A Bard's Lamenti would cross through the fires of death just to find you.you called to me somewhere in the depths of my being,a creature so different than you, you who are adored by all.beautiful, you are beautiful. precious beyond measure.why do you call to me, my queen?there is a loneliness in your soul, you who have everything.there is a part of you clinging to me, i who have nothing.still we resonate together just like a duet,a two-part harmony of the lost, singing in one accord.fall from grace with me, enchanted mother.i have seen the world in dust and shadows andi have tasted the sulfur of the mortal world on thetip of my tongue. i have died without being able to die.i have lived while being unable to live. i found you aremuch the same as me at the marrow of your bones.how can this be, though? you who are altogether lovely.how do you come to call to me? can i rescue you?i would fly to the highest heights with you. can we depart?eternity is such a long time, but for eternity yo
Decembera gust of wind blows through the city streetsheavy coats and midnight strolls taking placethe clouds bringing forth rain and snow and sleetwhile starless darkness slows the mortal paceabrupt! the change! the seasons.hurtling one to the other.the passage of time.sand; the hourglass depletes.gray skies, devoid of sunlight, just as well.immortal eyes cannot gaze on more thansnow drifts. christmas lights. a new calendar.a gust of wind blows through the city streets.
The Streets of Kilkennyan irish gent with eyes of bluestrolled down through kilkenny.a solemn man with dreams abroad,somewhere beyond the seaan intellect without compare,humble, astute, and wise,yes there were lands abroad somewherebehind his sapphire eyes.there came the day when irish hills,their landscapes verdant green,could not enchant the irish ladfrom where he longed to be.his pockets empty, money spent,just making ends complete.hed taste his death, a half-lived life,without his grand retreatbut fate brushed shoulders with him onceand spared the tragedy.an irish gent trapped hopeless inthe streets of kilkenny.inside the pub, forgetting hislonging unrequited.there sat a femme with locks of red.passions soon ignited.not knowing love, but knowing lust,our gent pursued the lassand captured for himself romancebefore the chance had passed.perhaps too pale, perhaps a glintof mischief in her eyes,but she spun tales of foreign landstoo wild to be lies.the irish gent, his he
Diamonte Dualism saint compassionate, pure caring, sacrificing, forgiving hero, angel, devil, villainself-serving, tempting, scheming wicked, decadent sinner
Alphabetical Immortal Desiresassassins bloodlust catharsis.deadly evenings, forgoing guilt.he immediately justifieskilling ladies, men; none obliging.penetration quest; red spilling, tumbling.underscoring vampiric wickedness.xenophilia, your zenith.
Behold the Devil...as red seeps down, in rivulets,it forms a pool of decadence.the fallen, in the night, attacks.behold the devil dressed in black.his winter coat comprised of fear,he smites them all, each you hold dear;each one a voice upon the stack.behold the devil dressed in black.their lives are forfeit, only deathwill rid of us of this soul bereftof love, compassion; all he lacks.behold the devil dressed in black.until the demons claim his soul;until the fires consume him whole,beware and show this man no slack.behold the devil dressed in black.
Over My Headbreathing underwater,i drown beneath the weight ofthoughts too deep to tread
Notes to Ian Curtisonei walked along lonely streetswith a lit cigarette in hand.attempting to find it all.the center of the city;the dead souls that seem tokeep calling me.tell me, as you waited for herdid she ever arrive?twogod in his wisdom took you by the handgod in his wisdom helped you understand.since you know better than most now...... is there truly a god?threei once owned unknown pleasureson vinyl.at times, i missplacing a needle on the spinninglarge, black disc and listeningto the popping,the crackling, the bumps.i always thought that waspart of the ambiance of the music.perhaps the ghostsattempting to sing along.fourlove will tear us apart.but at times, it mends us as well.i am sorryyou never knew what this was likewhile you were alive.we tortured soulsdo not often know how to acceptsuch a thing.fivewhen i am walking aloneon the city streetswith a lit cigarettei still mutter the lyrics to
The Reckoningone, final teardrop hits the floor.i shall not shed another.one, final time i raise my handsto brace myself against a lover.that touch that once caressed me,now seeking to destroy me.i shall not allow you to punish me anymore.once, a love so true, that itrusted you with all my heart.with all my soul, my mind, my strength;there was no other who could compare.you lured me into your embraceas though i would find safety there.i shall not allow you to punish me anymore.it did not take too long forthe seasons to change, one to another.from true love to fear; from longing toutter revulsion. you held me in your grip,using threats to keep me with you.a victim replaced the person i once was.i shall not allow you to punish me anymore.until the breaking point; the day of reckoning.the straw that broke the camels back.looking into the mirror, not seeing myself,i sought to reclaim what had been stolen.i stand up to you, defiant to the last.looking you in the eyes, jus
