[x]

Under a Witches SkyAnd lo there he said: "I am darkness rising"
— ‘an apparition bleeding into a dreaming sky
Distilled in the timbre of windswept voices,
black feathers enchant earth in fevered-song
Magick ebbs & shimmers thru earthen veins,
seething like a migration of hungry wolves
Silvery eyes peer, drinking the ether of souls;
watching the spirit world fold into the mists
And where Shadows and Witches conjure,
— myriad talons beshrew Winter’s prayer

For eons I hath wandered in forgotten lore
— a sleep walker thru ash & fire, hunting ..
Beneath Moon solemn and drifting,
I covet thy ghostly figure velvet, undressing
Pools of

The Man and the MoonHer mouth corners hung themselves
and I began to wonder if that was the death of them.
A simple, quiet death;
without broken fingernails lining the walls
with the stripes of a despairing end.
I began to ache with the questioning in my heart
with the echoes reverberating in my capillaries
of her face scorching sunshine in her smile
right before it crumpled
and nothing was left but a frowning moon
set firm in its resignation to an upcoming eclipse.

Dandelion QueenI dream of the ocean;
that paper-thin line where
the current swallows the stars
and the water churns violet

(you tell me to be
quiet,

dandelion queen, we've
heard all these words before)

tonight
I will sleep heavy
and wake a few hours before dawn,
only to forget my name

my wave-weathered heart will cry,
I will cry (my biggest fear
is drowning in too many
of my own weighted words

you tell me to be
quiet
so I can hear the world breathe)

I want to go home

SpeakeasyI can feel you like a phantom,
sensation without touch,
like breath in winter
or a misty mountain morning
that stays with me
until the stars fall in evening.

Your eyes contain the secrets
your lips would dare to betray,
but your body tells the story
and I am trying
to read between the lines
of your paperback smiles.

A grazing touch, a covert glance,
the memories remain
as skin grows warm and red
beneath lying fingertips
that claim incidental contact
a thousand times a day.

Of course,
it's not the kind of thing we say
when we are speaking
without talking and feeling
without touching
and thinking without knowing...

all of the things

Overgrown ColorsRed like blood on a rose.
White like bone and stars.
Black like reclusiveness.
Green like dead air.
Orange like the savage instinct.
Purity like a god's heart.
Red like thawing hatred.
White like a frozen, severe cry.
Black like the night's deprived shadows.
Green like the wind in the grass.
Orange like the light in the shadows.
Purity like the sun rising.
So discharging through the moon in a wheeze is like luminous white, dispersed red.

We Can't Be Together.Every kiss you plant on my lips,
Takes a little bit of my soul away.

You're stealing the passion,
You're invading my heart,
And killing what emotion I've left untouched.
Stop this.
I can't love you.

I've tried to before,
Oh my god,
Have I tried.

Tried to unlock the doors to myself,
Tried to open up,
And let you in.
But as soon as I took one look,
Negativity took it's opportunity,
And struck the hot iron I'd been molding.

Every word you mutter
My knees falter under
You're killing me

You're my kryptonite
I'm your paradise
But in this odd peace that seems to be approaching
I can't find happiness.

We aren't meant to be together
But this

Poet as PainterThe world
Your dusty palette,
The pen
Your muddied paintbrush:

Dip into
The impossible
Colour
Of imagination

And stain
The pristine slate
With an
Image distilled.

WindowsHere am I, repeated,
and beyond waits everything
but everything is more
than I can bear.

I am not built for altitude
nor looking far afield;
groves and granite-sided mountains
stop my gaze

like rest for every tired wing;
a cover in the coldest time
snugged up beneath my chin.

Windows nothing more,
but safe lies there behind them
as the chambered hours pass;

safe sleeps there behind them
on the soft side of the glass.

with thanks to frosttwo roads diverged in a soulless dawn
and you pull over,
idling on the shoulder of route 50.
it's a polaroid morning and
the world is as grainy
and sleep-heavy
as your eyes,
and one million miles
is not far enough.
it plays back, filmstrip,
blurred along the length of
optic nerves,
and here you are:
facing a choice between
on
and
out.
and this?
this loosejointed, hollowbodied
weightless ache--
this is what
gone
feels like.

Dry Spell I am immobilized by time.
by the idea that it is somehow slipping,
fleeting,
evaporating
through the cracks of
my fingers and high

above my head.
I am terrified by the incessant notion
that no combination of thoughts,
words,
silences,
or actions
could possibly satiate it.

I realize only now that it can never be filled:
all which is tossed into it is swallowed in haste
or stretched
so far
that it dissolves into non-being.
I find that I am caught within its furrows
much like the words it devo

BoyfriendI thought you were good.

You WERE good.

You played with my hair.

You held me when I cried.

You were a gentleman.

You made me laugh.

You kissed me.

You loved me.

I loved you.

It was then that I learned the truth.

The dirty, rotten, stinking truth.

About you!

You cheated.

You played with her hair.

You kissed her.

You loved her.

You made her laugh.

I saw you – don’t you dare deny it.

I saw you giving her that love.

That same love you gave me.

I break up with you.

You don’t even seem to care.

Did you ever love me at all?

Or was it only ever her?

Much later, you’ll realize what a mistake you made.

