hound of heaven
dogs of war
to which does my
hand reach for?
one for chaos to
the other to pursue
me with lasting peace
turning to one
i bite my tongue
to be consumed
by Love’s release
the other returned
and so to burn
the devil’s dog
at Hade’s feast
There is no calm before the storm.
This tempest is neverending. These brief moments of peace are only that.
I am the pupil, swollen by too much light, staring up into the fickle sun.
I still reside within the storm. On the horizon, I see the dark spinning clouds as they draw near to envelop me again.
I have been a sower of the wind.
I have cast my dreams like seeds into the blistering sky.
Now I must succumb to what I have become.
I am the whirlwind reaper.
I have always liked ravens.
Not because of a certain Poe-m or its iconic phrase.
It is not that.
I have admired their black bodies’ flashing hues, sparkling eyes, cackling conversations in the spinning trees above me as I step out into the clinging fabric of another day.
The one that sits on my shoulder is silent.
Even on good days, it is there, a shadow just on the edge of my vision.
I sense its weight, shifting ever so slightly when I move my heavy arms to the task at hand.
We are reluctant companions at best.
It could fly away I think, remove its talons from my clavicle and seek after some shiny thing.
What I mean is that it is not hindered by broken wings.
Somehow it has chosen me.
When you see me, you would not know.
I am generally social, of good humor, articulate.
This creature sitting next to my molasses head is not visible to you.
But if you come closer, perhaps you will catch just a glimpse out of the corner of your eye.
And in the days ahead, I will try to introduce you to my familiar.
Its name is Elegiac.
it is not that i have nothing to write
it is that i have too much
i have not known where to begin
the words have appeared within like leaves in a sudden spring
the trees are full
thunder breaks the silence
the sky fills with pregnant clouds
i await the wind
I am the creature crying at 4am.
I am the sleeper who responds with grace.
I am the relief that comes with the release of waste.
I am the grateful lick I taste.
I am the watcher in the chair far away.
I am the room in a healing place.
I am the father who waits for the phone call.
I am he with hands for a face.
like name brand
things add up
to a negative
crem de la crumbs
for fools gold
the golden rule
to a heart gone
O Sleep, I give up on thee.
Hast thou forgotten me?
The sheep I numbered are running free
past all pretense of profundity.
I can trace the path that brought me here,
but the way of return is ne’er so clear.
I taste what hath sought to steer
me from what I yearn to draw near.
O Sleep, now it seems I must succumb as into my burning brain I have plumbed
to reap my dreams for words to come,
my yearning plain, O shouting eyes, be struck dumb!