If I could gather a handful of dawn and a handful of sunset,
I’d cut and polish each handful into gems
For you to keep,
To take out and wear as you would wish,
For there are no stones of value containing beauty enough
To give you but these that are not true stone—
Yes, a handful of sunset,
A handful of dawn—
Their beauty ever constant,
Yet ever changing—
Daily renewed—
The only things containing beauty enough
For you.
Is this what you, indeed, wish?
The feel of some bold mystic chaos
Contained within the fire of kisses
Traveling along the boundaries
Where lived an identity
You lost long ago—
To feel that chaotic fire
Burn away the identity
You wear today—
Feel passionate softness
Twist within and around
Leaving bruises unseen
And you undone
In twisting mystic
Chaos of fire.
Walking through days--- There are too many left And not enough To let me forget. I walk into sunrises Into sunsets-- There are not enough Sunrises or sunsets left In life to let me forget And too many yet to live To live in remembering. I walk to gain forgetfulness. There are not enough miles, Not enough steps, Not enough earth To walk To bring About forgetfulness. I walk, seeking shelter From thunderstorms Yet they remind me. I walk, seeking exhaustion In the mountains Yet they remind me. I walk, seeking the healing of salt From ocean waters Yet they remind me. All speaking In whispers Of the earth’s remembrance. It all reminds me— The brilliant azure sky, The verdant green of forests, The primal roar of oceans, The Rorschach shape of clouds, The roil gray of storms— It all reminds me, Brings me back Nothing allows me to forget.
When the prowess of early morn
And the touch of dawn’s fingertips
Overwhelm my heart and soul,
I am reminded of some story
I heard somewhere as a child—
From a book or cartoon
Or some sitter’s wild
Imagination of bedtime tales,
The story of the gargoyle
Who was beckoned
To a place in heaven
By an angel fair.
And there the gargoyle stayed
For a day or three or more
Or maybe a week or three.
For a moment,
The gargoyle knew sweetness and joy,
Thinking, perhaps, for once, just this once,
The universe had smiled down
Upon one of the gargoyle race,
And felt the cracking of stone begin.
But the gargoyle, being a gargoyle,
A somewhat silent, stony creature,
Soon bored the angel who withdrew,
Having angel business to attend too.
The gargoyle knew. Knew from the start too,
But had hoped it was not to be held true–
That angel and gargoyle were not a pairing to be made.
Such creatures being out of each other’s realm
Cannot last but a season or two.
So, the gargoyle fell to earth again
To crouch forever upon a building,
Keeping watch upon the city and the sky.
The gargoyle knew this was the nature of things
And thought itself blessed for ever having known
The sweetness of an angel.
For what angel had ever doted upon a gargoyle?
The gargoyle asked.
For years, the gargoyle crouched,
Watching the city and the sky,
Remembering, reliving the sweetness
Known of an angel.
Yet wishing such sweetness had never been tasted,
Never been touched,
Forever was too long to remember
The memories encased in stone
Where wind and rain would never touch,
Would never wear them away.
Thus, the gargoyle paid the price
For allowing stone to crack.
In the language of gods,
we speak in whispers
of the luxury to touch
And know all there is
to know of heaven and earth
mingled here in our hearts
and in the earth
beneath us–
a braid
we create in ecstasy
of feeling knowing
all there is to know
of ourselves
and each other–
the sweetness
of rapture
dripping from
the soul
I swore never to give my words away like blossoms in the spring.
Yet, I marvel at all the words I’d gather,
arrange for you in artful, elegant bouquets.
I’ve keloid locks where my words are stored.
I possess not the oils to soften those locks,
Trapping my words deep in their vault,
My words may never know freedom.
Yet, I find myself streaming petals of words for you
In hazy, lazy patterns,
Knowing you have the wisdom, the soul
To read my words much like braille—
A code of sorts–
So you can hear and know,
Though unspoken,
All my words bestow.
A scent upon the air this morning still
At least in these wild imaginings—
With the colors of sunrise muted
By the humid haze hanging in the air,
My eyes close to better see the glow
Of white skin by moonlight,
To better catch the scent
Of her in the slight breeze–
And then—I do not know—
It seems I feel the touch of angel feathers upon my face.
Don’t know what to do
when I dream of you.
Waking, I want to drench
my brain in pure bleach,
soaking it through,
until all the colors of you
out of my soul leach
and no longer do I miss you.
This is the lesson of you,
Oh, the things you do teach–
Wearing your blue mantle
Lined in blackness
With your crooked fingers
Tipped in painted red do you reach
Ripping out hearts
Adding to a collection
You keep in a box.
Until the day of the dead,
When you light your fake fires
And scented candles,
Spread your blanket
For the time to admire
All hearts in the box of your collection,
Chant your incantations and prayers
To La Muerte for protection
From the evil you spread
And La Llorona for aid
Searching for the newest victim
From whom your red tipped claws long to rip a heart.
Sleeplessness always told the story
between the back when and now,
what she once thought a game,
tracks leading nowhere.
This last section of living
something not well lived.
A swirl of memory
piercing through knots
too tight to be undone.
She had lived without a plan,
having a heart that spoke in tongues
she had yet to understand.
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