Poem up at *a handful of stones*

One of my very short poems is now up at a handful of stones.

http://www.ahandfulofstones.com/2013/04/i-walk-past-laughing-lovers.html?spref=fb

Belch

The planet hasn’t been this warm for millions of years. Jungle is the new skin. A spinous beast of flesh-and-stone comes along and gnaws on the dying cities, swallows all it can manage. It gambols along the blossoming curve of earth, grows sluggish as it excretes human remains, coughs up barbed-wire balls of cars and concrete, guns and cell phones, inedible art, the books of false prophets. Now it snaps and bays at the blinding sun, its belly bloated with the lingering, ineffectual screams of monochrome souls. Its gut swells, heaves, rumbles like an angry volcano. And before curling down for another million-year nap it drops its forest-covered jaw and lets out a putrid, roaring belch—expelling the failed god of a thing called Man.


First published in Space and Time Magazine #117 (Fall 2012).

Falling Apart (unpublished poem)

Life shot me from its cannon.
Let me drop into the arms
of love running.

Who looks back? I looked back.
I turned my head like an owl
and screeched at the sight:

Me, without mass;
a cloud of atoms
coming nervously together.

Proof that falling apart
takes place long before
we are whole.

Excerpt from "To A Young Author"

Never express thoughts or emotions that you may believe your readers might feel if you do not feel them yourself, for that is mere journalism; express what you yourself feel; that is the artist's duty and the only thing he can do; never write down to what you may suppose the multitude may feel in order to make money; nothing could be baser.

Above all write what you can be proud of. I should never myself use a nom de plume, for if I was ashamed of my work I shouldn't do it, and if I was proud of it I should own it, and if my friends disliked it I should not own them, for my work is me.

 

From the essay "To A Young Author" by Lord Dunsany

In falling asleep on mossy ground...

In falling asleep on mossy ground, in an emerald wood, one invites picked pockets, playful prods, and plentiful pinches by the wee folk.

Excerpt from "A Trip to California"

"When hoses are turned on to defend the garden from the desert, the hummingbirds dart into the spray, for birds seem to like rain, and we know that they sing of it." – from "A Trip to California," an unpublished essay by Lord Dunsany

Poetic fragment from notebook

I'm slipping from my skin and turning ghost. Poetry is dead, and poets are the walking wounded in a mad-cracked world.

Observations in March

A nature-filled weekend in Knoxville: male frogs and toads vocalizing for the ladies; woodcocks in courtship flights beneath the clouds and stars; a gorgeous Fox Sparrow amid a flush of juncos; fresh layers of sun on swelling tree buds; hepatica blooming on a woodland hill; the air an arrived exhalation of the coming spring.

Poem to be published in “best of” anthology

"Out of the Ad Space" has been voted by readers as the best poem of the September 2012 issue of Aoife's Kiss. It will be reprinted in the "best of" anthology Wondrous Web Worlds Vol. 11 in 2013.

Time to Grow Up Where There's No Time at All

You simply do not exist, they assert with buttoned-up stares,
Though I’ve detected salty scents on the curled tongues of butterflies,
And feet-shapes where the grass and clover straighten their necks.
Get your head out of the mist, they keep telling me,
There are no such beasts in the world.
But I think I saw you once, at the corner of my eye.
Yes, I truly think I did! And you were big and fleshy and sad,
Just like the drawings in my secret book of folklore and myth:
Those spider silk pages always turning beneath the moonlight.


First published in the April 2012 issue of Mythic Delirium.

The Politician’s New Heart

His donor
Endured the wealds of Donegal
And was quite short, always on and on
About sea levels, altered migrations,
And the disenchantment of her trees.
Today, her heart will absorb the dark spill
In the concavity of the man’s chest
Whose first thought, after surgery
Will be a green campaign slogan
Followed by a childlike urge
To climb things.


First published in the September 2012 issue of The Speculative Edge.

The Goblins Came

The goblins came, the goblins came
To eat, to eat, to eat your feet
The goblins came, the goblins came
To pick you up, to throw you down
To slash your throat, to dance around
The goblins came, the goblins came
To gnash their teeth, to lose control
To get revenge, to shred your soul


First published in Issue 51 of The World of Myth Magazine.

