We, rebels, we
In the smoke in the fog
In the streets in the dark
Run for cover, run for love.
Heresy, they cry, heresy
In the world in our hearts
In the sky on the throne
Breaking all bonds of trust.
We, men and women,
Haters of gray and lies and half-hearts,
Lovers of truth and life and battle scars,
Couriers of black red yellow and white
Against shadows of truths
We fight we fight.
The fancy utters of night in dreams
That lay me down in sleep so sweet
Do whisper, whisper of the soul’s delight
And the pinnacle of the mortal’s mind.
I traveled down a chimera path
With eyes gazing at stars who laughed
At my grasp too short, too short to stretch
The length of grasping at their breath.
I passed the shadowed trees of midnight hue
Drenched with angel tears for a covering of dew
Where each glisten was brighter, far brighter than the moon
And bark was marked with unearthly runes.
Was it here? Was I here?
Had my prayers at last been heard?
Was I where the light, the pale light,
And enticing night intertwined?
Would I find where the sea finally embraced the sky?
Or where the well would expose the secrets in Ligeia’s eyes?
Down this path, this chimera trail,
Was there a tapestry of Helen’s tale?
My heartbeat measured in mountains,
And my eyes became as fountains.
A glimpse of paradise, Eden’s grove?
A sea of glass and a sapphire throne?
Was I here at last where peace would overflow
The discontent brim of my weary soul,
And all of my desire, my one desire would achieve
And I, wandering visionary, would be at ease?
I passed the trees, the stars, the chiaroscuro scene,
The flowers, the dew from beings unseen.
My legs carried me faster and faster, like mad,
And doubt was drowned by hope joy-clad.
Had I found beauty?
Had I found life?
The stars, the laughing lights,
Harmonized in melodies of pure delight.
Had a mortal finally come upon the hidden abode?
Of what only offered glimpses in notes or in codes?
In words and sounds and blended colors on a canvas?
In the whispers of God in rivers, oceans, and us?
I rounded the corner, my hand on my heart
As light and colors and music and perfect art
Blinded my vision for an instant, a twinkling instant,
And my eyes adjusted to the floating dust and dreams of a mere existent.
I’m too much of a dreamer to want anything less than a lovely you
Your eyes, your laugh curl the corners of my soul
And fold my bones to mold into you.
The loneliness of lovesick angels
Squeeze my heart till tears transpire
For the lovely dream of a lovely fool
Who only wants to encompass the earth.
I lay, I dream of starry nights and stolen glances
From days when your smile would reach down to my roots.
The captured tongues of forgotten angels
With wings trailing in the dust
Will mourn and choir my cast away conviction
To the deaf ears of the earth.
But I’m too much of a dreamer to give up loving such a lovely you.
I’ve been studying Poe, Howe, and a lot of other poets lately, so I’m probably going to be writing mostly poetry. Also, I might be in love..
There was a man who chased the moon.
He said it was for love.
I chased him round until we flew,
The ground beneath us gone.
The stars all looked like splintered glass
With emptiness between.
I asked him why we floated so.
He said it was for love.
A floating, wandering, unkempt love
In search of a lost moon.
He said the ground was too below,
And us, we’re too far gone.
This love is new and rich, I thought,
Unlike I’ve ever seen.
She’s chased and chased, but never caught.
I asked him why he cared.
“Unsafe, unknown, and wild, this love,
But would you ever know?
Her smile at night and pale, white light
I’d rather chase than forgo.”
Books are people.
What appears to be but simple pages,
Are pieces of what was once alive:
Yellow and wrinkled and ripped and crisp.
Pieces of love and hatred and strife.
Words are not inked but written in blood,
The life source of all spirited things,
Strung together in chaotic sequence
Painting pictures of emotions that could never be understood.
The cataclysmic leather binding
That’s wound and wound and wound
With force much greater than earthly power
Holds together simple frames of dust and time.
Age seeps in like a watery fiend
Marring the ink and swelling the pages
Making the binding to slacken then crumble
Twisting the tales of love and conquest.
The story lives on – ageless and enchanting
Neither in pages nor in dust
But in words, a memory, a wrinkle in time.
The part that is written never fades.
No life lives all to itself.
None to each his own.
A pebble, a ripple, can become a wave
Changing the face of time.
Life is chaos – beautifully flawed.
Imperfect, unhappy, joyful, bittersweet.
Not every fairy-tale ends with a smile,
But every wide road has a narrow turn.
People are books.
There is a certain sweetness in the air.
A certain taste, so bright and fair.
The mournful clouds all pass me by.
The sun watches from his throne in the sky.
The laughing moon and dancing stars
All have their place in a realm of char.
But where is my place amidst this retinue?
Out in the fields among the blooms?
Or is it here contentful to watch
The earth pass by on its spinning top?
