Lady

my lady, should i tell you now, or would it strike your mind with fear,

how i’ve known you from afar, and yearned, and now the path is clear,

your mind shines warm within my heart, with clever quip and gentle jest,

i warm myself at your bright fire, and feel myself completely blessed.

my lady of the lovely eyes, at least that’s how they seem to me,

although i cannot see them shine, as you are yet a dream to me,

i feel your strength, and loving heart, and in your words i hear your soul,

and in your hidden arms i rest, at rest at last, completely whole.

Desert Knight

city lives and canyon eyes, the blue of distant skies,
crystal air and pinon scent compete with smog and lies.
through city traffic, city noise, he walks as if alone,
his mind awash with starfields, and the scent of cooling stone.
the smell of burning refuse fills his clothing and his hair,
the flames that warm the icy night reflected in his stare.
the city teems with tortured souls, a million silent howls,
a beast that grinds the spirit fine within its slavering jowls.
he walks alone within its jaws, and dreams a different night,
cold and clear, the stars so near they fill his mind with light.
and as he walks, the starlight gleams, a shimmering silver glow,
it spreads its wings behind him through the dirty sleeting snow.
and everywhere it fills the air, the scent of pine and sage,
it stirs the stagnant city smog, and cools the sullen rage.
and in his wake, the city’s ache, the all-pervasive pain,
is smothered to a fitful glow, an ember in the rain.

Song

what good are words when I can’t even tell that the mind in my head has gone numb, I can’t taste the world, I can’t feel the pain, I sing while I sleep, and they come.

I can’t feel at all, or maybe too much, an overload bearing me down, I try to distract, to make a new track, but I sing a sad song, just a clown.

the words come at night, at sleep and at play, they dance and they sing through my mind, I sleep all the day so I don’t have to hear all the people who try to be kind.

they can’t understand, they can’t feel the pull, the rhythm insistent and clear, they say write it out, just put it down, and they don’t know that’s just what I fear.

what good are words when I can’t even tell that the mind in my head has gone numb, I can’t taste the world, I can’t feel the pain, I sing while I sleep, and they come.

Fear

I need to make it clear,
the deadly way I feel,
that all the while I’m here,
this world is not quite real.

The floor beneath my feet,
the walls that box me in,
the voices on the street,
the screams beneath my skin.

My eyes within the glass,
my heart within my chest,
my too abundant mass,
a long unwelcomed guest.

I strain to breach the wall,
to shatter all the lies,
but still the wall stands tall,
and the world wears its disguise.

My fight will never end,
my dawn will never come,
my signal never send,
my voice is locked, and dumb.

The words come from my mind,
and from the deepest well,
and every line is signed,
with love, to you, from hell.

Falling

the walls are filled with pretty things,
bleeding hearts and diamond rings,
tables floating in the air,
and no tea pouring everywhere,
and marmosets with crumpet heads,
and queens that grow in flower beds,
pictures of the world I pass,
reflections of my looking glass,
a single chair rocks all alone,
and still I fall, a tumbling stone,
polished surface clean and slick,
so nothing thrown can ever stick,
and no one holds me as I fall,
I slip away, I hear them call,
and yet the walls grow longer still,
why does it take so long until
I fall onto the ground below,
to watch the tables shrink and grow,
and see the doors that come to play,
and laugh at me and fade away,
as the floor fades into mist,
I spit at them and shake my fist,
but still I fall into the hole
that seems to have no final goal,
except to fall and fall and fall,
and never reach the end at all,
the walls are filled with pretty things,
bleeding hearts and diamond rings,
tables floating in the air,
and no tea pouring everywhere,
and marmosets with crumpet heads,
and queens that grow in flower beds…

 

Requiem for a State

Deep within the ferny swamp,

a mossy hillside beckons me,

beneath the fireflies that romp

and play about a great Oak tree.

Beneath the Oak, upon a stone,

a figure sits, form cloaked and still,

awaiting my approach, alone,

a statue, grey, upon the hill.

Gnarled knuckles grace the hands

that rise to lift the heavy cloak,

revealed, the spirit of the sands,

the Lady of the great Live Oak.

Tangled hair of spanish moss,

and eyes a deep palmetto green,

the scars of years lie mapped across

the softest skin I’ve ever seen.

She meets my gaze with patient eyes,

her smile as soft as summers hum,

her voice, so deep and old and wise,

whispers “Child, I’m glad you’ve come.”

 

Garden

frightened flower in the dark,

silent, cold, and trembling,

feeling every bite and bark,

each angry word, dissembling.

the glare of disapproval, shame,

searing unprotected skin,

a creature formed of guilt and pain,

that burns and burrows deep within.

fragile flower, tender child,

know the world is bright, and wide,

come out, come out, to gardens, wild,

and taste the sunlight deep inside!

Mother

Swelling, growing, life within,

Kicking thrusting hidden limb,

Tracings under rounded middle,

Madonna, smiling, just a little.

 

In potentia, the child,

Soft and sweet or bright and wild,

Rough and tumble, party dress,

Peaceful time to sit and guess.

 

Knowledge gained, the plans begin,

Dream the life so deep within,

Dream the hearts that pulse as one,

And yearn toward tomorrows sun.

Ann, our key (poem)

I’m going cynically insane,
the more I try to use my brain,
the more I see the lies and pain,
my mind runs’round like a wagon train!

Cognitive diffidence, I really don’t care,
if my mind is here or there,
or hiding from the truths dark glare,
in a special sort of anywhere.

Lazy fair, the rides are free,
as long as you don’t mind the fee,
most will pay it happily,
to buy their couch and their t.v.

Free dumb, as the people glare,
at all the folks who take the dare,
to learn to live, and to take care,
not live in castles in the air.

Ann, our key, I turn the lock,
and stop the ever ticking clock,
that pushes businessman and jock,
and dare the laws of man to mock!

This one is dedicated to TRG, who has done more for my writing bug than I have, simply by being, as his name suggests, a helpful, amusing, appreciative and above all supporting…gentleman.  ;p  Thanks, Boss!

For Rowan, on her Fourth birthday

“…and though she be but little, she is fierce.”  William Shakespeare, “Midsummer Nights Dream”

little wonder, precious child,

tiny princess, sweet and wild,

silly angel, rainbow pearl,

oldest sister, great big girl,

all these are the things you are,

but not all that you will, by far,

for as you grow and reach so high,

one day you will reach the sky,

and spread your branches over all,

my Rowan tree, so strong and tall.

I love you, baby-girl…