Extinguished stars. I am calling
for other gateways. I am reminding
myself, that when I fall,
I am merely departing from where
my life had always stalled.
When fears are lit, to become
black ashes, I am walking
to find Heaven,
leaving a burned trail
of vacancy and stardust.
I enter another path, holding hands
with wide-open curtains.
In letting loose the purpose
of running fields with rain,
I am growing crops that gleam
with solidified meaning.
I am losing track with a trail,
one where I do not look back
to see where a ship had sailed,
sinking in where it failed.
I am leaving a teardrop
as a grim memento,
one to remind me of that sorrow
I cannot bring into tomorrow.
You hear that unfolding. Pages recreate an echo. A faint call.
That sound cannot remain wrinkled, staying old –
it isn’t a memory you can leave in a grave, when its casket
will be the only thing rotting. Upon your forehead,
petals have fallen. They writhe like those maggots you hope
are feasting upon our bittersweet tragedy.
We have screamed in one corner,
while smiling in three others. Where were you?
Where are you, while I’ve had to repaint these walls
in your blank criticism? I’ve had to chip clean
darkness into white space, to rewrite meaningless realities,
colorful illusions, of you, who has been crawling
up to no mother’s arms, no crib in sight.
Read these words, entertain these lips, and leave
knowing you have walked a thin line
where a signature retreated you
to find me as broken as you.
If in the presentation, I choose to
hug the bark of strange trees,
I’ll hope with rushes plunging
from softened eyes that those roots
like hands, can form their gesture
of prayer to a man with his years in ruin,
with his gaze always looking away
from a rotting sun in a fatal distance.
Whoever thought that sadness could melt?
Whoever thought that a statue
could lessen in its life, could never breathe
without the hushed exhales of a hollowed out,
wilted soul? I find my path in these marks,
these etches within random growth.
For all faith has left, with more tears
I did not know could be wept.
Throughout. With this solitary heartbeat,
curtains were torn away from these eyes.
I told countless souls to drift apart
from mine, that I could taste bitterness
in a singular flavor of wine.
Without – while all pain had been repeated,
snow kept falling from clouds, like cotton,
soft enough, for Heaven’s dead,
hard enough that nothing might ever
return to search the dust in this heart –
a nothingness of everything said.
If leaves were caught together,
if speech was like ripples in crude fabric,
I might be able to pull apart autumn scenery
stuck inside aching hands. I might
be able to create tidal waves out of stillness,
be able to return from what freezes me
in brandings, in irons, in labels.
I keep pondering. Looking over
your shoulders and mine,
caught in a sudden dance
of unified paranoia.
I bring you closer to find eyes
exactly like mine. I hear your sighs
comparable to breezes
that send leaves spiraling.
We dance in this continual twist,
hearing our names flooded
at our decaying feet.
All we have committed
in these regained hours
is a relit torch. A heart that burns
and never wants to cry.
But this moon, above,
will keep us forever motionless,
at least in what we know.
Love burns with the chemistry,
is a connection through our minds.
Are we fearful to know something else,
something that we cannot sow?
Would we begin a flame
that might, upon another heartbeat
find its way out?
A door would close at our touch,
our eyes no longer seeking pleasure
in another blaze. Here we stay,
remaining unfazed, while someday
we’ll go gray. We’ll have words
still to store in melded hands,
to bury under quaking lands.
If those stars can be counted,
with the melting candles
baring their relit wicks with
our hearts repeatedly beating
for no other excuse, no other reason
that wind will only move us
to each other’s arms,
as we kiss, beyond our shells,
beyond our warming Hell.
If our eyes can be found,
let us know no sound
other than rhythms heard
deep in an ocean, brought down
from a capsized pair
of abandoned ships.
If lessons are yet to be learned,
reveal what we have found.
If lighthouses were too dark to spot,
we’ll wave our white flags,
hoping those stars will find us,
or the wind will lead us
while we glide on the wreckage
of our sickened flesh.
Land on those shores, in those
cradling arms. Never yearning
for more, for anything other
than a close moment in your,
your wings that soar.
Stay in those arms. Within what
still rocks, though never sinks.
Within a space that does not
ever find its edge to a brink,
nor ever looks down.
With faint eyes,
limp arms, nothing is ever
halfway to being over.