ImpressionsI'm no poet and I know itBut your poems affect me and I wanted to show itSo I wanted to leave you something to remember me byEven if my words carry the impact of a flyThat they live in your mind for three days and then dieI wanted to be more than a false impressionTo be one of those memorable moments you mentionThose are the words I wished I saidAs I laid my head down for bedSo I inked them down before they fledNow as I drift off to sleep my thoughts I shedTo dream pleasantly instead
When you're goneAll the words I've listened toHow much of what you told meWas a lieHow much of itHeld the truthThe only thing that is clear to meIs that you're a needNot a wantAnd when you're goneMy whole world stops
My Mother's Diaryi.I told him today;he didn't take it well.Maybe I shouldn'thave said a thing.ii.He told me heloved me.If you love me,why abandon me?iii.I don't feel well,my stomach aches.You know what else aches?My heart.iv.My parents know.They won't speak to me.I've been crying...I never used to cry.v.I haven't written in a while;I fainted yesterday.The doctor says my bodyis too small and weak.vi.I told mom I hate it,she thinks I need therapy.He never calls.He never even looks at me.vii.I'm getting worse;I sleep a lot.It hurts...I think they're fighting again.viii.They pulled me from school,it's better at home.I don't think I hate it.No, I don't hate it.ix.I wonder if it'll be cute?Do I love it?I know I like it.Ow. It hurts again.x.The doctor's nervous.He says this a lot:I'm too weak, andI'm too small.xi.Something bad is happening.It hurts a lot.But it's too soon!Please, stop hurting!xii.I'm at the hospital.The nurses look serious.I'm crying,
ScrutinyAnd when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,Then how should I begin
~ T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred PrufrockI am going through the keyless gateto watch and wait,to wander here and there among the proud,among the white and old whose wisdom rots, repressed, untold:the soporific royals wreathed in leaves of gold.And to them I shall read aloud from the Book,read of the sins their lips have tookand upon me they shall look and patiently reflect
I am lost in my own depth, I will sayin a slight, impartial way(for I lack violets and an antic princes love)and they, floating through their channels deepdare to drown me in my sleep and in their orisons remembernothing.So shall I be a queen bone and ash,of crawling worms and sullied, melting flesh.Kissed by death, I shall burn upon a pyreknowing only distance and desire and, rising from the fire,I shall step with soft, unfettered feettowar
Yellow haikuWind catchesthe yellow sailof the tulip
The Voicemail of GodThe Voicemail of GodEver since I can remember, I have been one of those strange people who pick up pennies. I find them everywhere, on sidewalks, in stadiums, on the floors of grocery stores, in parking lots
you get the idea. And it is a rare occasion indeed if I fail to pick them up. Most people, when faced with a copper portrait of Lincoln down by their feet, even if they dropped it themselves, will simply ignore it. After all, you cannot buy anything with one cent; why even bother bending over? I, on the other hand, like to think I am a little more practical than most. When I see one of those poor, unloved little presidents looking up at me, I have to admit that I get a little excited. Well, maybe excited is a bit strong, but you get my point. You see, when I see abandoned pennies, I see free money just waiting to be claimed. The only work required to earn it is bending over, and a simple motion of the thumb and forefinger. Yes, one penny is fairly useless, but I know that by
February 2009 Haiku-Wrimo1.winter rain-an old pot fillswith moonlight2.sunrise...birdsong fallingfrom the mountain3.just in timefor the newborn-snow flurries!4.gang signson the old church door...winter deepens5.stillness...a cloudof white breath6.deepin the raven's cry-southern drawl7.midnight walk- between each starthe cosmos8.resting awhileon Issa's death poem-the fly9.morning thaw-the bulldog's growlsoftens10.loneliness...leek soup coldin the crock pot11.crowsbecomingdusk12.one cloudthe shade of mango-winter's end?13.beggingin her native tongue...day moon14noon rain-children pourfrom the school bus15.each strand of cobweb white dew16.smotheringthe prayer candle-evening fog17.my last dollar...a scrap of daylighton the table18.thunder!one small faceat the window19.stretching between seasons earthworm20.gatheringthe prisoners-winter rainbow21.starry night
affection driveIf I recycledthe love littered at your feet hearts would starve no more.
Silhouette飛ぶ鳥や木の影一片去りにけりtobutori ya ki no kage ippen sari ni kerithe treeshed a shred of shadow--a bird flew away.
picking flowersdrunk on dandelion milk:this dragon-fly, cotton-cloud hazedulls my ears to each petal's cryas I seek a flower's counsel in love.
