Tag Archives: death

Dear Darkness

Dear darkness,

Wrap me in your love

In dreams I will never taste

In peace I will never know

In pain I will never forget

In hope I will never breath

And then when my heart completely breaks

When the tears fail to fall, not from stopping

But from no more rain

May you be content to go

Visit when the night has need of you

Come when the fierce day must sleep

And kiss me one last time

When my days are no longer long enough to count

Dear darkness, my love.

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Freedom 

I write to be free: of an emotion, a thought, a burden, a moment, a dream
I write to be free. So, when the moment takes me and the words spill onto the page or vomit, as the case may be, I am writing to cast off some shuddering menace, some heavy joy, or philosophical nonsensical battle with my soul.

But I write.

And I don’t need approval. I don’t need the clapping and hand back smacking. What I do need is you to hear me, even when my words fail, when my sentences are constructed in a meandering emotionally coded language of my heart, I need you to hear me. If you can’t, if you can’t look and agree to see first the pick you up carry your broken ass to the 7-11 across town to get the cigarettes you need or the tickets to that show sold out on Thursday and realize that yeah, sometimes I didn’t put the words in the order considered perfect
but I showed up…

So, I don’t need you and you don’t need me because I am not the candle giving you warmth. I must be the match burning down your house and I want be that.

I have never wanted to be that.

So go. I give you permission to leave. I give myself the same. Like a ticket to a train south bound to warmer climes take the vibe and the ride and just go.

You know, I told myself long ago, I would say no. Then returned for more of the same. I left thinking how could I change? What could I do? So, determined, I put on new shoes and a new hat, covered my heart in the plastic wrap of preservation to hopefully deliver the left overs of a worn out line better.

and I failed.

However, I showed up

Some how I think that should’ve mattered. But here is the thing – it doesn’t matter to everyone. Sometimes the showing up just means you accept you might get shot and when you put that shit in park, you put the target on your soul to be delivered every blow – whether it was yours earned or not. So why keep showing up?

That is what I am wondering. Why keep showing up, when showing up means I have brought my best albeit flawed self and know it is the monster under your bed. And that when I speak, “I didn’t mean that” you hear “you’re a liar” and believe me.

I write to be free. And now maybe I can be free of you and you me. 

My heaven

I want to write words written down upon my soul with brazen fire and the knife marks of a life well carved out. I want to do this for they are my children, my legacy, the only thing I have to offer the world.  They emerge into this world pure and remain so, even if the way I put them together falters, the words do not.  It is only in the way I arrange them does the world then call me poet, or perhaps it is only I that gives me this name.  Nonetheless, I want to write words captured on stormy nights to chase future fears away. I want to write words boldly glinted like swords to defend those who have no words or do not know how to put them together. I want to write words like a stone mason building walls of great castles to be manned by verbs and veracious truths so any army of doubt come hastily to my gates may find them well defended.  Yes, I want to write words so that in my hour of death when the breath of me can speak no more, when my hand can write no more, that all the words before that moment contain the feasting for souls to come and come again.  That is my eternity.  This is my heaven. 

The candle

Soft light lingers
cast upon the wall
flame and shadow
playing tag
Around the base
wax and memory
drip, dry
and try
to reach beyond
tips of silver
leaving raised rivers
of attempts
until the wick
runs out.
I could
scrap and save
worry and fret
the candle is
all but almost spent
or never strike flame
assuring only darkness
for surely a light means
we melt in living.
But no,
I shall put away censor
the ‘abra and the shade
pay heed and notice the
soft lingering dance
casting shadows
on beautiful days
and be a pleasant
witness
until my own
wick is joyfully
spent.

Who can measure a life – Sonnet III

Who can measure the length or brevity of a life?
The age of souls does not speak to the tenor of time:
Seasons spring and fall never upon the same light
nor winter fell’d by the eloquence of ever and the pine;

Some a beat upon the wind casts love the first its cry
others linger upon great sands the truth never to hear
From every moment moments linger with a sigh
but oft moments linger not when truth be told we fear;

But measurement doth proceed upon the envy of our hearts
the linger of a first and the regret of should have been
lengthen or shorten the life we lead in part
and words spoken or unspoken suffer might of been

The length of men’s souls thus are kept secret in our breast;
the longer treasures of our memory and the courted sorrow of what’s left.

 

{{Sonnets are so lovely, and speak to me so profoundly. Despite this I do not write them justly – though my pen and heart wish for it so.  Forgive my meager attempt.  I will gain skill with each effort}}

Courting of Grief [Ward against Cancer]

They say he has cancer
words in sheep’s clothing
hungry, tooth heavy words
low and crawl
before the bite and thrashing
and you know the moment
when it all slows down?
when it .
all .
slooo.o.o..ws .
dowwwwn…
every detail emblazoned
as his start to fade
despite rescuing hands to sink
more softly – all I can hear is
her at my door:
Grief
… a fickle mistress
lingers outside the room
in the hallway just before winter
she,
laughs at a thought
brings tears a tear later
as she hurries you through
the swinging doors
she,
bustles the waitress
and refuses dinner
then calls her friend Guilt
to gossip as you sleep
she,
washes you in keenings
somber melodies of grieving
then picks you up to dance
at a bright light of hope
for which you know not its
origin, only she whispers it
and it must be true.
And be it or not, she waits
dressed as casual as a nightingale
and as regal as a raven
she waits
as do I
her mutterings to divinities
saturate my lips.
Grief
….a fickle mistress
lingers outside the room
in the hallway
just before winter
and long long long after
into the heavy nights of
spring.