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The Man and the MoonHer mouth corners hung themselves
and I began to wonder if that was the death of them.
A simple, quiet death;
without broken fingernails lining the walls
with the stripes of a despairing end.
I began to ache with the questioning in my heart
with the echoes reverberating in my capillaries
of her face scorching sunshine in her smile
right before it crumpled
and nothing was left but a frowning moon
set firm in its resignation to an upcoming eclipse.

Dandelion QueenI dream of the ocean;
that paper-thin line where
the current swallows the stars
and the water churns violet

(you tell me to be
quiet,

dandelion queen, we've
heard all these words before)

tonight
I will sleep heavy
and wake a few hours before dawn,
only to forget my name

my wave-weathered heart will cry,
I will cry (my biggest fear
is drowning in too many
of my own weighted words

you tell me to be
quiet
so I can hear the world breathe)

I want to go home

the scars on your shouldersthe scars on your shoulders
are braille to me, so that i
can read your skin, so that i
can know you better.

i like to listen to your heartbeat
and how it resounds differently
from mine, just so beautifully
like two songs played in tandem
to harmonise in rounds;

i like to hold your hands
and rub your back
so that maybe my love
can find its way through your pores
and seep into your blood
(never can i find the right words
to tell you just the way you feel to me)

and to think that and how i nearly missed you
makes me miss you more
every minute and mile we spend
elsewhere.
i can't sleep with another body
in my bed,
but sleeping without you
leav

Overgrown ColorsRed like blood on a rose.
White like bone and stars.
Black like reclusiveness.
Green like dead air.
Orange like the savage instinct.
Purity like a god's heart.
Red like thawing hatred.
White like a frozen, severe cry.
Black like the night's deprived shadows.
Green like the wind in the grass.
Orange like the light in the shadows.
Purity like the sun rising.
So discharging through the moon in a wheeze is like luminous white, dispersed red.

He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.

The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.

But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white a

PocketLeftover religion in the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
A key that unlocks nothing
A penny, a scrap of paper
With half of your name
Written in black ink

A song that is usually in my head
In the shriveled carcass
Of a long-dead dream
In the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
With the lint

WindowsHere am I, repeated,
and beyond waits everything
but everything is more
than I can bear.

I am not built for altitude
nor looking far afield;
groves and granite-sided mountains
stop my gaze

like rest for every tired wing;
a cover in the coldest time
snugged up beneath my chin.

Windows nothing more,
but safe lies there behind them
as the chambered hours pass;

safe sleeps there behind them
on the soft side of the glass.

Dry Spell I am immobilized by time.
by the idea that it is somehow slipping,
fleeting,
evaporating
through the cracks of
my fingers and high

above my head.
I am terrified by the incessant notion
that no combination of thoughts,
words,
silences,
or actions
could possibly satiate it.

I realize only now that it can never be filled:
all which is tossed into it is swallowed in haste
or stretched
so far
that it dissolves into non-being.
I find that I am caught within its furrows
much like the words it devo

with thanks to frosttwo roads diverged in a soulless dawn
and you pull over,
idling on the shoulder of route 50.
it's a polaroid morning and
the world is as grainy
and sleep-heavy
as your eyes,
and one million miles
is not far enough.
it plays back, filmstrip,
blurred along the length of
optic nerves,
and here you are:
facing a choice between
on
and
out.
and this?
this loosejointed, hollowbodied
weightless ache--
this is what
gone
feels like.

Condemnedbeneath the beaten earth they lay,
their dreams condemned to ashes,
and our restless bodies stretch,
for forgiveness, for direction –

survivors of the abyss,
amidst wide-eye, silent soldiers –
so many dead, so many maimed,

how many graves are we standing on, today?

Pull Her Hair/Stare At The StarsThe ghosts have crashed their ship
on the other side of town,
you can see it from the second floor
all the way over here.
You can see the white clouds
rising from the wreck
and a nova of heat, a big bright
nova of warmth pulling the moths and wolves
out from the woods (with their noses up and searching).
You can smell the yearning like bees
leaving the hive, like the grizzly brown bears
on the jagged white mountains (concrete and imposing).
They call it fear,
but I see these ghosts
scrambling up into the sky
and I like to think it's
something different entirely.

SisterSister

A sister is like a soul mate;
Someone who is always there
to guide me through fate.

A sister is,
a part of childhood that I cannot erase;
A sister like you,
is one that I would never replace
because you always know how to
put a smile on my face.

I know I can depend on you
to always be there for me;
This is one hundred percent guaranteed!

I've had great memories with you
in the past;
and I hope there are many more
to come,
in the future.