We have fallen
next to each other,
looking at our clouds,
dark, but never raining.
Barren stage. We are here,
counting seconds, before
another act to begin playing
our scores, our shallow insights
into a betterment,
other than simple blights.
Will we find something
beyond the clouds,
beyond haze? A curtain is often
a third one, after a second chance
will leave us finally hanging.
for something else,
left within the tearstains,
and the fog
upon and around our scripts.
A leading moment.
To twin roles clashing
against each other,
and always trashing the other
with dismissive criticism.
We wrote reviews
for our bleeding bodies,
our numb hearts.
To more despairing glimpses
of wasted time, departing seconds
that never matter,
while that third curtain
becomes a third arm
to reach for no one’s hand.
Some other torn place
Continue reading “Poetry Series – “Autumn in the Skies” – 13/50 – “Walk to Gather the Shells” – 8/18/2021″
With scraps to the misinterpreted fields,
At stages of grain for uncovered space
Where the smothered sun
Revealed all of bleeding love.
A nude back held the same streaks,
The same lashes
Torn towards Heaven, above –
Keep sealing your mirrors, display to faces
So emptied of disposition towards you,
While your wings face low,
Giving nothing to ashes.
How much can the weather renew
All the fog that deprives you of graces?
From the lips that thirst,
By the arms that hurt –
Without the heart now stranded at the shore,
Continue reading “Poetry Series – “Autumn in the Skies” – 12/50 – “Everywhere, the World Admires” – 8/16/2021″
Failing at the spoken euology.
You keep trembling with feathers to the floor,
Seeing your reflection at your prey
As a signal of your bare eyes.
For each shredded piece
Of uncaressed flesh,
On the other side of an edge,
Envisioned, frosted gates,
Send bewitching signals
To ships, on their turn
Past the blood.
A face of reconciliaton,
Embers, on the edge of eyelids,
While waves caress
Each carried form,
From the shore.
All broken stems
Kneel too heavy.
Fall too readily.
A signal, within the space
One form did fall,
The distant call
Of a heart that bled
While streams do blossom
Onto driest cheeks,
As the bleed
From eyes that weep
Pulled about the loosened veil,
Everything seems to rain
Around this battered temple
In the life most lived, within motion,
Exiting towards the estranged ocean.
The sun dressed me, its golden coat
For great abandonment from what is most
Capable to be undone,
Of decadent time, glimpses to be won,
In spite of everything newly said
Of a virgin tempest, where burns fever.
With passion’s bite, as destiny bled
Among what sadness did sever –
A loose stream, from a porcelain eye.
As I exit from all that rained,
Not to motion, never to spill
The watering gesture in everything written
Upon the disused hourglass that fills
This deep shame that I could not
Return to where blood did clot.
I left the door open, behind
That what passed could see me blind.
“Writing patterns and schemes in the work, is a direct result of reading them in people.”– Modern Romanticism
We can define all types of poets. Though, it can be believed that the universal aspect of a poet, is not by them simply penning the work, though to write about what they have read. Of others, in the world, as the poet must be empathetic.
The poet must have dug deep into the trenches of another person’s soul, to weep over their faults, to find inspiration in the work that might heal this brokenness. The poet, by their craft, simply sparks the feeling of company. As all suffering turns greater by the life of the hermit, the poet should demonstrate to the world the explanations that pain and loneliness needs not ever be the absolute combination.
While a person is alone in their pain, they have convinced themselves that no one could understand the hurt. This is, therefore, the role of the poet. Their task is to understand. It is not their task to be confused on the suffering of others. As that confusion should be understood as the primary error of a poet, then it is to the craft where actualized understanding can be expressed.
Into empty circles
Branded with your kisses,
Stained by the blood of your heart.
I can reach
For a void, where you belonged,
Yet, you still shower me in your excessive light,
Leaving love to my arms,
Caressed like a whimpering child.
Leave my own heart
To the storm of your hypocrisy,
That I might terminate
All the blood that flows through your halo,
That I might aggravate
All you filter from your mouth.
The blue nest
Of unguided Heaven,
Where my eyes rest
Is only a pinnacle of my surroundings.
Your stones beneath my feet
Are your shattered glances above my face.
Just a river
Filled with the same tears
We have kept close
Through the same journey,
The same years.