Freedom from oppression
Left us open to translation,
Open to expression
Still plagued by conflagration.
Protestant meiosis,
Becoming less, and also more,
But the cells suffering necrosis
Are isolated from the core.
Still these arteries developing
Cause evolutionary confusion.
Similar cells are trespassing
During a standard transfusion.
Until these ages gray and die
And the erosive effect of sin,
Isn’t reborn like you and I:
What is broken works again
The way it was always intended.
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.
Midnight was in her raven hair,
But I saw not her shape-
She rode with the fury of hell at her back,
And a locket chained at her nape.
And the beat of the hooves, and the billows of breath,
Was the rhythm of her escape.
I spent the evening with a friend,
And as I tarried late,
I took the wooded shortcut home
To the back of my garden gate,
And there I stood, and there she passed,
The crossings of the fates.
Depression is the next seduction.
Stuck in another deconstruction,
I hate the long transitions
Stuck in my own sedition-
How long are these traditions,
These binary oppositions-
I wish I could follow instruction.
I wish I didn’t speak destruction.
I miss the walks on the sandy shore-
I know I don’t belong there anymore.
No one thought I’d find subsistence.
It’s hard to break the habit of resistance.
I want proximity that isn’t coincidence.
Every part of life is long-distance.
I’ve walked all the new roads before
There’s nothing left here to explore.
I feel trapped in a world of vanity-
Ego is the worst profanity,
And we’ve built our towers high.
I wish I could still see the sky.
I wish I could hear the tide.
The waves are just implied,
But they were once my sanity.
What do I contribute to humanity?
I wish I could find my purpose.
I’m sick of the three-ring circus
Everyone is a juggler at a cheap fair
Everything stays in the air.
I meant to be more prepared.
I’ve dropped everything on a prayer,
And a cluttered surface.
I forget when I get nervous.
I need to take a walk to remind me,
I need for You to find me.
I’m good at shutting out the noise,
Carving fancy decoys-
Some towers need to be destroyed.
Deconstruct these cheap ploys,
Show me again Your glory,
Tell me again our story.
Two weeks in the ground,
and the family’s dried up
so he carries them home-
his bride’s dead shrubs.
“Oh, he loves me still,
still, he loves.”
She places the black blooms
in the front room, unforgotten
she admires the dry petals
crisp like starched cotton
He eats quiet, sleeps fast,
and leaves with no kiss,
to tend stones and bones
and she tends his.
“Oh, he loves me still,
still, he loves.”
Roses need not open red
with petals silk to skin.
Beauty is, in life, in death,
where it is seen akin.
Throwing decisions over my shoulder
Grains of salt to the fates
Waiting and watching and working
I can’t concentrate
On the weight of these days.
Brooding inside me, in my neurosis,
All the pieces fit,
Falling into my obsessions,
The passions I won’t submit
And who will acquit me in my guilt?
One day more, one more week,
And I know how to fight
Addiction with distraction
Ignore what incites
But I’m not contrite enough
to marathon.
Darken the lights and dim the senses,
These days are long, and senseless,
Feel the same old something different,
Something deliberate or irreverent
To break the ice and crack the dam
Or wash away what I am.
Is the old world gone again
Or dead again
Weathered from self
Or talking lies to each other
weather and agendas and
walking surface streets
near but not together
Is the old world mourned
or underground
or do we hold what remains
of barefoot days
bare headed in wind and rain
and raw, bleeding laughter
After sunset, after days,
I wanted a lover in secret and dark
and whispers of alliance in ears
Too young, too small
To hear the storm
Talking, talking,
but never whispers
Ferocious gale storms
Battering windows that shake
and moan and creak and threaten
to give all- to give way-
Hungry, angry, the tempest grows
Screams devoured silently in its center,
But whispers…
Ah… whispers echo all.
Then the morning,
Sunlight breaking as a fever-
branches strewn like fallen garland
homeless leaves flit and wail
seeking, searching,
never found again
but by death, decay and rot.
The acute pleasure of fear
Eclipsed by the organic waste left behind,
Proof of storms and fury and sin
Proof of mankind
written in waste.
Silent and snow-dusted,
Slumbering on their feet like sheep
White in the moon,
Huddled together to sleep.
Too innocent to fear the harvest,
Too old to anticipate delight,
They stand shoulder to shoulder-
Invincible tonight.
And their entire world is ever green,
But for the falling snow.
I concede to the chill to see
The wonder and mystery bestowed
No child outgrows.
Black coffee cat,
Scat!
This is not your back stoop.
Troop of omen
Moan and wail, but
Leave me to my own.
What evil eyes shone
Through the night-
Lies! Threats!
Begone! Fly
Mangy imp of the devil’s devices
Limp back to hell,
Leave me to my own.
Hatred,
Did you burn against me?
I’ve read your words,
Your confusing medley.
So ready to sell me off,
Or chop me down.
Mute,
I walked where you gave me
Your land, your soil.
The grass knew my bare feet
The blades cut my song
Into bone.
Wet hair,
I fled like a maniac, laughter
Flowed like tears, hysteria
I chased the morning after
With ten more years
Of barefoot races.
Lost
And lone by your design.
Thorns can’t blame the rain
But beauty always intertwined
The downpour, or I
Would lay down blind
Under your dark earth.
viewingcamelot 