Sweet Spirit

At night, the stairs of this old house creaks Whispering to me, sweet spirit sleeping soundly during the night. The shadow movements, the fluid dance of a candles flame Dances in our room like the Northern Lights I take your hand, wrapping my legs around yours, It is what night time soul vines do, Coiling around the warmth, finding the placement of the sun. Should I be praying? Your hand on my back, face to face. Should we soar a little higher? During our dreams and back to reality Passing the sands of time and endless oceans I repeat to myself. I don’t want to wake, I don’t want to wake.

30

Time did not stand still It shaped its road for us to leave the past To rain soaked pavements, fallen leaves, high altitudes underneath the snow To drinking tea in the morning, to the smell of books, your scent and smile There was no mistake for me to come to you You have captured the stories that were written in stone Lost voyages and high shadows made of glass You are all I dream with the dawning of spring.

Coat of Many Arms

During the summer when the warm winds blow In an instant rapture comes instant sorrow At 3:00 am I am awakening by your ghost Your breath and your voice in my ear It is ecstasy and torture, no lover of mine At 8:00 am the day begins And in the song of the sparrow and crow I feel your hands upon my hips Gliding towards the passage that you only know Around 4:00 pm after tea I understand the feeling of being lost The stories of towers, fair maidens and dragons Of being conquered and subtle exposure to fresh water

Temple

Placed in a hole, I’m waiting for a beacon to shine its light upon my hand. To look at you straight into eyes, cast down up cement memories. Black harp and morning doves, I keep this silence of mine together. In case any whispering become voices, they heard right. Sanctuary is the temple I seek from your lips.

Unknown

Half monsters awake with the dawn, painted lips and drawn faces Scooting by on a fraction of a second. The time of need sees false land and conquers. It breeds till the years are filled and the last of the water taken. children drown from the lack of air. It is hope for all who look up, or those who look down, both depths hold mysteries.

Remind

He told me I would always remind him of autumn. The way the leaves turned, the line between decaying leaves and cool breezes, the way the fog rolls over the roof tops. “You are not so independent when the air turns cold”, He said. You seek the comfort of warmth to see what might unfold. Gustav Klimt

Photographic Mind

He said lose the photographic mind, Let those images swirl into imagination and break free. Those who take their photos have the memory on disk and paper. But will they remember it when the fires no longer keep them warm? Does it matter when we cherish all that comes during our time? The old papers turn yellow and crumble at the touch. I don’t mind when the sun sets or when the sun rises. It bleeds into one.

Breaking the Shell

Not so long ago when lollipops where her favorite treat, A little girl sang of trip wires and horse manure. She sulked in the corner when her dolls didn’t hum back, till she pushed them into the darkest corner for tea and punishment. Ages it would seem as she marched to her bedroom; 100 degrees in a great plains house with no air conditioner. Until Mr. Ghost wasp came to chase her bringing winter. A sudden fall and a tumble down her side of the icy hill, She soon discovered she was the queen of broken ornaments. Spring brought laughter and storms approached. The girl hid from lightening cowering under covers. Until the last gust of wind carried her away and turned her into caramel colored dust.

Cradle

Who does this cradle hold? Swaying back and forth The pendulum between right and wrong, It hides from tight embraces and rolls in blood This time of nonsense that comes from hidden shores.

Locked Inside the Witches Ball

She no longer has the fire, She harbored her anger outside, among the pines She followed many roads to clear her mind, but always stumbled. She went back and forth and fought with all devils that met her. They coiled and kissed her, blinding her by the warmth of their arms and tongues that licked her. Once in an embrace, she realized that all that was hidden was in a child’s closet of self destructive behavior, So she put the knife away in a pot.

Stagnation

There is much beauty around but yet my eyes remain shut. Much confusion in the mind, muddled with the day to day This is what brings the artist down, the blinds of a horse that steers the cart each day Follow the carrot and continue to eat your oats. You are such a good girl with a smack on the flank by a stinging whip each day.

Girl Games

I use to play “He loves me, He loves me not” with a withered dandelion Watching the fuzzy parts zigzag into the sky, the tell all seer reaching an unknown destination, It might have landed in the field next to my house or the pool of water after a thunderstorm. I always thought that by some force of magic it would bring forth a merman, not by the sea or earth. But of a child’s imagination, trying to know what it is like to float through the stars. Waterhouse

Subtle Language

There is no language like that of singing The subtle notes of landings of each vibration that comfort me I have walked towards all fleeting moments of joy and when they pass I sing, When the days are lit but still covered with a light veil to remind me that all is not well I still hum through quiet tears.

In the morning after

In the morning after, Soft light disappears here in the cocoon is many that seek laughter. In this delicate mending of different threads, That folds and folds till no cloth is left. We write till no more words make sense, And in the burden of those heavy stories Makes the eyes of the children weep. We seek salvation in the pages of words that disappear in blank pulp and hard spines.

Journey

We heave and hull over the mountains, till our feet are sore and our bodies tell us we can’t carry on. But to the land of softness and gliding winds we must go. The rains push us forward and evaporates into our skin. Our minds are not weary of travel but filled with verse and song, Till our journey takes us into oblivion and utopia and the lands shine with crystal fire.

Love

There was a storm that rose from the mountains and produced a song that rivaled the sirens of the ocean. And in the ancient glitters of distant heavens, the angels sometimes bowed their head in astonishing defeat.

The End of Winter

 

Many pieces torn into shreds, year by year.
Fragile bits cracking gently but never mending.
To the core that binded never was.
We traveled at lightening speed and collided head first.
Shattering the rusty chains that should have been burned with the ashes scattered.

Trip Wire

The labyrinth of past souls are awakened
if only they could see the illusion from the fog

They writhe with ecstasy and vines dripping with sweet rain
They know only euphoria that is welcomed with open arms

And into the passing of grey comes the opening of the skies
The first drop of light that captures all that is real
and laughter that is left behind

Gathering

The seas were raging from the fire that was burning.
To yield the life that was waiting upon the shore,
It collapsed when laughter ceased to be no more
and filled our lungs with something old.

It gathered upon the doorsteps of the ancient wonders.
Till all the ancient wonders became no more.
And high above the cities, where many black things flew.
The images that haunt us now is the one we never knew.

The Wayward Dove

The wayward dove drove to paradise.
Under split wings and partial decay,
under the wooden steps she took her last flight in a Cadillac.

She spoke her secret to no one and the mumbled, fumbled words
transpired into hums from her throat.