December 14

People love to speak for God. They claim to know his will, sense his presence, even hear his voice. I am not one, nor will I ever be. God to me is just a name, an idea to which I do not subscribe.
But I do think this. If there is a God, he has far bigger problems than who people choose to love and how often they do not give him thanks.
The world, if you have not noticed, is hardly a happy, loving place right now. Religions are at war with each other, as they always are, but they have dragged secular issues into battle this time. Women's rights, to name one. People are closing themselves off from each other, preferring to read the words on screens like this one than to hear them from one another. They hide behind these screens to spout off the most atrocious garbage on Earth and their words are no longer limited to the people they know. These screens reach out to everywhere and the world can see the narrow mindedness of the people writing on them.
Do not say I am one of them. I am writing on a screen very few people will see, simply because very few people care about what I have to say. I write poetry about the autumn, about the snow, things so pointedly not like this few people bother to read. I do not want them to read it. I want to say it somewhere.
God has enormous problems. Religions fighting each other is one thing but a man shooting up an elementary school, killing children, that is something else. What has this world come to, if that is what can happen when we send our children off to school?
I will not pretend I know best or I have experienced the worst. But this I truly know: something must change and because God has not interceded, we, the people here on Earth, must do something.

You Are Ours

I can't count the ways you made us smile
Can't remake the way your tail wagged
the way you caught a tennis ball
or the way you ran round and round
I can't remember a time you made us mad
Can't remake the way you always looked
up at us, dark eyes so nervous,
all you wanted was to please us
and the way you were always happy
when we came home, no matter how badly
I screwed up, or how much I wished I was different
And I can't believe you're gone
just this morning you were here
and you looked at me, dark eyes clouded over
each breath rough and dragging
your legs shaking
You were an old man and you drooled
and begged and farted and everyone
would have loved for you to be theirs
But you were ours

Time Bomb

My anger at you should not exist
I lost that right, gave it away
long ago, back when life was simple
and we did our best to complicate it,
make it tangle
But it is not you with shrapnel
buried in your heart, your lungs
It is I
You slipped it in between my ribs,
left it there to languish
without me ever seeing it
Ticking time bomb
You gave her the trigger
and pointed to the carnival house
mirror

When Armor Fails

Glint of silver,
                    caught in sliver of a mirror,
  a blur across features,

hide and protect the most important,
     the heart      the soul
Still blood seeps

                    through fissures
even when there
     is no pain

Written

How do you learn to be yourself?
When pictures of strangers
and those unseen try to
write your role, define
the furthest reaches of difference
If those around you wish for one person,
someone less than the image
held in your secret third eye
and you compromise for fear
of being left alone, having
none to share with the triumph,
defeat or trials of daily life
When your choice is between
the self you could be and the self
others love, how do you learn
to erase the lines drawn for you to fill,
to expand beyond the simple box?
How do you define yourself, when
you become lost in the translation
of everyone else's eyes?

Falling Star

Broken stars fallen upon the land
smoldering in golden light
Pieces left behind
Save a few fragments,
These we take, for the days
when nothing less than starlight
will do.

Love Is

     Mismatched socks, too big T-shirts
     old worn jeans with no make up
     Half smiles, the ones at just the corner
     of the mouth
     Ribs that ache with laughing
     A mind challenged and vindicated
     Dreams, set free from gossamer prisons
     to float in the world of edges
     Without eyes to see,
     or ears to hear
     or lips to touch
     If never again would the world
     be tangible,
     it could continue on

Wilderness

The place where earth and sky are not seperate
bound together by cerulean blue and
feather soft emerald needles
Where the seasons turn the land first to green,
freckled with flowers,
then to brown, beckoning with smoke
to red and yellow and gold
under a quilt of fallen leaves
Where water is cold and clear,
running ten thousand ways
over hills, rocks, trees and in between
mountain peaks
This place, where it is not just air we breathe
but sun, sky, water and earth