Catapedamaniai know they dont want me to jumpI have forever harbored inside me a fascination with edges. My first memories are of standing on a cliff, wanting oh so badly for it to crumble under my feet. I saw a line separating earth and sky, and an urge rose in my chest to blur it.This feeling of always being on the very tip of reality, wishing I could lose my balance and plummet, only intensified as I grew older. I found such sweetness in thoughts of stepping over sidewalk cracks to plunge into a world with nowhere left to stand on.At the same time I was afraid normal boys didnt think of falling as I did, didnt want its escape from the cold, rigid ground. So I never mentioned it to anyone. But I didnt want to stop the desire blossoming inside me. I feigned interest in hiking and went out looking for the highest places to lose myself.the throng is seething below, mindless chat
How to Write a SestinaIn order to write a sestina,you must start by being unsure,quickly switching from cold to hotto cold and to hot again,the temperature being like a catin the Sahara desert at dusk.Sit on your porch at dusk,watch the clouds create their sestinas.As you watch, allow your catbeside you, her tongue lapping unsurelyfrom a cup. Look up again,wonder if milk would be hotif left out. It is hot;There is a heat about dusk.Forget. Forget about the poem again,Look around. Everywhere, there are sestinas.Not just in the cool, unsureripples your catmakes, the gentle clink clink your cat'steeth make as she tips her hottongue against her cup. In unsureclouds, sestinas. Not just in duskeither. And mosquitoes make stinging sestinas.Crumple a sheet of paper. Again.Now throw it out, again and again.Eventually, sensing a toy, your catwill chase it. Wonder what a sestinareally is. The pen will feel hotin your hand. Take some paper. Duskis now ending; Be absolutely surethis time yo
ArchitectHe wanted to be an architect of time.He wanted to arrange lives perfectlyand put god on a schedule.He wanted to order the universeso there were no surprises left,and no one would over-sleepor be late for birthday parties.He wanted to orchestrateThe music of the planetsand have the trains all run on time.But he didn't count on you,with your nursery rhyme mouthand the bandaids on your knees.He didn't count on the riddles you ask,or the way you hide pennies in shoesand only eat vanilla ice-cream.He never saw you coming or realizedyou were the perfect piece of chaosto bring order to his world.
In case of emergencyI saw the roots of prairie grassesLike carrion beetles in their yellowing shellsNibbling angrily, at the concrete beneath my feet,At wood sheared to fence posts near the road.The very earth they rejected, drawing what peace they could.When did stained glass become the standard?I have forged narrow mountain paths and stumbled overBottle caps secreted between the mica flakes and quartz.In this city, in the sectors most pregnant with age,Trees testify shamelessly into the sky.Clandestine, one coils his reach towardA flimsy cable, twisted and strung precariouslyFrom corpse to shabby corpse, on and on.Graceful and altogether stoic, another refuses to winceAs the merciless force of a school bus violates its skirts.All the monstrous lizards reduced to macabre exhibits,I fault them for dying. With cold blooded savagesOf the biological nature, the world was better off.Save the best for last is never the real philosophy.Find me the soul that cares for what happens to its carca
RaskolOur son and his wife sleep in separate rooms. They are painted the same colour and bear identical scars but are separated by a hall so long that by the time I walk from one end to the other, I am too tired to compare and know what is different.That is the convenience of an oversized house, I think, that we did not have in our small one-room apartmentthey never have to see each others faces. You remember the nights when we were given no choice but to lie next to each other, against the hard corner, when we were seething in each others anger. How wonderful it might have been to stare at a blank wall, letting the heat of our hands seep into the plaster until we forgot each other, and how to be angry.I never told you the fear I had inside my heart every time we tore apart and came back together again, that we would forget how closely we fit, or that in the short intervals when we were apart, a piece of the puzzle would come loose against us like a grain of sand, until w
We Watched Ourselves Dissipatewe caught our breath with butterfly nets and exhaledthe pieces of each other's wingsthat stuck in our lungs.the sky gave a shiver and the starsunsealed, their firefly cores shimmering and flutteringtoward us.plucking them from the air, they slipbetween our fingertips and fall like butterfly wingsto the ground.we conduct the celestial engagement with our metallic heartsthat control this unsteady rhythm of love crescendosand staccato love-making.like conductors in an orchestra.our lives write the love songs.
songs about slumberI.our city is a bed.a man tries to straighten the wrinkledsheet of road gives up, sits down,pans the street for change.the apartment building thrusts, phallic,making love to an empty sky. a burstof pigeons coo shut up shut up.a boy tries to fall asleep. his nightlightis a myth that burns out once a day.the girl walks off her roof. .our city is not a mattress.
last night.last night the electricity went out in my neighborhood.last night i lit some candles and burnt my fingers in the process. i watched the flames flicker in the dark and i stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and wondered why it looked different, somehow.last night i remembered how sometimes, when i touch people, i shock them with static electricity. and i wondered if this has any significance.last night i reread your letters and counted them. nine. there used to be ten, but i threw one away when we had that fight, remember? and i spent the next day looking unsuccessfully in the trash for it and wishing i could control my temper.last night i wrote 'i wish you were here' on a piece of paper, but i'm not sure who the you was. maybe it was everyone.last night i cleaned my room just to mess it up again, mostly because i like messing things up. maybe this is some strange revenge on the world for messing me up. i'm not sure.last night i tried to write but it only ended up
Winter Againdescends, the finaltraveler in autumns closea leaf touches snow