Archive for the Poetry Category

Terrible Instruments

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 7, 2017 by beautifulimposter

The sunlight today is an act of violence,
Arrows slicing the clouds to ribbons
Such awesome and terrible storms of light,
Bright and ragged banners streaming
Battle cries thundering along the channels
Of the raging winds.

I once laid in a fever, between dream and vision
The roof above my head ripped away
The vaults of the night sky split
As overripe fruit, edges ragged as wounds
The pulp and pith of the heavens
A yawning, hungry, pure flame.

Angels peered over the edges,
Mouths bloody, teeth wicked and sharp
Wings of blackened, pitted iron spreading
A rustling of edges and rust
Hungry, feral, carrion birds eying their feast
Beautiful the way a naked blade is still lovely.

Frozen to the sweat soaked sheets
Bones the kindling for the fire set in my flesh
Unmoving, tears burning canyons into my cheeks
For the first time feeling the death in me,
Printed upon each cell as blackletter,
A whispering mirrored by the watchers’ lips,
As threads sewn beneath the skin,
Tied and knotted, a skein, a tapestry.

The fever broke, yet still I feel the tugging,
Still out of the corner of my eye
Wings beat at the shadows
Pinned beneath all my words,
All the brutal blood and sex and mortality
Tainting blue skies and sunlight
So that I will never not see the tooth marks left
By God’s terrible instruments.

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Dispatches From the Front

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on February 20, 2017 by beautifulimposter

The traffic signals are glass and plastic jewels
Smeared across the windshield
Cheap and gaudy ornamentation suspended
In pools of bruise purple black nighttime sky
While constellations of headlights form and dissolve
Stars afloat, hovering above the slick pavement.

Constant motion, vibrations, humming
Complicated rhythms of hands on wheel,
Feet on the pedals tapping Morse code gibberish
Underpinning radio hiss crackle
Disembodied voices, music, things forgotten
Things remembered by halves, rising and falling
Beneath oily waters, yet never quite breaching.

Bodies come and go, vague shapes
Defined by rustlings in the black,
Faces floating ghosts, masks smiling, grim, in between
Conversations drifting currents around rocky shores
Incomprehensible yet demanding, insistent
Inviting, but the address is lost, the directions
Seem to be in a foreign language.

He’s not really here or there, out of phase
The dial tuned just out of sync
A whole world of in betweens
Caught in the middle of point A to B
Möbius twisting, the cat forever in that box
Tires spinning out forever, still in motion
As a billion moving pictures flicker past.

The stories gather like storm clouds on a lazy tongue
Thick, pouring out in streamers of blue smoke haze
Littering the floorboards, curling up at the edges
Leaves and old photographs
Pinned wriggling between dime-store paperback
Yellowing pages, leaved through, well thumbed
Favorite passages recited prayer beads.

They aren’t his stories, those dried up long ago
Back when his tongue rusted to the roof of his mouth
He just gathers, stitching them together
Her shy smile to his lonely fumbling
Their boisterous revelry to his towering silence
Fingers calloused from needling onion skins
Piles of manuscript, instruction manuals for disused objects.

No rhyme, no reason, dispatches
For disinterested commanders,
From no mans but his land, a pilgrims travel guide
The points of interest among drifting bodies
Sliding past upon the sidewalk banks
The living, the dead, the dreamers
All with stories waiting to be gathered.

Flight

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on February 17, 2017 by beautifulimposter

Skyline punctured by silhouettes
Tiny holes of nothing wheeling, diving
Carving strange and wonderful curves
Patches of night in bird shapes
Defying the rising sun
Left behind are the weight of thought or memory
Wingtips trailing feathery clouds
Inky fingering postscripts along the horizon
Treatises upon the marvel and freedom
Of bodies suspended upon oceans of clear air.

November

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on November 21, 2016 by beautifulimposter

The bitter knives of winter
Are grinding their flinty edges
Hidden discreetly in the folds
Clever and cunning
Finding all the cracks and crannies
Stabbing cold and deep
Into the scurrying masses.

Everyone becomes a dragon,
Smoking breath rising into blooms
Of flaming leaves rattling above
Crackling orange and yellow
Autumn dripping ashes and embers
Flicked from the fag end of November
In swirling arabesques.

