Reset
Sometimes we find ourselves encumbered,
sooty with our tribulations,
heavy with our trials,
loomed over by mountains,
and tripped up by molehills;
our hands and knees are grazed and stained,
our faces flecked with dirt…
So burn it all!
Tear off your clothes,
and throw them into fiery pits.
Come roar with me
in flame,
and shame
the hurricane, by comparison.
We’ll blow and torch it from our skin.
We’ll watch it sizzle,
and scorch,
and spin…
At last.
Not a sound but beating hearts.
Not a tree or blade of grass
surrounds-
just us.
Just…
now.
Just blackened earth, and ashy sheets.
Just glowing coals, where once were eyes.
Just red-hot poles, where once were bones.
It…
emanates,
eliminates,
and consummates the act.
We let the winds brush off our skins;
our souls,
revealed,
intact.
We cool,
collect,
breathe in,
accept.
We rise,
redress,
breathe out,
Reset.
I wish I’d cooked you breakfast
I wish I’d cooked you breakfast;
toast and eggs,
layed out in bed,
and spread like butter on pancakes.
I wish I’d bought you flowers;
pink and red,
all preened and stemmed,
on the table for when you come home.
I wish I’d cooked you dinner;
candles and wine,
with plenty of time
to relax, to unwind, to entwine.
But I commit to much more than a day,
to much more than a temporary scene,
for I intend to begin and to end
every day with you kept like a queen.
And every day will be our Valentines,
for as long as the winds kiss the sea.
My Intended Artistry (MIA)
It’s Sunday, and it’s morning.
You’re sat up at the breakfast bar,
elbows propped, coffee in hand,
legs crossed and bare,
pearly in the breaking light,
a pale, blue button-down does little to cover,
and I too feel exposed with this obvious grin,
not so much ‘staring’ at you
as ‘bathing’,
dabbing at the pinks in your palette,
every bristle coated in your color,
your magic,
and I ready myself to paint a masterpiece,
but stop short.
Head tilted, stepping back.
I lay my wetted brush,
and soak in primal views.
I could never paint a picture
quite as beautiful as you.
Raw
If I could scream
for twenty minutes straight,
I’d still have so much left inside.
I long for love to tear me open,
rip and split the shell that hides
and strangles me till I can’t see.
It burns to even fucking breathe,
cos every word has brakes applied
and sings like stings in both my eyes,
and punches me from inside out,
a hammerfist fights through my chest;
it thumps and roars against the cage,
throws itself against the bars, and whimpers through its rage.
Witness here the ugly side to passionate enaction;
the equal, opposing forcefulness of raw and fierce reaction.
I am the medium
You are poetry.
And to think I nearly mistook you for a muse
when all along you were already written.
All I can do is paraphrase
your rhythm and your rhyme.
Let it breathe
Easy tiger
let it breathe, like wine;
the nose, I’m told, is key,
before your lips and teeth and claws,
before your heart and mind implore
that you embed and bury deep
and sink in deeply fruited sleep
– far down, far down, drink up or drown
or swim the viscous, ruby death,
and with your final, burning breath,
remember this: demise is sweet,
but death by love is still defeat.
Resist the urge, and take your time
to drink your love like fine red wine.
Enter
Don’t hold me back, or dare to slow;
why should I walk when all I want
is to be free of chains, and throw
each part of me at walls to see
if something sticks, and patterns show,
depicting just how fast to go,
or bleed in streaks – the colours speak
to what I must already know;
I cannot tell what love I seek,
but I shan’t enter soft nor weak.
Beady-eyed
‘Tree Frog’ by Candace and Joe Zetter
I am the bead amongst the reeds;
consider this my only warning.
Poised by night, and held till morning.
Stay awhile. Come hide and seek,
leak not a croak, make not a creak.
As you attempt your nightly deeds,
beware the bead amongst the reeds.
I am the fresh, the flush, the mesh
and weave of leaves where you can rest
inside, entwined, in pillars of dew,
where the air comes to settle and the sun slides on through.