I prefer to gaze upon this world
As its majesty is unfurled
Than tamper with the Master’s hand
And mar His carefully molded land
Where sea and sky and earth and life
Each serve a purpose in His sight.
Yet is this not the purpose of man?
To leave a mark; to rise, to stand?
Destruction is not my calling here.
To help the helpless; to dry their tears;
To reflect the will of the Creator above;
To treat every soul as a father, mother, daughter, or son
This is my place in the uncertain earth
Where light and dark intertwine into blessing and curse.
This beautiful disaster we often call life,
This dance of chaos and order; wrong and right.
My existence proves not accidental or a mistake
But rather the completion of what living takes.
Life is a ballad, a dance of fire,
Colors swirling with good and evil.
Elements swim in the world of chaos
To form a picture of death,
But it is colored with laughter, and beauty, and stars, and light, and magic, and life.
Where is the joy that should adorn our faces?
Where is the love that should fill our hearts?
Where are the colors that paint our ballad?
Pain teaches us laughter; hate teaches us love; suffering teaches us peace;
And death teaches us the value of them all:
The worth of this life,
The privilege of being alive,
For what is one without the other?
Though stars are light, and kings and queens of their galaxies,
I am more.
I am wonderfully and beautifully made,
With a mind containing the skies,
A heart reaching beyond the heavens,
An incomprehensible force of good and evil and choice.
I am human – valued more than a star,
The price of me is blood.
I heard them sing a short little ballad, soon ended, soon forgotten;
But ever circular, ever repeating, again and again and again.
The fire of life will always dance, and if we do not look closely enough, or watch long enough, All fire will appear the same.
We are given a picture of death and the colors of life,
And I will not color in the lines.
You will see by my picture – when I am done – that my ballad is messy,
A dance of fire with colors swirling.
Do not turn away so quickly.
Look closer, and you will see a masterpiece.
You’re not soft. No matter how hard you try. You’re destructive. The fire practically burns in your eyes. I know you want to be sweet. You try to be quiet and submissive. You want to be everything they say you should be, everything they praise. You try to smother the fire within you, to smolder it with ashes, but you, my dear, are too much like the phoenix. You are too bright, too fierce. There is no rest for the fire shut up in your bones. It will always burn, so please, just let it be.
Not everyone sees you as loud and stubborn. You’re a sun among the stars. A glowing chandelier among the candles. A single spark ignites your passions.
I can see how their inadequacy infuriates you. You think there is no man to lead you, protect you, tame you, but you have yet to find that sort.
We do exist.
Let me inquire, how can a fire be tamed? Only through the rain and crashing of ocean waves. Every bit as wild as you. You are a wildfire that only a storm can quench. So let your spirit burn, so your missing piece may find you.
Not everyone views you as unruly and brutal. They may never say, but they find you quite beautiful. They look on in jealousy, so let your true banners fly. Let the heat and warmth consume you. And for goodness sake, Firegirl, let that inner light burn.
The boy who watches.
I was at the table. High, dangling legs, looking at biscuits. The sun colored the room yellow. Her smile was wrinkled and bent. That was happiness. We went onto the swing. Back and forth, back and forth. The sky turned dark blue, and the stars swam. We ran over the fields. The roof was falling in, and the sides were no longer red. We jumped the hay then over the fence. My cousin laughed when he fell. I carried a stick because coyotes and kicking cows. We swayed at the creek then jumped. It was brown and red because the stones weren’t blue, and the water was clear. We climbed the fallen tree. Dangling legs. The grass below danced. It felt like Christmas.
There were eyes always watching. We held our ears to the wall then ran outside. We always ducked or froze when a car whizzed by. Statues and mannequins made me think of sadness. We were always very still when we went to a funeral. I touched my great aunt’s cold, bloodless hand. We ran and ran, and I loved to swing. The sky was my friend. I loved when he was blue. My mother angrily shouted for me to get out of the tree. My father never bought us toys because we could die. I never got my bow and arrows or pocket knife. We traveled the world through pictures and the porch swing. We’d put our legs up, and my cousin pulled the lever. We would arrive in a different world where the roses had souls and dogs could speak but chose not to.
I always mixed the buttermilk with the flour too quickly, but she would give me her wrinkled smile. Clocks confused me, and I watched clouds form castles and animals from my bed of leaves. My sister loved to sing and put on blue makeup. We secretly climbed the mountain until we craved chocolate drizzled ice cream. We threw the cow rib across the road into the ditch. The limbs caught our hair as we ran up the steps. My biscuits always turned out too brown, but we colored them in honey. Molasses made my jaws hurt.
My father always came home late. I used to chase my cat then put her in a cage then let her go and feed her. The sun would turn pink. We could never swim because it rained enough to fill a swimming pool. I watched raindrops race and imagined tracing them, but my fingers were too greasy. Windows were a portal, and I saw myself riding a horse down the sidewalk with wind blowing through our hair. Then we arrived at school, and every smile hid a frown.