shame breeds virulent
in the unctuous air, heavy,
a metallic bitterness at the back of the mouth,
as if something is giving way,
as if something is being pulled apart,
as if the vapid smiles of bystanders
have come unstuck
and filled the sky, covering the stars,
as if light is being reeled in
by a heavy sigh,
as if we lie bare with an uncertain moon
making distant love,
and talking afterwards,
changing the names of things,
twisting ends and beginning,
turning happy inside out to cry,
sweaty hands of the night
leaving wet prints on words
that remain in the corners,
stubbornly trapped between fingers, under nails,
later, scrubbing the shame
off the sky,
pointing to the last of the light
caught in the treetops,
laughing, calling it dawn.
Aspiration
this poem could be something,
a euphemism for peace,
the last wail of a drone slain child,
the defiance of surveilled keystrokes,
the shiver of the winter homeless,
or the angst of the warming sea,
instead it aspires
to be the indifferent begging bowl
of a nameless monk,
as if nothing is something…
is it?
55 word poem challenge at Real Toads.
Arachnid Whispers
claws I can understand, evil and piercing,
or venom or canine teeth,
but to spin a fine diaphanous trap,
such an agonising labour of love
that the moon shudders
as it moves through your silken lair,
but to kill when the prey
exults in soft temptation,
to lure to an unbecoming end
with beauty and delicate glimmer,
ah! your mind must be the crafty darkness
where my nightmares dare not rove,
your poems must be the malevolence
where my words refuse to go;
but hush sky! come closer now,
put your lips to my waiting ear,
aren’t you too a black spider,
your snare embossed with glittering stars,
and all the while you listen to my secrets
you wait for me to touch your glowing hair,
I am afraid of your loveliness now,
what lies behind your sweeping cape,
there’s nothing between whisper
and naked skin,
but to betray my trust
with your song still damp in my eyes,
but to wear your falsehood
after you stripped my disguise,
already, already my heart aches
for your devious web.
Night is Coming
you have a vantage point,
your head low in the grass,
to catch a glimpse of them turning,
wheel after wheel,
as they cross the horizon,
the peloton cloaked in black,
lettered in the blood of everything
that did not dare to speak,
the cycle of hate,
the cycle of destruction,
stuck in one whirling spoke,
the wounded soul of all humanity,
and you watch them go,
picking up speed,
as if they will step off the sky,
as if they will drop off the brink,
hoping one day you can lift your face,
drawn black in mud and tears,
hoping one day the race will end,
and you can inter your fears,
remember you came here
to find those roads,
but you stood in the sidelines,
and cheered till you could
watch no more,
remember you came here
to fit wings on your dreams,
but you lay in the green,
and cried until you could
laugh no more,
remember you came here
to share the breath of the sun,
but you hid in the hollows,
and counted the dead
until you could live no more,
the light shifts, uneasy,
the shadows rise into the air,
faster, faster,
as they cross the horizon,
wheel after wheel,
the cycle of hate,
the cycle of destruction,
the wind drops to the empty
spot by your side,
dry your tears, he says,
gather your remains,
bring out your last candle,
night is coming.
The Seduction of Dawn
the seduction of dawn
is that she is the beginning,
the harlot of infinite possibilities,
her hennaed fingers
inching forward slowly,
I close my eyes,
night’s hand is still warm
across my insomniac fears,
what was it
that damned moon
was warning me about?
Quadrille: a 44 word poem
Linked to the Dverse Poets (Prompt: Dawn)
Close, Closer
pull it close, closer,
read in the pockets of its moulted skin,
this poem is not the blistered red
that chaffs your hate of hatred,
not the half sewn gut of every war
that rages against your outrage,
not a word here is the bruised head
of a hammer on unflat lies,
nor the colour of your neighbours chin
that floats in the salt of your eyes,
no punctuation here comforts a child
without home, without dream, without price;
bring it close, closer,
this poem is like air, like water, like sky,
without the burden of voices,
without the weight of tears,
it is not a soul looking for a body
so it may live again,
it is not a song searching for a melody
so it may speak again,
inhale it and feel its breath
burn with yours in your lungs,
put your hand through its lines
and feel the wetness of what was old spring rain,
and someday if you find yourself
dancing on its shoes like a laughing child,
or taut in its arms like a naked lover
asking to be unravelled in the night,
know it then, know it well,
know it as the rainbow
that braids the broken light,
there for a moment,
there like a kiss,
there, soft, softer,
then gone
before you can remember to say
its name.
I am.
I am just consequence,
the ashes of a hundred births
heavy in my pack,
a silhouette made of mist,
fog braided into unpatterned thought,
I turn to see if I leave footprints
like the morning dew,
I hold out my hand to see
if it catches the soundless rain,
again the shadows fill with colour,
I know them, these shapes, these textures, your face,
I build my universe one more time,
the umbilical cord still tied to the emptiness,
there is nothing here
but reflections without mirrors,
nothing here but the outline of my desires,
I must leave now,
leave before the sunshine,
leave before the first shudder of wind,
leave and never return,
but what of your voice,
your voice made of smoke
from burning sandal sticks,
you voice that beckons softly,
your voice that is the moon melt
in my ear,
your voice that is both moth
and guilty flame,
your voice that keeps on
calling my name,
I am. Just consequence.
