Wings

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(Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bee a Second Before Awakening, by Salvador Dali)

 

Sometimes there is a place,

an opening in the clouds

we shoot up into,

demanding God’s presence.

 

Within every cloud

you search the sky,

rip the sun apart,

tear through supposed

storms meant to kill,

but for your angels.

 

We revert to our innocence

while searching for

what is left of our

intact souls.

 

Take me to that path,

if not to God,

then to the perfect silence

of the Elysian Fields

where those without sin

walk a profound nothing

to drown

like a dying religion.

To Live

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Hieronymus Bosch

I will meet you

somewhere between the

theta waves

and this wounded refusal

to die.

 

But you have to be there,

truly be there

amidst the graves

and the killing laughter which

revels in your

every death.

 

The thefts,

and the burns

broadcast

a sudden madness,

your premeditated

deterioration.

 

Only when I washed up

on these brinks,

did I choke

on the tombs

of those killers.

 

The next storm

has already been planned.

 

I will be here

if you need me

with nothing left

to be taken.

 

Hermit and the Magic Blue Marble

aab33b40de44ffeea246e0190f5ecbee(Arthur Rackham, Comus.)

Part One

Beyond the pictured rocks

where lichen licks the ground,

beneath the cursed moon

where even wolves no longer howl,

within the hills and valleys

of the darkest forest floor,

lived a man named Hermit

from the gold archaic shores.

He was made of leaves and branches

and the soil he traversed,

he wore the wisest lifetimes

that have dwelled upon the Earth.

From the clearest turquoise waters

in the deep, subconscious blue,

the old time-traveler came upon

humanity’s noblest truth.

It was just a small, blue marble

that washed up on lucid shores,

when he found, next day, within his hand

which wasn’t there before.

He had heard of magical objects

like this marble, often in jest,

still, he wondered how it came to him

and what powers it possessed.

Hermit roamed the Earth with just

this treasure and his past,

his mind was free to wander upon

existence, at long last.

He witnessed wondrous miracles

that most others never see,

felt the depths of empathy

where the mind is truly free.

Part Two

By no means was Hermit a holy man,

yet, he’d seen a time or two,

occurrences lit unexplained,

no words to proffer proof.

He had seen some bearing torches

with their axes and their rage,

half-formed judgments, hunting witches

to their burning, exiled fate.

In a forest clearing where shooting stars

collect like dust,

survivors of the witch trials

piece their very own Sirius.

The walls of cavernous comets

climb the sky in shimmering gold,

each irreparable disaster,

like lotus petals, are told.

Behind tearful, dimming eyes,

they try with all their might

to break free of the hopelessness,

spread broken wings and fly.

Though his marble had gotten heavy

and his feet were swollen and sore,

he couldn’t bring himself to ask them

to bear half a burden more.

As he began to leave, to make certain

he did no harm,

one of the brightest dying ones

took the marble from his arms.

Suddenly something strange arose

like terror in her eyes,

a scorching, empathic realization,

a connection both were inscribed.

The powers this magical object held

suddenly became apparent;

it seemed to absorb the life experiences

of the person who possessed it.

The moment it was passed into

the hands of someone else,

the marble made it possible to feel

what the previous holder felt.

After offering Hermit a place to rest,

the outcasts chimed their goodbyes

as he set out alone, once again,

beneath dying, existential skies.

Part Three

Through the Hawthorne and Clover, the prairies and hymns,

over each disbelieving trespass,

Hermit collected each chaos like a quantum scar,

and with his marble he continued his path.

He was looking for a Queen by the name of Wretch,

for, this Queen Wretch had it all,

she had riches gold, she had tubs without mold,

she even had a dog named Raul.

Queen Wretch’s reputation was luminous,

her tantrums as known as her greed,

though it seemed lately Queen got a bit out of hand

so perhaps she’d need learn to take heed.

On his journey, Hermit saw over-turned tables,

he saw Redwoods and Elms snapped in half,

he saw wolves with three tails, peeped green, slimeless snails,

could have sworn he’d seen a motherless calf.

All the gnomes and elves who guarded the Queen

spoke in strange little symbols and codes,

they had much stranger methods to silence all creatures,

strike fear right straight down to the bone.

The Queen and her minions built castles and bridges,

they sent waves crashing down through the sky,

they trenched one’s worst fears, redirected wind shears,

made sure there was nowhere to hide.

A war-torn world the city became

under the evil Queen’s rule,

friends became foes, so tragic how most

intellectuals were mocked as mere fools.

A practical nature, Hermit possessed,

yet, a seeker of spirit and height,

he knew no one could grow under Queen’s reign,

as there seemed never an end to the night.

 

Find Me

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Promise me

that in your next life,

you’ll find me.

 

When you’re safe,

when you’ve healed,

when you’ve stopped hurting me

and yourself.

And it matters

right now

what we do,

because even if we get

another life,

I may come back as

starlight

seven light years from Earth.

And you may wonder why

this one star,

of all the billions of stars,

holds relics of

something familiar,

something almost painful

that makes you grasp

how far away

seven light years really are.

 

And if the starlight

finds you

in your next life,

remember when we took for granted

the time we shared,

and how many times

we crossed paths,

never considering that,

just maybe,

space and time

were trying to tell us something.

 

That, of all the possibilities,

of all the people or things

we could have been,

of all the eras

we could have lived in,

of all the particles or forms

we could have taken,

we had this life

on this Earth,

and, still,

we disregarded the fate

and the destiny of it all,

never considering that,

just maybe,

space and time

were trying to tell us something.

 

 

(This poems appears in my soon-to-be published book, “Piecing Shards:  Poems on Loss and Redemption,” out in June.)

Blood Moon

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Waters in those dreams
are what honesty feels like.

Ventriloquists throw trash at my feet.
I climb the vine to the valley.
You should read Ntozake Shange’s
choreopoems
for further interpretation.

Who exactly is the lunar translator?

You rush the rivers
to your capital cities,
to your toxic waste dumps
and in the scorn and the flight
of a liberated song,
you get a marred religious experience.

Brace yourselves.