evolves as we do; generosity is the ownership of the earth; falling no less important that getting up; resolve can never outweigh compassion; second chances rise with the dawn; light embraces us all equally; a pure white page holds all possibilities; lines withdrawn accomplish more than those drawn; and that without you there is no point to me.
Sometimes
I can’t see colour and just feel my way along
spitting out
hellos like some form of spoken Braille
and, when the sun finally
unhinges, it grates against closed lids;
more sandpaper than
warmth; more rust than dawn
and I watch my breath wade out into
the air only to fall
and in this dim veil of light even the
shadows run from me
and I am left alone, forced to absorb whatever
it is that I’ve become
for there is no respite, no divide or
wall greater than those hills I saw
but never climbed… and all
the reaching hands I never held.
And
the moon found ways to orbit, whilst a sun began to rise
and the
rain began to mist as I looked into your eyes
for I will not make
that mistake again; I will not fear
to embrace a friend so from me
to you this rainbow bends.
Pliant pink rubbings wander,
supplementing
grey with indecision;
the weight of pencilled rhyme punctuated
wholly
through words that dead lead might‘ve said
Eye
brows over capital eyes, moments lie acronymic
[Time is my
enemy]
Procrastination is D-graded; but another preposition to
disposal
Blindly distracted by impermeable muse I bleed in
fat, flat lines of pronoun possession
Nothing more can be
said; I am the idiom of all futility.
Swallowed
by a sea of conformity I can no longer reach my hands
This
over-obliging weight— this oppression of individuality
is as
curbed and concrete as pavement; there are no adjoining
stairs.
Spacious tears fall ever as rain gouging my eyes
continually deeper;
prey or prayer? I can no longer tell for screams falling deftly upon sallow ears;
the
remnants of attributes worn away long before this.
Scream?
I
can hardly draw breath; oxygen is stone.
I suffocate by endeavour—
calamities of fate & faith.
Every expression now
unutterable; stifled, my tongue rests ubiquitously thick,
dragging
heavy syrups rich in geographical accents, etiquette and imposed
demeanour.
My smile mocks the tiniest sliver; an odious crack
through which dissolving teeth
sift naught but identical grains of
fraudulent sand. My skin is so callous
I have become recognizable;
peg in hole, rock to anchor— more brick for the wall.
Feigning
orbit, only to keep from being crushed (not even my head turns round
anymore),
the
wind whispers sympathy in sandstone kisses; the rain always far too
loquacious
while I languish; too easily transparent.
All
sacred foundations sold and slaughtered; martyrdom runs rampant and
this heaviness—
my
dilemma, leaves me treading stone as if some cursed form of water,
adhesive to touch.
Patheticism immobile; finality's breach:
fatal; ever the truth erodes heaven
and I stand rock; stone cold
and sombre; shadowless for it would cast the greater light.
Move
whilst ye may and leave me to waste and wait…
I am the heart; I
am the core; I am earth that you adore…
my shadow may yet
return; my shadow may yet return.
...
And out from the surrounding shadows
stalked Curiosity, meekly at
first
though it did not take him long
to make himself a home.
He beckoned his mates to follow
and soon he found himself
surrounded...
By Feelings, Sympathy, Conjecture and
more.
Creativity came last as she tried to hide behind
Uniqueness
but
it was to no avail as Uniqueness quickly faded upon the first sharp
rays of light.
It is all the poet's business; let no rock
remain unturned.
...
Fetched farther than a fable, molded more than a myth;
tall trees
turn to tales and ink islands rise from mist…
Am I a
curvature of thought, an advocate of rhyme?
Is this the sum of
what I’ve caught in this, my avenue of time?
I’m just
syllables in motion; falling footsteps down a stair;
DNA
unravelled in linguistic breaths of air.
Thorns mar vocal
passage, permeating my disguise;
a song so full of shadow, bloated
lips turn grey to sigh.
It’s a longing, a betrayal, that
once felt twists into lust
It’s the taste of words once spoken;
it’s that wet lick line of trust.
Can you feel pen rapture
paper; rippling ink scribe wake contours
or do they swirl away to
drown in depths of more imaginary moors?
Are you mother tongue
in harness? Can you reap what’s on my mind?
Do you tangle in
these letters that tend to spell more than unwind?
Language is
the season, just a glimmer splash of time
but if we reach too
soon for reason we miss all method in the crime.
... Languid
shadows stalk and shun our makeshift margins moved by sun;
tall
trees turn tales till true leaving atramentous isles to arise anew.
When
you feel the world is crashing in
and you just can’t find your
feet
Look down to see the soul of you
that carries your
heartbeat.
When you think that it is raining
though the
sunshine's streamin' down
Reach up with hands and find those
tears
and wash away that frown.
When you think that you are
all alone
even when you’re in a crowd
You must hunt down your
own reflection;
find those eyes that do you proud.
When you
think all doors are closed
and no one cares what’s kept
inside
You gotta find yourself just one more time
and realize
you’ve never ever left your side.
When you think it’s all
too dark
and you don’t quite trust yourself
You must find a
way to believe again
in your own worth above all else.
Silent Bee (Dreamer)
You
dreamt you were a worker bee
infused in a trance-like state of
glee
You went to work, where you walked in sleep
(So careful
not to make a peep)
Wired, tired— all but retired…
It’s
only when done that you felt inspired;
that’s when at last you
unfurled your sail;
those wings… made more of shade than
pearl.
You punched the clock in a nightmare haze
Unfazed by
moon or star-lit rays…
and
awoke at home to find your pen
Just a silent bee and her best
friend.
Aggregate
I
lay conquered in the glow of you;
the ache of life subsides; our
continents collide.
Me; so rough of edge and you—
stampeding
every border, tearing away every pretence of import.
Islands
of thought surrender; not one by one but all at once.
I melt;
racing towards the flames; the furnace of want
— there exists no
calamity into which I would not charge.
I trace the shape of
total inclination and watch it rise, stretched taut by touch;
my
finger; worn, callous, undeserving of such satin; such shelter in
skin.
You smile knowing there is no manner of earth I would
allow fall between us;
No oak I would not bend to bring you shade;
no stone I would not move to better your view.
Lips indent; I
am tusk— hard as bone; you are heaven if ever there was.
I press
ever in you, granite dissolving before your soft invasion of
flesh.
Feather rides rasp, grinding it to gravel;
I am engulfed, inseparable; indistinguishable even unto myself.
Mirror,
mirror inside out,
mimicking screams you do not shout.
A world
of glass held by a frame
or framed in glass devoid of
shame?
Shall you be pitied? Shall you be cursed?
Which of
us trapped? Which of us worse?
Mirror, mirror a reflection of
doubt
Lying, reaching— wrong hand out!
What is left turns
right around;
A facade of me— no less profound.
Are you
the mirror of my thoughts?
Whose fingerprints are these I
see?
Mirror, mirror I’m outside in;
Afraid to alter
world’s that spin
Inside your glass do you throw stones?
Forsake
the ground of safety zones?
Mirror, mirror am I sideways
in—
reflections lying in deeds paper thin?
Mirror, mirror
when will I begin
to believe in attributes veiled by skin?
Hummer
Delicate,
airy, ignition on wings;
you bring credence to the world of
faerie-like things.
Hovering in dance, buzzing in song;
you
whisper in moments and then you are gone.
Honeysuckle, trumpet
vines, fuchsias dripping red
take turns hiding shimmers of an
engorged gorget.
Racing wind, racing mates, diving at high
speed;
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