Succumb to the rustle. Kick on back and concede,
and pay no attention to the bead in the reeds…
Strut
Untitled, by Saskia Neville
Dress yourself in royal quills
and strut upon the palace walls,
but you won’t fool me with your trills,
cos through it all we hear your squalls.
That’s not to say you don’t look grand,
your colours mesmerise and stun,
but just be careful where you stand,
for in the rain the colours run.
Just threads between
Throw me down, we have the time,
and taste for flushed and salty skin
that simmers as we crawl and climb
upon, beneath, between, within,
and rolls the black and blue of eyes
that match the bruises on her thighs,
reminding me to treat her gentle,
hold her down and drive her mental,
clasp and press and wrap and writhe
and nestle as the gasp subsides,
till all that separates our skin
are threads that dance on pulsing sin.
Laid Bare
Who knows what form –
who cares? Who dares
to comprehend
(or try pretend)
the fair, the storm,
the wild, the norm,
the fear, the fire,
the cold desire
that shivers for the glare that tears
and fells the jungle of your temper,
bare and open to the weather,
plain to see (and hide, in turn).
The days, they freeze.
The nights, they burn.
Absorbed
True, we cannot stare into the sun,
instead we turn about our gaze
and look for ways it plays and runs
through bare and lazy coils of fun;
and I’ll admit, I never saw
the sun like in those eyes of yours;
they swelled and held the earth’s attention,
soil and roots and bark within them,
marvel how as bright as brown,
as dark as light, drawn deep, I’ll drown,
and gladly sink below, beneath,
beside, reside, subside, release,
and through the skylight, watch it pour
the sun into those eyes of yours.
One sip at a time
My first poem of 2016. Written on a napkin in the First and Last Chance Saloon in Jack London Square, Oakland, CA.
Spread butter on your paws
and settle in, and drink your gin,
wherein you’ll find another sin
to claw at flaws upon your skin
you cannot shake; they snake and scar,
and follow you to wooden bars
embodied by the final hour;
the stiff and sudden empty power.
Taut
‘Align’ by Lydia Hunt
Something’s wrong.
I’m sore from all the plucking
and the tugging at my core,
I’m stretched and taut and split and caught,
and finally I’m seen;
tearing at the stitches,
my color itches for the switches
that relax the strings that tie me,
the cables laid inside me,
they twist and try to hide me
in a monochrome design.
I’m drawn (and live) in line.
My face toward the wall until
you will that I align,
so turn my cheek, and have me speak
the way that you define.
But I’m tired of all my wires,
your desires, and this game,
and you best believe I’ll draw upon
this pain to fuel my flame.
I dare you to approach me.
My poise is wearing thin.
This trap longs to relieve you of
the color in your skin.
Connected
How reliant we become
on being so connected
My journey’s just begun,
but I find myself affected
by the absence of your chatter,
and the beating of my heart,
which has slowed to but a patter;
I’m but a piece when we’re apart.
Though, why should all this matter
when we’ve hardly got a clue?
Each word’s designed to flatter
as we toy with what is new.
And yet, I hope you wonder
how I’m not what you expected,
and perhaps, like me, grow fonder
every time that we’re connected.
Hold on. Hold tight.
Become of me the journey’s end,
where finally it settles in,
embeds in skin, and wriggles deep;
begun in sleep, where dreams ascend
and bubble through the porous guise,
unveiling sparks behind my eyes,
encouraging a far idea –
from smoky holes they flea, in fear,
into my arms. I work to calm,
and gain their trust.
They may. I must.
Pass me by
Pass me by, but do not slow
or come to rest within arm’s reach,
just let me feel without a touch,
and swear your heart won’t let me go.
Look for me, but do not stare
or smile with both your lips and eyes,
just say it all with silent sparks,
and know I dream of what you dare.
Think of this, but do not sigh,
or hide your blues in summer rain,
just find your knots and bows untied;
come look for me, and pass me by.