The American and the Armenian

The American and the Armenian
for Tati

She sits in a small café

Reading the poems of an American.
Her eyes steal the surrounding sunlight
And illuminate his rising words.

He sits near a kitchen window

Reading the email of an Armenian.
He is touched. Flattered. A bit sad
That he cannot visit her in the café.

And although mountains and ocean rise between them,

They do not feel so apart when using words.
They do not feel so alone:

For their hearts know the same problems of love.

Their tears flood the same fields of war.
Their pens write of dawns born in better days to come.

In a world of seven billion people,

On a planet spinning in & out of control,
The man and woman have come together
Peacefully, through distance and words,

Because souls are points of light on the skin of Earth,

Shimmering on a blue speck stuck to the arm of a galaxy,
Vibrant in a universe that blooms like a boundless garden
In the hands of mystery.

And although the man and woman do not explore Rome together,

Or share views from the Tennessee mountains,
His spirit is with her in the café,
Hers is with him at his home,

For no one is truly separate

When you look at the world
From great heights.



First published in the Winter 2012 issue of WestWard Quarterly.

Out of the Ad Space

Out of the Ad Space

“Those who linger long in false reflections

run the risk of soul abandonment.” – Future proverb

Out of the ad space – today’s woman:

Flawless skin. Hair a curtain
shot to heaven in waves of synthetic color.
Angled, porcelain white cheeks, carmine blush,
gilded lashes, breasts robust and firm.
Thin-thighed Aphrodite. The pixels of her eyes
stream elite parties. A glamorous you.

Out of the ad space – today’s man:

Perfect 5 o’clock. Metrosexual stud hair
in waves of combat colors.
Chiseled, masculine face, tan skin,
winning smile, chest wide and strong.
Designer-jeaned Adonis. The pixels of his eyes
stream quixotic adventures. A gallant you.

Out of the ad space – today’s marketing:

Target everyone. Categorize customers
in waves of insecurity, vanity, fallow lives.
Scan pupils. Upload to optic nerves:
pricing, privacy, promise of PERFECTION.
Narcissus-headed Cerberus. The pixels of its eyes
stream fallen empires. An ersatz society.



First published in the September 2012 issue of Aoife’s Kiss (and voted
best poem of that issue by readers).

New Pattern

I walk the suburban streets.
Hands in pockets. Black hood tight
In the autumn drizzle.
            A mind no longer my own.
            The voice, the venom—
            The awful mother tone.

Chains hold back barking dogs.
Instincts sharp. Teeth protect
Their tiny green islands.
            We stand our ground.
            I grunt, I growl—
            They yelp and back down.

Who senses intrusion, murder,
The way birds sense storms
In the bloody summers?

Who knew it was I that came and went
Through the left open windows and doors
Of complacency and trust?

The police don’t know a goddamn thing.
Searching for me in the city,
In the summer, a man stalking housewives.
            Knives fresh off the stone.
            The blade, the butcher—
            “He always cuts through bone.”

Now I walk your tree-lined streets.
Rope in pocket. Demons afloat
In the crisp autumn air.
            Yards full of quiet toys.
            New play, new pattern—
            Hello girls and boys . . .

And the police will stretch further back.
And further back. Indefinitely.
Until one of us disappears.


First published in the October 2012 issue of Twisted Dreams Magazine.
Also published in the October 2012 issue of The Speculative Edge.

Illusion for the Web of Roads

I.
We all begin: sunrise boat ride through the teardrop channel; exit to the entrance. Horrible, unknowable heads pecking the air around our nakedness. We hold them with our wet mouths, vertigo in a vortex of piercing voices, an influx flood of diseased light too unlike the heart’s electric signal, the pulse in paper thin eyelids. And pain. And the odor of nightmares. And the edgy, sharp, strange things non-flesh. We merely want back the wet primordial dark, seeing and knowing all we’ve come to know.

II.
Silver glass orbs break over the heads of aged orphans. Beards of long dead kings appear in mirrors of sanctuaries. I lie in bed, an endless stream of weapons pulled from pockets, their chambers empty, tips broken, aim bent by leaping rats. I move through the Labyrinth. The Minotaur breathes down my spine. Theseus swipes at my feet. I run for the river. It lifts and turns away, fills the white clouds black, the black clouds red. Concrete-fed fish plunge to the junkyard riverbed, crumble beneath the weight of millipede-legged armies.

