The sadness
is sweet and sharp:
a cacophany,
a Universe
of ocean
that rages and
rocks
of which I
can only
provide glimpses
through
the glints of
salt stars.
The cavernous
pit, and expanse
of echoing promised-pain
makes all the darkness
terrifying
even the luxurious
shadows of safety
that beckon
softly.
A refuge, a
sanctuary of
stillness and repose.
This doubleness
conflicting
commingling
is mad
madness
maddening.
But it is
ancient,
as old as Moon
herself.
Bedded in me,
my soft peachy flesh
of limbs and heart,
there is space
and containment. And
I hold and keep the
embers
that makes this
darkness visible.
poem
I squirm and thrill
I squirm
and thrill
with sherbet
in my mouth
as I dip into
the inky pools of
irony.
Black,
hilarious,
that
I long to sit
cross-legged
at the feet;
feel
inequipped
besieged
at the front.
What a
mockery
a show
that I
should sow
seeds
when the
soil
feels more
like my soul,
in limbo.
Not
ever-so-
-young,
but feeling
more and more
like a novice
each day.
This life,
experience,
so vast
at once
mountainous
fluid and
fragile:
made from nothing
signifying it all.
Dusk is for fireflies
Dusk is for
fireflies and
lime liminality:
night cushions
and enraptures,
no mock stars.
I gasp
then fold in
and in.
The plunge
is breathful and
receptive.
I lay there,
my back finally
unwrinkled,
and I didn’t
wince or yearn
from myself.
Bathed in breath
I listened:
I heard
a whale song,
a lament.
Mournful, sighing
for children
who have lost their way;
who supped on milk,
and forgot how
to dance in starlight
and kiss the Earth
with grubby, curious hands.
Dreamers, with indigo souls
as deep as the
murmurs of night,
distracted by
false light
absorbed and obsessed
with their own
shadows.
The owls are coming,
their eyes bright,
with wings
ready to
shift and glide
over the currents
of torment.
Clear-seeing,
rich is silence
cutting through
the chaos, illusion
and deceit,
to gentler
enigmatic shores.
Moon baby
The channels run silver,
Moon baby.
New moon
I bloom
in the black,
ready to receive;
listening
to the whispers
of the stars,
now that
our glowing orb,
pale,
is in darkness
transfixed.
We kiss.
Enveloped in
softness
I turn
my hopeful face
to the vault
as I dance
on the threshold
of the twenty eight.
My dreams
run like trains;
planes hit by
waves;
caught in a
building
burning
and fashions
march by.
Saint Campbell,
Mother’s son,
what initiation
is this?
Of the body,
my body,
that rings
when we kiss?
Harping On 