Does the magnificent butterfly
Shedding her chrysalis
Shed also tears -to cry
Or reminisce
Of caterpillar feet,
Big lazy days,
Big leaves to eat,
Simpler, unsightlier ways?
Or does the pain
Of breaking free
Erase the stain
Of all that used to be?
Category Archives: Passion
Function is Beauty
The Speck in Your Eye
Your self steps in your way,
unseen to you, you trip again.
You’ll pull yourself up,
brush off your sin
and continue on your stray.
You hold dear
all the right ideals,
but sideways,
with all the wrong ideas
fixed askew.
You crave worship,
so you can tithe a tenth
to the Most Holy,
like spiritual rent
or dues.
Waffles
The coffee pot sputters me awake.
My children color while their waffles bake-
The younger one loves what the older one makes
So as a show of admiration she takes it
and runs away. They call me, the judge, to break
the disagreement. Pleading their case so I will slake
their thirst for justice, and I agree and forsake
My kitchen station- My mistake.
I restore peace then return for the sake
Of waffles burning, big black flakes
Into the trash- everything brakes.
We sit with what remains. We partake
Together.
And when these perfect days are over,
How will they ever be replaced
With anything but ache?
Stargrazing
I pluck the star from swirling deeps
The burn, the flameless fire creeps
like an epitaph unsung
across my lips, along my tongue
Scouring, devouring, I swallow it
down my gullet to my hollow bits
There, the swimming fever roils,
my pulse screams in my ears and boils
all the quiet, saner thoughts to death
With light and fire on my breath
I exhale and beg for rest, beg for time,
to digest the star I ate as mine
And when these tremors still, all slaked,
when I am well, when I awake,
I will gaze back to the sky
and wonder which star next to try.
Tides and Toils
I want to write all all day.
Instead, I pull myself free
sideways, out of the riptide
that would release me
into an ocean of words,
images, ideas; the vast
wilds and winds of Wonder
wherein each poem is cast,
and forms, and floats,
and gets washed back.
Homecoming
Over the bridge I thought I burned;
Has this trip home been decades late?
Yet I remember every turn,
And every smell, and every taste.
Memories scattered by the road
As wild poppies on the highway,
Past each new bend an old bloom grows;
And not one has died away.
Following the flow of paint and tar;
Headway through the pain and loss.
Sorrow never stretched so far,
Nor was a greater ocean crossed.
I pursue my childish apparition
And the smell of salt in the air-
Have I forgotten my root system?
I am from somewhere.
I reach the end of land,
The end of me, the end of running
Chanting waves on cluttered sand
Sing the forgotten into forthcoming.
All these years of mourning
A land that never died.
A sudden break in storming;
Nothing is lost. We are alive.
Staring into the waves and wind,
Until the sea stares into me.
I remember who I’ve been,
And who I may still be.
Communicating with You
All these words come pouring out
Like booze from the bottle,
Screams from the bereaved,
And some things aren’t throttled.
You take me with a grain of salt,
But I know you haven’t been
Walking the same bitter earth
And dark hour I’ve lived in.
So when we are done sparring
With syllables and sentiments,
And supporting self-aggrandizement
With our petty resentments
Maybe I’ll hear you, really listen,
And maybe you could lower your defenses
To see what I’m weaving isn’t
Dangerous or wild or senseless.
We could commune
In honesty of thought and speech,
And love could end the war;
Love could bind the breach.
Through the Looking Glass
I don’t call it by name
Because that’s an invitation-
I live on the river bed,
Underneath civilization;
I’m so still, but I feel the constant flow.
I didn’t know-
Rock-bottom isn’t a location,
But a perspective;
An after-taste of damnation
Intensifies redemptive mouthfuls.
I sank like doubtful,
But His fingers lifted my fixations
From a muddy grave.
I rely on His instigations
To prevent my constant sinking.
And the ebb and flow I’m drinking
Is His pulling me from desolation,
And my thanks,
And my falling from consecration
To my familiar perspective.
My sin is introspective
And narcissistic contemplation-
And are these blues
Sin- or the excavation
Of repentance and remembrance?
The Devil in the Deep Blue Sea
Break, my little boat, break,
Through the tempest, out to sea.
Hear in the howling winds aswirl
The final song I sing.
Close up my regrets and sorrow
Below deck, in rhythmic dark.
Let all my love and hope sing
Above board as you embark.
It’s time, my little boat, it’s time,
You do not need your oars.
The current has you now,
And now the current’s yours.
Keep your course, watch the stars,
Bear the bitter winds that blow.
Carry on, my little one,
You carry precious cargo.
When you reach the other shore,
Give love its castle-keep,
But do not free my sad regrets
Take those to the deeps
Then sink, my little boat, sink
Into some mysterious abyss.
Go down into the depths
Where all the ghosts live.
So my widow’s walk alone in sand,
Searching the gray skyline,
Won’t yield my empty little boat,
Sea-soaked in the sour brine
Of memory and regret.
Nature’s Finery
Her once golden array
Flowing down around her supple limbs
When all was new and the day
Tangled around her sun-dark skin as
Sheets of desire, spilled Cabernet,
Wasted hours on foolish whims.
These winters, cold and cruel,
Unleashed unholy, jealous rage
She was passion- a capricious fool
Laying uncovered until engaged
The flawless fell to brutal-
The ageless aged.
She wanders wild, confused,
Clutching her threadbare shawl
Her lovers long ago excused
Her unbowed features fall
Into the wrinkle, spot, and bruised
By the loss of her enthralled
She roams in search of her wailing wall.
viewingcamelot 