Modern Triads

Fatigue wears like an old belt strap
Still I can
Still I am
Still I want
Cramp in back every single lap
Still I try
Still I push
Still I pant
Eyelids droop as the drug takes hold
Still I write
Still I think
Still I sigh
Mischief smiles as the wiles make bold
Still I care
Still I shake
Still I cry
Empty sky as I lose the stars
Still I seek
Still I search
Still I long
Jupiter sparkling outshines mars
Still I turn
Still I spin;
Still I’m wrong.

more work in progress.

Practicing Haiku

Devil on shoulder
Drugs angel, manic demon
Unbalanced, now fall…

Angel was sleeping
Unconscious conscience failed the
Moon’s bright handled child.

Dadouchos

She gave me a gem
A round cut diamond
Yet oddly purple
In the light from her torches
How did she hold
Two searing fires
Yet stretch out her palm
To show the waiting gift
I knew she handed me
My heart
And though I took it
Grateful and surprised
I now know not what
To do with it.

Two Great Ladies

Two great ladies
One hot and wild
The dance; the arms flail
The legs stamp
The mouth opens in silent rapture
She moves through me
Jumping and starting
Shouting and biting down
On cries that seem too crow like
To be human.
Two great ladies
One cool and proud
The dance; grace comes
Flows to finger tips
That trace the willing webs
Around the space we meet.
I move with her
Guided by twin lights
But torches in my hands
And mine alone.

Unrepentant

The question appears

Over and over

A litany of loneliness

Or would be

If I knew what that meant

Pretentions aside

This is a question I can’t answer

The meaning of life?

It well could be

The mysteries of the universe?

It certainly is one

As is the vessel

Of my ignorance

Philosophy? Theology?

Both have helped

To order thought

And quiet mind

But not the heart

So the question remains

Trapped in beauty

Surprising elegance

Wit beyond words

Mischief unmeasured

And cool, clear draughts

Of depths unplumbed

By anyone, I fear.

So this question

My query

My dumbfoundedness

Is constant and

Unremitting

Unrepentant

As, in all honesty

Am I.

Storm

Stone and sea won’t wait for me

Follow me up

Follow me down

Sky cries out so angrily

Follow me through

Follow me ’round

Lightning breaks like anxious sweat

Follow me here

Follow me there

Rain soaked dreams I can’t forget

Follow me out

Follow and dare

Sun might crack the creaking cloud

Follow the path

Follow the lane

Beams berate the surging crowd

Follow me in

Follow my pain

Dream of winter; ice and snow

Follow me forth

Follow me back

Dream of wind; a tornado

Follow the dirt

Follow the track

Leaves in face, obscuring smiles

Follow the flow

Follow the drive

Tears to last the endless miles

Follow ’til death;

Follow alive.

Untravelled

That tentative touch
Meant more than
Grasping hands
Or heat and hearts
Or legs intwining
Dangerous, damaging
No, nothing carnal
Nothing of the sort
Yet it burns hotter
Hotter than I remember
Harder than you know
Heavier than salt
And twice the sting
In the wound now
Open again and
Bleeding
Bleeding
Bleeding
No bandage but time
No salve but rhyme
No options here
But partners in crime
Will laugh and sigh
And cope
For haven’t we always?
Or was that yet
Another illusion
Mist in the wind
Headlights in the fog
Journeys untravelled
Forever.

Writing Therapy

I find writing a wonderful coping mechanism. If in doubt, write it out! Poems, songs, even random ramblings all help me put my thoughts into some kind of order; left to their own devices, they squabble and have no pecking order, but on the page, they are orderly and meek, though no less filled with the zing of inspiration.

When feeling low, when depression threatens like a blackness in the peripheral vision, the simple joy of sharing a poem can put a candle to that black. The sense of achievement from a deadline hit, or an essay that hits home; these little victories straighten my spine inch by inch, allowing the shoulders to bear a bit more without sagging.

Sometimes when anxiety is a raging tornado of bile and burns me from the inside out, I cannot write. This is my weather check; if I can’t write, things are bad. And sometimes I will try and force myself to, but will be so horrified at the muddled mess on the paper that I curl in on myself, hiding from my failure, and the world. At times like these music becomes my companion, coaxing me gently away from my fears until my hand is steady enough to hold the own once more

In magic, we sometimes write out things we want to be rid of- negativity, regret, bad habits and so forth- and we burn the paper, imagining our unwanted aspects drifting away with the smoke. Writing is a powerful tool, and I am grateful for it, especially at times of stress, when spoken words simply stutter and the mind will not be calm.

Still…

Gut stained purple
Still saying no
Stars fade forever
Still have to go
Sunlight sudden
Still in shadow
Snow in summer
Still burning cold
Stomach at the circus
Still drop the curtain
Lion needs taming,
Still crack the whip
Heart in free fall
Still turn machine off
Beeping fading
Still can’t hear.

not really a finished piece, just some ideas I’m working on.

Spring in Burntwood (3)

And strange little holes that had to be investigated with torches. This one, formed by part of an ancient pipe, held about a dozen snails, sheltering from the sunny spell.

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