Rising from the Dead

Work has taken over my life…so naturally this fell to the side. Again, I’ll work it out, but it’s been a bit rough. Still able to be creative, which is good. But here are two poems (for now) and I promise more later

Winter Decays

winter decays
silently, quick
as ice
slithers down
jagged hills.
it moves histories,
and gives
death
new faces.

do not run in
fear:
embrace the
cold’s numbing
kiss.
The sun always
returns, rolling
the past
off your aching
back.

Decades Decay

Decades decay as
time passes, though
memory clings to the
faded light. Wasn’t it
yesterday you bought
your first record? how
awkwardly large it is
between your hands,
once, it was a perfect fit.

Time turns, though
memory sticks on
once bright moments.
All wallpaper peels
and fabric fades,
even your skin wilts
under the sun’s heavy
gaze.  But don’t
throw away the torn
paper or paint over
your face. Relish
this somber beauty,
hidden openly in decay.

For Seamus Heaney RIP

So Labor Day Weekend begins! Where will you be? I’m excited to do…very, very little. Laziness is a 21st century luxury. 

On a more serious note: Seamus Heaney died from illness today. I loved his poetry, and so this poem was born.

You died today.
I met you, once,
my hangover
aching 
just above my eyes
as I gulped thin coffee, praying
for my body’s forgiveness.
You rested
on the kitchen table, coy
and silent.
I read you and
fell for your bitter 
sweetness,
perfect for bright 
mornings, love’s lance
and whiskey
biting the tongue. 

And now you’re gone,
leaving only words
and spaces.
Could we sit by Galway
Bay, discussing important
nothings:
How light hits the water
and children laugh 
through broken teeth? No
longer. My mind 
replays your Irish accent,
my ego wonders: 
what you would think of my 
words, my need for a 
nod or a 
smile?

These questions are foolish:
The reaper stole your
tongue.
My question
mark hangs, waiting for a period
that will never come.

What will you be doing this weekend? Writing/making anything fun? Let me know!

Oh Hey Wednesday!

Half way through the week *slam dunk*. Yeah, it’s a good feeling to get here. I was going to watch the machinist…and then it’s 930. Seeing as I have to be up in 11 hours? Yeah, so not happening.

But, I have a poem for You. Yeah, I was pretty pumped about it too. I’ve been thinking about patterns of late. So this baby was born. I hope you enjoy!

Pattern’s Two Faces
A/N: SFW, Rating: G

There’s comfort in pattern’s
endless consistency: 
the way the sun rises and 
sets, 
the moon’s changing faces, 
how the tide just 
kisses 
the shore.

But then I recall,
the way a father rejects
his son, just as 
his father rejected him.
How an 
eye 
for an eye 
for 
an eye 
spreads only 
blindness and rage 
through space and time.

Patterns lacking hope
are a night without 
stars,
a morning devoid of 
dawn, the horizon 
absent 
from the sky.

I’ve signed up for wewriwa *bites fist* so stay tuned for a new section of Hagar and Ishmael’s story 🙂