my belle moves me always,
rendering snake’s blood spent on you.
fair shade back from the waste, sundered,
driven into the hallway, homely and spooked.
blurred, side face, it is almost the same.
now teeming with wild, you in mask are rising,
and i know this way in spring.
snake blood
Mariposa
i heard a neatly whispered word
from where i fell deliberately
into a smiling mess of wild,
a kindly kind of memory.
there by the walled-in, kept-out hillside,
littered with its darker stone
and calling curiosities,
i heard a word quite made for me-
Mariposa! Mariposa!
oh i have come to think of this often,
namely that name, the excitable beast.
my eldest perching’s leaves all quiver,
how she stands fast in summer green
against the wind that comes with me,
that ever-wand’ring easterly.
and trickling down the branches spread
so widely cross our fickle wall
come inklings of the spoken sort,
all babbling quietly, they crawl.
then out from a pool of colorful
folk, the ones who set that darker
stone, sounds a sort of strange lament
washed nicely as the sun bleached bone,
(by some joyful sand since spent).
Mariposa! Mariposa!
oh i have come to mention her often,
thought well on what a heaving turn she made,
she must have made.
But make no haste!
there borne up on you Mother Mary
sits side saddle, swollen,
sick with child eleven resting,
resting in her able womb.
you trot well
when swiftly comes a legless thing or
fate shaped up as a rod,
idly basking, scaled, with cold blood,
right there, coiled in her earthen path.
the serpent’s deathly flash!
and Mariposa rears quite well,
equine, with fear in each flank,
to send her good mistress
sprawling unhindered
hard to the sod by that damnable snake.
oh our earth forgets much mercy
for she lost her child then, when harsh
descent came, left me wondering,
just where it went and with what name.
and i heard a neatly whispered word
from where I fell deliberately
into such breathless company,
those members of my family,
and Mariposa.
so that kit rabbit was not fast enough. or was it caught while and where it slept? was it dreaming?
good work, cat. tonight i held a dying thing. it was not the first time and it will not be the last.
oh but the sound it made before i came! rest easy, friend. and maybe clover waits for you someplace.
the A string broke
the A key broke
novemdesubterraneus
just beneath the night house, together
wading through the not-so-shallow dark
that is goose down ‘gainst my wanting heart,
brothers five stay quiet with palms outstretched.
bowed low but statuesque in vision
i sense that old song stirring softly,
is Harmony the Ghost Cat with me?
here where Mother Moon presides unseen.
upon the ocean floor we wander,
waves of black wash over us and swell,
deftly moving through our Daath-like realm,
i think that gods wake in the darkness,
-therein lies veracity.
it’s just poems about love and death here, i am useless.
they’re too dramatic.
here’s a picture of me that my sister took.
Niagara
i caught myself
before the torrential cascade,
between two realms i barely knew.
those white gulls turned slowly below me
and the busy beauty played too,
with a roar that struck what of me had been left,
deeply and soundly as love could,
and love did just five slow years prior.
so through the vaporous plume she pervades,
my Luthien, with honest hands.
reflected in each seabird’s wing,
a vision borne toward me by fate.
what day have I spent without the haunt of her?
what dream keeps her distant or plain?
in Niagara i forget myself
but i could not forget her, never.
while caught between the two, i thought
to throw myself into the river.
through
through myself i sew an ancient line,
a cord divine, that aged braid,
endlessly woven in upon its self
like boughs into a nest,
and there is no seam that i can see.
so wrap your arm around me,
or else reach forth with real conviction,
i cannot accept this lingering.
while before i saw us tangled fast
i’ve come to feel and see between
the winding ways we’ve wandered.
and though i’ve found this never-ending
version of myself, i want you,
for i could live a thousand years
and never change the way i love.
still you must be knotted with me,
or else find your other elsewhere.
but know that i would gladly sew
that ancient line through you as well.
after
there fell a harsh wind and it did lift me
while on the earth i would sink or suffocate
no, not the great wind i had dreamt of
this one was older, reflected in the sky-bound ocean’s waves.
there stood a temple where i landed
just outside a good white metal frame
where any bird could perch and blades of green
spring forth to join the grey cascade.
now i am many things at once
and one thing all the while
for my mind has turned forever back
to why fair feathers failed to fly.
and since i’ve left each labyrinth
on the wind that found me weeping
and came to let me see myself
and learn to know that quiet thing.
but what a horrid noise it made, at first
a shrieking clamor, dire voices,
my own flight could not forget its burn
until the quiet came.
and with it came all feeling
that with the right clouds i have felt, and cared for
any moment i could call divine but never rightly name.
what was in the tall grass with me,
before i had this night sky-look
before there was an after, and the moment was a holy thing?
i’ve just been a child turning slowly
i’ve just been a child thinking on how life leaves us
with a furious flutter the way i saw it done.
GK
join me
at impossible angles,
naked beneath our shared cloak,
statuesque with
flat around us,
drawn inseparable
with deathly necks,
ere the precipice
was drafted
we were made
with warm compliance,
held and being held,
not seen by one
but placed in gilded frame
where amber eyes might wander
and be left to wonder,
for who could shape
contorted lovers
quite so well
and carefully?
be joined
in this design
with me.
Realish
laughably fractured
fleshless and long-haired
just couldn’t touch you
if i tried
and i wouldn’t
so i talk like i tip-toe
flirting with friendship
catching a bird in flight
then starting to wake
do be abrupt
foul shadowless shake
spooky and fake
ink-breath
utter word not writ
with the crystalline grit
the depth of death
and sweet affections
free of that slow taper’s scrape
now with open twisted ear
will she find him very near
with ink upon his breath?
taking heed of blistered thumb
each page is turned by muscled tongue
fluorescent word
of inky dream
assuring she of iris pure
that beam supreme on his gray shore
so will she find him near to her
with starlight on his brow?
raspberrypathfinder asked: Without thinking of good or evil, show me your original face before your mother and father were born.