I

He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.

The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.

But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white a

PocketLeftover religion in the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
A key that unlocks nothing
A penny, a scrap of paper
With half of your name
Written in black ink

A song that is usually in my head
In the shriveled carcass
Of a long-dead dream
In the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
With the lint

You Don't Know ItYou don't know it, but you kept me sane
I nearly went over the edge
With a knife in one hand and a gun in the other
But you grabbed me
Pulled me back on my own two feet
Emptied my hands
And when you realized that I couldn't stand on my own
You hugged me
Like a mother would do for her child
Like a friend would do for, dare I say, another friend

You don't know it, but when you saved me
I felt free
I felt wanted
I felt needed
I felt, dare I say, loved

You don't know it, but when you showed me kindness
I fell in love
In love with your kindness
That same sweet kindness you saved me with
It felt like I found a new home
One that I could be, dare

Pull Her Hair/Stare At The StarsThe ghosts have crashed their ship
on the other side of town,
you can see it from the second floor
all the way over here.
You can see the white clouds
rising from the wreck
and a nova of heat, a big bright
nova of warmth pulling the moths and wolves
out from the woods (with their noses up and searching).
You can smell the yearning like bees
leaving the hive, like the grizzly brown bears
on the jagged white mountains (concrete and imposing).
They call it fear,
but I see these ghosts
scrambling up into the sky
and I like to think it's
something different entirely.

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Acutely AwareIt was cold that night and
those windows kept fogging (my handprint
wouldn't stay). I tasted peppermint
and smoke
on my tongue and wondered about killing someone,

anyone. Not for the blood on my hands,
just that

I wanted to hear someone scream.

He broke the silence, instead,
sledge hammering it with his body. Telling me
that I gave him a contract, long ago.

I signed my soul to the devil
the first time I tasted someone else in my mouth.

XGirlThe sheets were too stained
from sweat and fluids
for me to lie down and read. So you see,
I had

to rip them up and
burn them with the rubbers (it made
a horrid stink, though better than
the ghosts trapped in cotton);

I couldn't smell the crocus bulbs
at the papercut edge of turning.

Now my bed has layers of unmarred lilies (white)
for me to recline on and smell my memories because

not all of them

started when I would accept a half-smile
in return for a half-marriage. No; some
memories when I'd grin strawberries
and no one would smirk,

thinking only of my organs. Just
ice cream.

These words still don't read the

Burned Out GalaxyIt started out slow, as always, with you
stroking my ego (leaking at the eyes) and I
was not having any of it. I preferred steel
to your pillows and my cigarettes

to your mushrooms.

My fingers were not for you this night and
neither was my mind.
I was watching stars
that died a thousand years ago but still
kept singing their tragic songs
on my bedroom walls. You never really
understood why I papered my body
with pictures of necrophilia.

I just liked the taste of rot. I just
wanted to hear the crunching of someone else's bones
under my hands, instead.

Shade your eyes this time, dear,
I really don't want you going blind.
I may

Eraseher

Your girlfriend, she
smiled at me the other day. I couldn't speak so
I just looked at your pavement,

instead.

Her eyes were sparkling like those fake diamonds
you gave me over and over and
over again. I wondered if
you had slid a ring on her finger (around
her neck) just yet.

If she were a colour, she would be
a spilled bile duct on your mouth:
chartreuse.

Leafing BranchMy father
does not hear the briney sea
in the grooves of his conch shell ears
and he never feels the mean reds
like the rest of us, itchy-footed
Generation Y teenagers. He says
our hometown is THE best place to live,
by golly -- gee -- DAMN,
he grew up here for a reason.

He drifted through the seventies,
in a bubble of small-town bush parties,
a joint in one hand
and the deed to his first ever future
in the other. Barely a person,
he leaned his left arm out the window
and rolled his life right outta here --

again and again and again.

His father would frown slightly,
even though his eyes were used
to this blinding sun,
a

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The Man Who Would Chase Winter

by ~seanna, Jan 31, 2010, 11:44:21 AM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

A man who tore at my mind
like a half-forgotten dream;
pieces of ideas burning,
tugging my thoughts to him as a child.
For a moment, the present would not exist;
our world of dreams more real
than the world around me. Another gift
from him to me.

I remember late phone calls,
strung together as lanterns;
the only thing
that brightened the winter in my heart.
I was a risk not many would have taken,
with tears caught in my throat
and a howling in my head.
You gave me air
when I couldn't find my lungs
but love isn't a breathing machine.

I still have tears trapped in my throat
and I gasp for air occasionally
but the howling has grown faint.
Sometimes a man tugs at my mind again,
demanding remembrance;
I remember lanterns
and a world of dreams, all our own.

The Man Who Would Chase Winterby ~seanna

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

I was woken up by an idea and started writing it down before I even knew what was going on.

~sleeplessjewel Mar 28, 2011

I love "You gave me air
when I couldn't find my lungs
but love isn't a breathing machine."
So true x

~sleeplessjewel Mar 28, 2011

I love - "You gave me air
when I couldn't find my lungs
but love isn't a breathing machine"
So true x

~Vesiculae Jan 31, 2010

You are completely and fully able to write great poems once again. This was proof.

Thank you for making me feel through poetry for the first time in quite a while.

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