My Grief
My grief is deceptive,
Quicksand that swallows you entirely
When you think the floor is steady beneath your feet.
My grief is treacherous,
A daylight attack from a neighboring fleet.
My grief burns
With tears and hot bile threatening to rise from cracked lips
Forcefully sealed.
My grief is unexpected,
A summer hurricane that sweeps my world under its feet.
My grief is mine,
Mine to bear, nurse, and greet.
Mine.
I grit the word between clenched teeth,
And I weep.
Song of the Recluse Writer
Won’t country nights be lonely nights? You said.
How could they?
The cattle are out of the barn,
Over the dew cooled grass,
Of this December night.
You would have loved the shed,
And the pond where I throw rocks,
To make the mirror ripple you ten folds.
It is easier in the dark,
But every now and then,
The clouds unshroud the sky.
And light is all but a liar,
Far traveler, the star’s death.
Ambitions arrive years later
And I have my own.
In this little corner, I leave the water’s edge, lily, cricket,
No hair, no leg dancing under the surface,
For the opaque shadow of the inside.
There are no lonely nights,
I say when one sits down to write.
I do so to conjure you, I say.
I say; how can loneliness fester in a house so full of your mother poise?
By the window, by the door,
The songs crawl out, looking like you and wet as the pond,
Soft as newborns, reborn, reformed,
Aborted a dozen times too.
I light a candle on the desk,
The dark’s cool touch scampers,
To the lights’ sweep over the room,
Where you suddenly lack again and pages are just that.
The wick’s timid dance billows,
A hand on the wall,
Waiting for yours.
Places
For all the times you stepped in and out of me looking for hope,
For all the times you thought sitting in that corner would help you cope,
Because the same places you escaped to invade me,
Are the different places you went to,
Hoping you’ll escape me.
Because all the quiet places smelled like battles of death,
Like a damned angel, you’re so out of breath,
An angel has always carried light, but never horns.
Smells of Jasmine, blood on its thorns,
Because all the loud places felt like home.
Sanctum of fears and tears,
Like a heretic cathedral in Rome.
Flood me with your waters, faith shall they bring to me,
Flood me with your waters, invigoration to flames they can only bring to me.
Burn, burn, burn,
Like a dissenter who seeks repentance,
Repentance for all of those places to accept your wrong.
And because all the places that made you belong, changed over time,
Like every other place, didn’t welcome you until you were strong.
And to all the places you so wanted to love but were occupied,
Because a place shall find you, cherish you, and make you dignified,
Glorified, immortalized.
Break that place and you’ll find yourself inside,
Because that place will empty itself to carry you with all your depth,
Will chant rhythms for your demons to dance in a grump.
You’re either a safe place or a warning,
Even when you’re a fire that’s burning,
Even when you’re an ocean that’s drowning,
Even when you’re a memory that’s fading,
Even if you’re a life that’s ending,
Because you’re either on fire or burning.
The Time Has Come
Facing four walls,
Each looking me in the eye,
Greeting me every now and then,
Blinking like a dog
And speaking nothing but movements,
Movements that speak
More than words could ever speak,
Whispering silently,
Comforting me night and day
Whenever I’m feeling astray.
Walls, walls, walls!
The hour has struck,
The void inside me
Finds pleasure in thy company.
For eternity,
You and I shall embrace like fraternity.
But now, the time has come for me
To dance in the prairies,
Cheery,
Away from the stillness of your little shell,
To play with the fairies and grab my diaries
To write of my daydreaming,
Of the time of green lands and blue sky,
Of vast fields,
Where there is only the feel of belonging,
Strong longing for living eternally by the side of all living things,
Longing to become something
That is in no way human
And more, more humane,
To feel the wind’s little fingertips smoothly on my skin,
To smell and see the wonders of nature.
The time has come for me,
The time has come.
Tick-tock
The gravity of time holds me down;
Like a tree I’m growing up in my place,
Or a bird caged in my own space.
I keep waiting and hoping;
For my dreams to bloom,
And for my wings to come out soon.
But the harder I fight life,
The farther it pulls me under.
I’m tired of starting over every time I lose,
When giving up hurts less-
than anything else I may choose.
Call me weak for wanting to let go,
My burden is getting heavier
And life refuses to slow.
Yet whatever happens to me-
in the days to come,
I will always thank myself first,
Because I’m not where I came from.
And for you who are still not apart;
If my death arrives with a poem,
Then promise my cursed soul-
A burial next to the Sacred Heart.