An Absence of Reason and an Excess of Rain

Another sestina.  I really love writing them, they aren't nearly as hard as they look.  The erratic nature of the pattern helps me get my thoughts straight in the most roundabout way.  They also make me think and keep me from posturing, which is always a good thing.

Here I am, without

Surrounded by the foreboding of rain

Mind heavy with you

Heart suffering small

Thriving on thin promise

If nowhere else, I look up

Look, gaze, cling up

Without purchase for fingertips, without

The pink glow of promise

Everywhere is the weight of rain

Starting drops splatter cold and small

Smells like rain, and somehow you

You, you, you

Unbalanced, I tilt my head up

On this great plain I am small

Both within and without

Eyes shuttered against rain

In my ribcage blooms a promise

Tomorrow morning, miles away, promise

There will never be another you

My skin is slick with streaks of rain

I fall back and the rain falls up

Logical fit, I am strangely without

The value of reason is really very small

In reality, my frame is small

Physical restraint is a perpetual promise

But my soul is big and balloons without

Wearing a sad sweet smile that echoes of you

Tethered by a delicate string, tiny knots laced up

Dissolving quickly in the rain

Truly, I adore the rain

The size of the sky shrinks me to small

Always, always, I look up

This several-days storm has rolled in a promise

I have spent my time allotted with you

You, who are now something I must do without

This cave of rain rings silver with promise

You are a small wonder, you, and

Always I will be lifted up, even though I must do without

Light in the Cave

I love you, I think

I think because there is

A small dark hole right here,

In the center,

Small on the surface,

But grandiose underneath

Dry and full of coal dust

I am taking comfort in the sound

Of my own voice snaking off the walls

Wrapping around me like a thin fleece blanket

I am taking comfort in the promise

Of happiness on the horizon, for you and me

Though individually, in separate spheres

Daylight reaches round pale arms

Down into this cave

I stand in her shadow and she touches my face

I can smile, but

I love you, I think

And I think for that reason

I will stay in this cavern a little while longer

Let the sun warm the stone in his own due time

June 22

I found this in a notebook from the beginning of the summer and very much liked it.  I had totally forgotten about writing it.  

Even
When you are in
The depths of the pit
And life seems to be
"Over"--
Life
Goes
On.
Even
If all has gone wrong
You yet have your life
And therefore
There is
Hope.

The Beast

I cannot tell if that patch is
The deepest part of the sky, or
Merely unlit air over the country club
But I hear the thunder, I know it came
From that quadrant of the storm, I know
Its den is somewhere within that
Dense pocket of black
Watching me move back and forth with yellow eyes
Across the glossy parking lot
Even after the rain has stopped
And its eyelids grow heavy as
It sinks back into dormancy
I feel the wind in small lukewarm gusts
Like the silent sigh of a beast in hibernation

Yellow Flowers

Written not too long ago during some serious heartbreak.  I really like this one, though I hesitated to post it and still am not sold on doing so now.

Our story is beautiful

And tragic

A love story with a definite

Unhappy ending

Where you are too good

And I am not good at all

Where I am selfish

In my cruelest attempts to be kind

Where I am sorry

And we are both broken

An argument can be made

That having lost is better than never having

That pain is the lesser of two evils

But having lost is still losing

Silent tears taste like violent sobs

I cannot

I am sorry

I cannot for the both of us

And all the good of love may not be enough

You are precious

But I am responsible

This is beautiful

And terrible

Like yellow flowers in a porcelain vase

Bright, hopeful

Vitality seeping out

Drying and drooping

Dying slowly in a place where they do not belong

We do not belong

the pool

there is a draw to the

pull of tired eyes,the

run of streams of thought parallel

to each other,weaving

through the grass tendrils bobbingswaying through the current

somehow or another one is always music

the bed is empty,but silent,not calling

waiting patient on four small feet

wide and warm like a mother bear,but

infinitely cleaner

crickets countless rush by hours while

highway chirps and whines in spurts

sleeping is happening all around,in

houses and beds on the whole street

but maybe somewhere some is not,some

is dragging on like this

ball and chain to the weary body,the

soul is soaring to the stars

through the leaves of the apple branches in a

magnificent gasp for freedom

a nightly swim in the pool of darkand coolbut in a calming way

fireflies dip like fishes,floating,spinning slow beyond control

but calm,always

calm,without the need for care or planning

nirvana seems the apropos name,but

who am i to say it so

but this i know,when i’s and eyes are

heavy,too heavy to go to sleep

i slip away and swim,at night,in

the pool where all the spirits come

relax,and

for some reason,i think

they all are humming all the time

Sabbatical

You are unfortunate. 