The sidewalks look picked clean,
Bare boned, save for rags and scraps
Fugitives all bow-headed, meek
Beneath the lash of winter’s stirring tongue
Furtive dashing from one haven
Of warmth and light to another,
Near numbed fingers desperately clutching
Venti peppermint mochas.

I like to imagine the stories that chase them
Like mongrel dogs tipping at their heels
As I watch, cocooned in glass and steel
Adrift upon the early morning streets
Yet temporarily marooned,
Waiting for the next summons,
Listening to my mind weaving tall tales
To and audience of me.

Reclamation

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on November 1, 2015 by beautifulimposter

I love the girl who’s spine is cracked
Bent backwards, a paperback worn out
Pages torn and crumpled from being tossed
So casually into forgotten corners
I smooth out the creases as best I can
Holding her gently, with reverence
Because I don’t think anyone has really taken the time
To read her treasures, the wealth of her soul
There are such verses beneath her vellum skin
Well worth a lifetimes devoted study
My lips forming the words of her worshipful
As mystic and holy as psalms.

She’s a mis-matched set of china
Porcelain chipped, glaze a web of cracks
Yet there is still beauty, history in each disparate piece
Volumes of thought and memory
Coded in the Braille of stretch marks,
Passages to be read in the fine lines
Sculpting a mouth of complex curvature
Furrows and wrinkles speaking beautifully
In silent language there for those willing
To watch and learn.

Together we are fixed in brokenness
Not whole but certainly not less
A pair of old chairs, second hand end table and reclaimed lamp
Things discarded, unwanted, recovered
Each other’s hands finding something
To save one another from the curbside
Or rubbish bin, to be taken in
Made into cherished heirlooms
By hands bent with love, bringing burnished luster
To scar tissue patina.

Old is not bereft of value,
They do say one’s garbage can be
Someone’s treasure, you just have to have the right eye
A place and a use and a corner of your heart
That needs what only that one
Will give to it.

Language Isnt Always Verbal

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on October 25, 2015 by beautifulimposter

I want to teach you
The language of my hands
For they can at times
Be so very much more eloquent than I
More subtle than my sometimes clumsy tongue
Less prone to stumbling or misstep.

Every touch can be a poem
There are volumes written
Upon the lines of palms
Comfort in the creases, reassurance
Love, desire, solace, all find voice
Buried in fingerprints.

All that I cannot speak
In the space where words fail
Or have not the proper definition
Let my hands tell you
By caress or grasp
Variations of pressure or attitude
In perfect, silent eloquence.

That way, even the simple
Lacing of fingers twining
In knots of flesh and bone and nerve
Can be a conversation
Between our pulse
The unsayable become known
Described perfectly
As a slight squeeze.

The Rockbiter’s Riddle

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on October 24, 2015 by beautifulimposter

“They look like big, good, strong hands,
Don’t they?”
I’m still looking for the answer
It seems my life could be defined
In quotations, movie lines
Passages, verses and choruses
Other’s words stitched into my skin
Made up entirely, defined by the parameters
Of other lives, the stories someone else was telling.

So I am The Rockbiter
Staring into open palms, flexing crumbling digits
Wanting to be stone, willing my gaze
To become Medusa’s, turning weak flesh
Into something hard, enduring
Able to hold up all of the everything
Because that was my purpose
The one thing I always felt I could be good for
Living to be the rock upon which those I loved
Could build themselves up.

Yet rock was the last thing I was
More sand, or badly fired pottery
Feet of clay indeed, broken off at the ankles
Wobbling on jagged stumps, becoming something
Sad and comic, a lost Marx Brother
Leaning drunken this way and that
Beneath teetering dishes and platters
Desperately staving off the inevitable crash
Followed by sad little tinkle as the last spoon
Hits the ground.

So now I can’t help but wonder again
If I can convince myself of that myth of purpose
Are they worthy, these poor hands
Ink stained and bloody
Are they enough
I always thought they could be but I have been so very wrong
I’m asking you now, holding them up
Because I think you could give me an answer I’d believe
Is that what they are, because I hope so.