Category Archives: poetry

Rhapsody in Blue

In the methane blue
of Neptune’s stew
I wildly whip my wind lasso-
a-hunting for the Dragon of the Cloud!

Through icy fleece
I stalk the beast,
a thousand miles an hour at least,
beneath this sapphire atmospheric shroud.

I’m born of wind,
and thickly skinned-
with Neptune’s swirling vortex twinned.
I hurry hard and bellow out aloud!

To catch him fast
and so at last
undo his necromancy past,
and join again the nation of the proud!

Starvation

Insensitive remarks.
Things thrown.
Mother crying
Rotten bastard
Father restrains her.
Doors slam
Once, twice, thrice.
We two kids,
We see and hear
From the crack in our bedroom door
We want to stop our ears.
We cry too.
Too young to know why it is like this.
Want to come out and console,
But scared to open the door.
Calm comes, sometimes,
And there is what passes
For family love,
But these two little ones
Had now a cautiousness, a tentativeness
That precluded real joy.
Awaiting, with dread, what would happen next.
We were showered with gifts
At Christmas, if Dad had a bankroll.
Feast of presents,
Famine of spirits.
A month later, bailiff at the door.
Everybody hide, don’t make a sound.
They will go away.
Then, out for a ride,
We two captives in the back seat.
The bickering begins
Between mother and father.
At a stoplight, she makes her escape,
Screams at him from the open door,
Then runs the other way.
We cry again, until he is able
To cajole her back in.
We were never hit, but seldom touched.
No cruel or unusual punishment,
But, it is hard to remember times of love,
Under the shadow of these things that fester.
A learned apprehension that now comes so naturally.

What it feels

fuzzy food in fridge
flushed today
smell lingers
can it be washed away?

desperate house plants
bought with good intentions
gave up ghosts through kitchen window
carcasses remain

breakfasts of cold toast and peanut butter

outside, a sanctuary of thistles

inside, the dark imbues the body bones
absorbed in daily doses
just enough to quell
thoughts that foment rebellion

these I gave to you, I think.
my remembered lover
my old optimist
my partner of journey
my willing prisoner

spurn me now
for I have killed you
the worst of all crimes
a spirit stilled

melancholic

Radiance

This paean of adulation and hope from The Feathered Sleep

TheFeatheredSleep's avatarTheFeatheredSleep

Sun filigreed through high tree lines

Touching our chosen space with bright finger tips

We swing, irregular rhythm, sometimes your momentum, sometimes mine

I watch you point your toes and know

It is hard to remain calm, not to act upon

Desires bound by respect and difference

You are a forest nymph, a hummingbird

You are a nayad of the lake, your honey my want

I imagine holding your bottom lip lightly with my teeth

Graze your unapproachable grace with whispering touch

Green water is still and birds sound from high

I hear it all

And only the gentle deep of your voice

How you move your mouth

The tilt of your long elegant neck

Sunlight turning your skin into caramel

Picks out the rushing river of your eyes

Glances off the high wistfulness of your cheeks

Your thin tshirt a wrapper, I long to pull toward me

Your fingers…

View original post 316 more words

Charlie’s Angel

I’ve been in this bed for too long.
Please don’t let me go like Charlie.
My friend Charlie.
He got bad cancer and was in a bed for months.
I made the visits when I could,
bringing his favorite contraband.
His chewing tobacco and a couple cans of Molson’s
in a cold pack.
Charlie started getting these bad sores in different places.
They put on bandages, but the bandages made it worse.
He got a little more sad, each time I came.
At last, I stopped coming.
Crying a lot.  Coward. You coward.

I have no cancer, unless it be of the spirit.
I think I am like all of us.
We so need the human touch, the warmth and need of another.
And I do not know, really, why this bed has become such a refuge.
A refuge from what?  Human touch and warmth?
How will I become worthy of these things, and of the whole of love?
Get me up, dammit, I must get up.
As I lie staring, motionless, I feel I am effervescing.
Particles of me drifting upwards, like motes of light.
Soon I will be gone, like Charlie.
But, for now, I spread my arms and legs on these neat white sheets.
And all that will be left, when they come, is a snow angel.

Bedroom eyes

There’s a mirror on my dresser.
The kind that folds.

Each night,
as I sit on sleep’s edge,
I cast a covert glance
to a conscience that looks back at me.

On any night,
I might see
what age and regret have done.
Or, there may be the saving grace
of a wistful smile.
Remembrance of a fleeting love.

Dream birds of the night before
come to roost.
To set sleep’s mood.

Visions, often, of perilous depths.
Miles of mist,
bottomed by devilish waters calling.
A plummet, appalling and unredeemed.
A waking with hammering heart.

And next, divided by night or chapter,
a buoyant flight, away and up,
above the rolling green.
So simple.  So natural.
With one who has been, too.
We hover over clover,
and, in my stupid innocence,
I ask
Are my feet off the ground?