I see you, I see

A shard of something shooting to earth

Cutting with a white light razorblade

Something slipped from the pocket of God. 

I know the color of your eyes. 

It has been a thousand hours, almost,

Since I saw your face

At a waxing gibbous angle

Walking back to your grandpa’s car

Yet I remember every line and shadow. 

You are unfortunate

Because you cannot be classified

By even the vaguest of labels. 

All at once, you are

Friend and brother and

Confidant and advisor and

Handsome and far away. 

If I were to save my pennies

For weeks and weeks on end

Would it be enough, or

Would something better come along? 

There is a fracture here

Right here, on the joint

Between what is unknown and what is speculated

Over and over on the verge of sleep

And boring afternoons in Spanish class. 

You outshine me in all your color

I cannot see you beside my beige.

Which does not mean I do not wish. 

I opened to you,

Deep and raw and unforgiving

And it was good even through the bad. 

Only now I’m afraid

Time has healed, as it will do

What was red and vital has cooled to something

Smooth, white, raised

Braille on the heart proclaiming your initials

Scar tissue wrapped around the splinter of you

That happened to work its way through my skin

Three years ago, when a snaggletoothed smile

Came through the door in winter

And lit up the side of the classroom

Where sat a pale girl in green and

A black blazer. 

I am afraid of making you into

A manikin, on which to hang

The clothes I see in a few years’ time. 

That would be the purest form of corruption,

Molding you into something I want. 

Nor can I lock away the negatives

Of the images of past encounters

Which would be tantamount to caging a bird

To ensure it remains undomesticated. 

I am afraid that,

For the time being,

I must dismiss you from the stage of my mind. 

I must retire you from the role you have played

And allow the both of us

A little creative freedom. 

Keep in touch,

For I expect to see you in a few months’ time

A few pounds heavier, a few inches higher

Marginally wiser, all the better. 

And who knows

What you will be then? 

The same, of course,

Can be said of me.

wishes on lashes

For someone I care about who deserves more than wishes.

wishes on lashes
made for your sake
to carry you through change
heartache, pain
rolled between finger and thumb to test merit
like a heart weighed precarious opposite a feather
found pure, and consequently
released on a puff of air
and the grace of your name

Little Bit of Matter

In my ears and into my heart

Catching words in a net till it bulges

Like stepping, calculated, to the edge of a building

Ten stories up, one inch forward

Then lurching backward off the face of the skyline

Spinning and stars in black blushing blue

I am so small and so clean

In a big, filthy world

Shell-shocked by the slightest smudge

Proud of that fact

I hope to preserve that

Wash around me, sit close on the subway

Live in the apartment above my own

But you cannot touch me

I take it in, I observe

I would like to understand

But stop—one step short of open

One step short of embracing it my own

See me, if you’d like, because I see you

That is what life is for

You do yours and I’ll do mine

The prince is magnificent

Inspired by Loki, Norse god of mischief and one of my favorite villains.

The prince is magnificent
Cloaked in pride and entitlement
Swathed in dark silk, sleek leather, thick fur
Crowned with gold tempered in blood and corruption
Coaxed forth from the threshold of enemy flesh
His jawline, his brow, speak of breeding exquisite
His body belies any mark of a blade
Fingers, interlaced like the strands of a widow's web,
Bear rings claiming fealty of numberless realms,
Are deadly as blades from the hilts of his wrists

His chamber is lit by the waver of torches
Burning mirthless in sconces of precious gems
The room is a temple to merciless cold
And the depths of a world long ago robbed of breath
The luxurious furs on his bed conceal tears
From the witch-hour throes of a creature tormented

While lit through the night, through the end of the gods,
Opposite the great headboard sits a shrine to a foe
A black marble pillar shrouded in witchlight
Glorious in the austerity of the design
Displaying a weapon of singular craftsmanship,
Singular efficacy, a king's device
Glimmering lonely in the eerie illumination
Devoid of a soul worthy to wield, yet potent enough
To pierce princely dreams
A sight preserved for the eyes that shine
Like new moons tacked over deadened coals
Alight with the sputtering flame of victory,
Feeble in the face of a bloodless existence,
Threadbare in the chill of a broken mind

Through the kingdom, whispers run in the dark
Stalk like lions on hissing paws
The prince is magnificent, the people agree
No more so than when he screams in his sleep
And the echoes weep through the palace halls
Pool at the foot of the empty throne
Fodder for ghosts who will not be disowned