III.
I lift the gilded knocker of an unseen structure, cough hot air and flies, blink long veins of lightning. The door rotates: door unhinged and burning, door decomposed, door within doors, door leading to other doors, door absent-stolen, doors around my waist like rings of Saturn. An endless flock of blackbirds twists itself like a wet rag, their feathers spiraling to the ground over blood-soaked cities. And words of war I no longer hear, enemy eyes I no longer see, the dead soldier rising from her grave to dance like a white flower in the rain . . .

IV.
Forest for the trees falls away, reveals a mountain for the bones, a cave for the memories. The disease crawls in and settles like heavy smoke, burns the white flags in endless raids. The sky fills with wet primordial dark. Voices of every pitch and tone swirl about my head, petitioning for my soul. Fuck them all! I long for cycles, to taste the Earth’s sweet energy. I lift my gun and we enter temple. The mouths of gods snap shut. Illusion melts into a web of roads. O Soul! O Bliss! There is no structure. There are no doors.


First published in the January 2012 issue of Sein und Werden. Also published in the September 2012 issue of Liquid Imagination.

Charon Falls into the Styx

A crotchety old man stands on the shore of the river Styx. While waiting for the ferryman he takes off his tie. Then he takes off his suit jacket. Next his shiny shoes, slacks, black socks, and pressed shirt. Tighty whities fall to the mud and are stepped out of. He always hated being dressed like that. Why didn’t they bury him in his overalls, like he’d asked?

Charon emerges from the fog in his creaky wooden boat. To the old guy’s bemusement, the ferryman glances down at his shriveled hoary pecker and begins to snicker. His head falls back in a hoarse guffaw, black hood sliding off a hairless dome. He laughs so hard he loses his balance and falls backwards off the boat and into the river, his oar flying straight up. Spitting hot water out of glowing teeth, he doggie paddles back to the boat and clambers on, still laughing. Bright tears streak down his sunken pale cheeks as he picks up the oar. The geezer scowls. That is not very professional, he thinks. This guy must be losing it. He is not fit to be a psychopomp.

Charon squeezes water from his cloak as the boat scraps bottom. Between a few rogue chuckles he motions for the naked man to step aboard. The old-timer complies and stands opposite the ferryman. For a few moments neither speaks. Finally, Charon solemnly holds out his upturned hand, trying his best to suppress more laughter. The man narrows his eyes in disapproval, lifts a flat, wrinkled butt cheek and pulls out a gold coin from the crack of his ass. He leans over the boat, dips the coin in the water a few times, and offers it to Charon, who takes a step back.

“Keep it! Keep it!” the ferryman laughs, dropping the oar to grab his heaving sides. “Please!”

And for the second time in all eternity, Charon falls off his boat and into the river Styx—only this time, he is sucked beneath the waves. His cloak rises to the surface where the geezer pulls it from the water and wraps it around his grim bones. Cries of suffering arise in the distance. Sneering, the old man picks up the oar and waits.

First published in the October 2012 issue of Bards and Sages Quarterly.

Bright Moon Stray

I knew Ed was a werewolf the night he climbed into bed at 4 a.m. smelling like dog. It was a full moon, too. I know this because it coincides with my menstrual cycle. Afraid, I bought a gun and kept it beneath my pillow. This morning I shot him in the head with a silver bullet. Now I’m being led through flashing lights to a police car. Some thanks. Kendra, the cute girl next door, stands on her porch with her dog. She is damn lucky to be alive.



First published in Flashshot on January 2, 2012.

What We Are

What We Are
 

It's more than "I need you."

Merely that doesn't

send enough love to our hearts.
 

It's more than "I love you."

Our souls know the journey

goes far beyond words.
 

It's this (yet more than;

a poet can only go so far) —
 

We are the shining light

in the palm of God.


 

First published in Kane County Chronicle, May 2008.

Though Unseen, Her Soul Is Lucid

And soft, like thoughts
on snowy evenings.
The amber fire inside of her
warms me.

She is filled with sympathy;

cries out when injustice
sets fire to the world.

She's a subtle understanding,

like Braille across the enigma
of wounds in the heart.

