Echo’s Lament

Hello! New poem today, check out the blog on Saturday for the latest update of my story on Hagar and Ishmael in the desert.

For now this is based on the story of Echo and Narcissus. For back story, go here

Echo’s Lament

He sits down by
the smooth water,
staring and staring,
hoping to catch
his own porcelain
hand, or feel his lips
graze his own skin.
Though I wait for
his every word,
I cannot capture
his eyes or
his heart.

He and I are
bound by this
smooth mirror,
bound to repeat
ourselves,
bound to echo
through the hills
round and round,
bound never to
collide. How do
I end this twisted
dance of useless
sound, useless
longing? I am spent
on a dream half
spun,half a step
from living.

Thanks for reading! Thoughts, feedback always appreciated.

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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 🙂

The Dead of Cairo and Poetry

Happy Friday! I hope you are having a good day. I can’t say the same for all the people of Cairo. If you haven’t heard, there are violent clashes right now between the military and the muslim brotherhood. I can’t do the situation justice here, but check out NPR for great coverage. Listening to NPR last night inspired this poem for the dead.

This poem is specially formatted. For best visuals, please read on a full size screen (aka get off your smart phone!)

Warning: Deals with death. While not graphic, it may be triggering for some. 

Sweet Trash

Death smells sickly sweet,

democratically for all.

the same perfume for humans,

     for fruit,

          for meat,

               and the wide eyed fish.

No air freshener will hide it,

        no perfume will overpower it.

                                                                         Death lingers in all air.

Do the garbage men of Cairo

         remember work as they smell

the dead?

         Do their hands feel dirty

not from flesh

         but yesterday’s trash?

Who will remember these faces?

Not their li

ng

er

ing

smell

but their lives: once full of

sweat and sugar,

blood and tobacco?

Or, will these memories

be forgotten,

faded       mental

trash?

Thanks for reading and I hope you have a fantastic weekend!

Work is interfering with my blogging

Faithful readers: I’m sorry. I just started a new job, and well some things have to give. That being said, I will try and continue to post new fiction/poetry/photography here. And I will try to be regular again. But yes: there will probably be bumps along the road. So thank you for being patient, and continuing to read!

Today, I have a quick poem for you. I saw an old house blueprint…and well this came out. Strange where inspiration comes from. What inspires you?? I’d love to know!

Love in the Blueprints

Rating: G. SFW

He left me notes hidden in blueprints,
coded whispers for my eyes to decipher.
His arrows smoothly caressed my fingers,
his sharp lines wooed my eyes.

I gave him my dreams half built,
locked in words and hand gestures.
With only a pencil he translated,
hearing more than sound but the
shapes of my deepest desire.

Though my voice touched his ear,
I never saw his face. Though his
drawings beguiled my eyes, I never
saw his hands. I  wonder what
meaning underlies these coded hints.

My house stands tall now: a vision of grace,
wood shining, windows wide to the sun.
He has never crossed my threshold but
I hear his voice in the walls. Sometimes
I imagine his feet peek around my corners.

Do you drive by in the moon’s light,
watching through the window? Do
you look at your creation or me,
sleeping peacefully inside her?
Don’t you recall that these warm
walls were built wide enough for two?
Or is solitude preferable to you?

As always thanks for reading!

I’m Still Alive!

Sorry for the silence folks. I have just started a new job and with everything going on… I have been a bit neglectful.

But, I am still writing (amazingly, somehow I still find time for these things). Today we are back to ze poetry!

The Ringmaster

Rating: G

I watch you, tall
and full of life, the
crowds hypnotized
by your voice. Yet
I yearn to tear down
your gilded mask. How
do you speak in the
dark? Do you walk tall,
lost in a crowd? The
world has your many
acts, but I want you.

 

If you look closely...you can see me

If you look closely…you can see me