Life, Death And A Pork Chop SandwichAll tangled up, hard to breathe
This steel cloud day that swirls
With heat and pounding hammers
I shake in my boots and cough up
Blood, rust and damaged flesh
Waiting for the second coming
Maybe next time around there'll be
Some chance for more than this

A twisted barbed wire halo
Wrapped tight around my skull
Blinding white light aura
Swarming with flies I'm flying
To pieces, thousands of shards
Cannot be brought back together
But I will remember the summer
Of my first Chevrolet in each bit

Gleaming bits of glass in the desert
Each reflecting a different moment
Still, now, enduring until the waves
Of a new ocean sweep them away
No pain

A Night By the FireNo light,
The light sired by the night
All above whilst the day's delights
Now disappears from mortal sight.

Faded away is the sun's power,
Taking the stage now is night's sallow flower;
Now mortals may behold the stars and falling shower.

Set in a pit Nature's skyscraper ablaze
And revel in the emanating heat as you gaze,
Looking down on occasion when you hear a crack from the fire
And witness "fireflies" flying away from mother's blaze;
Dying shortly after but not lacking burning beauty do they desire!

I look out towards the teasing shore
And meditate as we sit upon her door,
Thinking on what my future has in store;
Who I am now and even

Pretty little things called words and dustif you weren't a hypocrite,
you'd be wrapped in the sweetest
perfumes
(learning
how to engulf the ocean
with your lungs
and think of how to cup it
in your hands
despite
your broken prayers and
still be beautiful)

dance with the gypsies
'till noon
(a quake in
your hips like the thrust
of continents
and the faultlines
emanating from
your spine,
but still
so, so graceful)

sing with the nymphs
in tune
(your voice,
it's growing old,
raspy even.
your throat's burning dry
like a monsoon
faltering in a desert,

and tones
still octaves
powerful)

be nestled in a king's arms
soon
(oh, you precious
little thing.
how

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Grain of SaltA summer day
cascades into evening, with
breezes blown from shirttails
as the night enters
like a suited chauffeur;

his silvery hand lifting
like a sieve,
passing my thoughts
through foam capped waves
and moonlight,

mixed, tossed, and left to dry
in the morning sun
as salt falls through my fingers
into a crystal mound.

It is my troubles
pure and bitter to taste,
but I can ration them;
the scarcity
already determining the richness of my world.

What We Become

The skin around her eyes swells,
like the atmosphere, purple and pregnant with rain,
and across her gaze, an overcast
with condensation along the pain.
Her lids hang damp, like half drawn shades
but upon her breast, his words heavily laid.
On a corner table in a glass tray,
two cigarettes have burnt down to ash,
long forgotten
like the vows they made.

She sits with old journals beneath a tree
as the moon falls to rest at her feet.
Inhaling, exhaling,
his lingering musk,
hair wavering silver streaks.
Long twigs stretch out against the sky,
like splintering glass.
She closes her eyes, and waits for the crash.

GrowingGod is us,
magnified.

He is love and love is played on the chords
of instruments.
He is hope and hope clings to jagged cliffs.
He is happiness and happiness runs through open fields;
running with other worlds and never knowing,
falling and rising but all the while growing.

Satan is us,
magnified.

He is hatred and hatred is flung from the barrels
of guns.
He is pride and pride drums its fingers upon desks.
He is sorrow and sorrow laments into the ski

Developing GoldLights dim in the sky,
as the evening slips by,
and children are chasing
the last butter flies;
poised before the flash of a lens,
yet candidly as it slowly descends;
quietly on a pink horizon,
and trapping in a shutter of gold;

IrrationalO

         It’s funny, how           such a thing
     became the symbol  for love.   And the source from which it
    comes, and by which it stays, forever, broken, mended,
   and clasped by mourning hands.  Life's engine  that sometimes
     fails and sometimes persists to thrive; mechanically,
     systematically, resting on the covers of books, cards,
and tree

Through The Quiet NoonThe balcony,
where prison and freedom meet
in a hapless horizon--
seven stories high above factories
like blocks of sunsets
in the
              rising thermals of summer;

My shadow, unwavering,
falls across rooftops,
to reach for you in the distance,
with your screeching and halting
of steel against steel,
and the thumping of freight
               cars against your tracks.

I listen to your long drawn sigh,
exhausted from pulling your weight;
(and) you've already taken me
               through the annals of time.

I watched through your eyes as concrete turned to grass
and rows of brick to snow capped mountains ag

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Compresence

by *Moonbeams, Aug 21, 2012, 7:05:41 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

The specter pivots
in the straight-jacket of an untempered wind.

My fingers trace the back of another hand
in half wakefullness;

the silence has grown a body
to lie beside me
in all of its moldy breath
as the house begins to breathe
from its fissures.

The leaves in the garden are a thousand pleading hands
running across the hem of some archangel's gown.

Street lights plunge from their posts
onto the asphalt.

I will remember tomorrow
as if it were a dream,
yet the ground will spill with it,

as if death entangled itself with life
in the confusion of a wind,

and I lie half submerged
between an eternity
and tonight.

Compresenceby *Moonbeams

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

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