And though unseen, her soul is lucid.

A poetic ideal
I've always wished
to become.

And bright, like clouds

on snowy evenings.
The amber light inside of her
calms me.

She is filled with symphony;

sings out when justice
takes hold in the world.

She's my one true understanding.

A quiet hand reaching for mine
when my head is low, when I need love…

On a snowy evening.

In the amber glow.



First published at Daily Love on July 2, 2010.
Also published at The Bright Light Café on December 15, 2011.

"The song of toads..."

The song of toads
After summer storms
Calms the soul, breaks the heart



First published in the October 2008 issue of Poet's Ink.

The Empty Thrush

The wind carries thrush notes
down from forest to field,
circling flowers, bouncing off bees,
snapping spiders off their webs.

It serenades old memories

from the mind's lethargy,
calls me to an inner sanctuary –
a world a woman's heart has built.

I cut through tangled vines of solitude

and step out into the world.
Warmth and beauty fill the landscape.
The paths become many.

I saunter down a trail and fill with hope,

come to a garden made of stone.
Here the sky reaches so high that I
become an empty voice.

I see her beyond the stone wall,

among caged birds and dying flowers.
Sunset has covered her eyes like eyelids.
She pivots inside time.

A thrush sits upon her shoulder,

its song now vacant from its breast.
Her eyes break like windows
as a storm blows in, floods all their color out.

I run to her in a yell – alive, determined,

each step sinking deeper in mud.
Her image pulls away, turns to mist.
I collapse among the cherubim.

And so it is that an old song can wither away

and spin quietly down the drain of time –
no longer allowing one to love
the way they were once loved.



First published in Poet’s Haven on September 10, 2008.

Ted

A man alone
one candle burning
in a cabin with bombs





First published at Alternative Reel on February 3, 2011.
Also published at catfishgringoriver on April 15, 2011,
and in the October 2012 issue of Twisted Dreams Magazine.

Sleepover

On her back, veins warm with blood, sunk in cold leaves of grass. Temples sore, stoned by reverie, silent between rows of moon-colored tombstones; his sanctuary of rest. She clutches at her heart, counting stars without saying numbers, barely clinging to the skin of her soul.

Her thoughts are projected onto the silent-movie sky. There is such electricity in the senses when one remembers a subtle and typical thing: that third kiss, given quickly at the carnival for luck; a phrase spoken at the same instant, followed by sweet laughter; the things that reel people in, onto the same shore of an island all their own. There are dozens of those remembrances tonight. She waters the grass with them, and it seems to grow tall and protective around her shape. At some timeless hour, she closes her eyes and faucet-drips into sleep.

At first light, as the sun pulls shadows across her tight, seashell body, a woman approaches with a Styrofoam cup of coffee. The moment momentarily gives way to opening-flower fragrances, the mute symphony of sparkling dew, and the dawn song of birds. The girl rises without words, accepts the cup and sips. She is quiet but thankful.

The woman looks to her and manages a fragmented, but honest smile – for herself, and for this girl; the skeleton and beating heart of her son’s happiness, so vital in his last hours. My angel, he’d said, close to his passing, with the brightness a known truth brings.

That day enters their minds as sunlight chisels and breaks away the nightly fragments. What remains in darkness will sleep, and sleep well. The woman looks to the girl, and the girl is looking away. Neither is aware that they are sharing the same memory, at the same moment, as they begin to walk, hand in hand, towards the car.

First published in The Interzone Poets 1 (2005)

Shadows Falling from the Heart

Shadows Falling from the Heart
for Kelly K. Moran

Before they fell in love

he'd met her heart in a dream.
It offered hope and beat within him,
brought soil and light to the trees.

Then she came to him, full-bright,

an unearthly light across the fields.

As she spoke

her voice lifted flowers from the gray.
They swelled and broke the silence within him,
brought blue to the sea.

In such time she carried him, sleep-quiet,

placed his broken body in the arms of angels.

When the shadows fell away, one by one,

they could see that his heart resembled hers.
An undeniable sign.

Oh love, mysterious thing,

as vital to life as the stars are to the universe,
you are what gives God his sight.



First published in Kane County Chronicle on October 25, 2008.
Also published in Ancient Heart Magazine on September 11, 2010.