Fire Season

The sky at last has paid the price
or nature's anger at our action
for now it cannot show the blue
of rinsed clean linen and
hope born anew
No, it is dingy with residue
from the death of earth
so filthy we can look directly
into the sun

Under Bloodred Sun

       Sharp pain that brings with it breath
Itching eyes that
  strain to see
beyond this shroud,

                      this acrid shroud

to that which will blind us
                           but now burns red,
painted with nature's fury

Listen Now

Listen now, for the drums
they are very faint, murmurs
on a windless day
We strain for their notes,
yearn to feel their pulse
We want, we need,
for them to thunder in our ears,
so that they replace all
thought
We will hear the fights,
the drama, the lectures,
see the changing faces of
the pictures, the ever changing leaves
those we fear to forget
all of what is past
For when those drums thunder
in our ears, they will herald visions
Of what we could be,
what we could do,
who we will become
Listen now
for the drums of change

Pieces of You

Today, I picked up a piece of red,
   fluttering just at the edge of my eye
like the color of the shirt you wore the first
       time we danced

I caught the strain of your voice,
    the way it's always a little bit hoarse,
  but never harsh
I tucked it into my pocket

     I keep finding all these pieces
of you, of us,
      I expect each to slice me open,
scatter blood on the grass

                         They don't.

Not anymore.

Friend

Of all that is done
    and said between and of
friends

     It is not the daggers
         made of words
that cut to the quick
  or the whip crack of
actions

But rather the bullets
    forged in the silence
 and the lack of action

that wounds the place
    where eyes cannot see

Drug

It's fire, tingling its way
     through my veins
It's wine, warming my
     core, my vital organs
It's lightning, a bolt
       shot to my thoughts
Laced with letters,
      filled with words,
strung together into sentences
       until I am no more
and only they exist,
     naked, breathing
in the light

Poison

This is not a blessing
      nor is it a gift,
not the thing with feathers
                     that perches in the
soul.

No.

This is a curse,
            a sickness,
    a disease, a poisonous
              infestation of the
soul.

Hope does not save
    Hope does not heal
            Hope does not love

            Hope lies
     Hope hates
Hope steals

      from us our desires, makes them soar
only to rip away the wings

Fate's Design

The turn of the wheel,
the dealing of cards,
the spots on dice,
 the line of stars
Tiny movements,
flinches,
shape life, ripple through it,
where we can hardly feel it
Well I'm through with the waiting,
with the praying,
with the wishing.
I will throw a wrench to stop the wheel,
I will steal the aces
I will make the spots of the dice
I will rearrange the stars
so that it is no longer flinches, but strikes
not ripples, but tidal waves
I will remake what the hands of fate
have dared to begin
and I will make it my own

May 2

Blow out the candles, watch the purple smoke curl
listen to clatter of plates and forks
as people talk, words sliding into one another,
and the wrapped packages sit waiting to be torn open,
I know what I want isn't in any of them.
It can't be wrapped, it can't be bought, it can't be given so easily
This gift, this want of mine is uncompromising, it will
settle for nothing less than its entirety.
And you, without even knowing, dropped a ribbon
into my hands, a chance to tug it open, to see if
it sparkles as much in real life as it does in my dream.
So I lean in and lick the base of the candle
Knowing my wish has already been granted
because all I wished for was a chance worth taking

Dear RaeLynn

Welcome to this world of suns and skies
and rivers and mountains
The first choice you made, who to be born to,
is one of the best you'll get the chance to make
and one day, I promise, after you've raged and ranted
as a teenager, felt misunderstood, you'll know.
When you're grown, and you can ride a horse with your mother
and ride an ATV with your father,
When you can read and write, and you can see
the words your mother wrote to you, before you
came out into this world of whispered mornings and
murmured evenings,
when you can see how your brother smiled when you
were nothing but lines of gray and white on a screen,
when you can listen to how he taught you to karate kick
from within the womb
When you are grown, little miss, tell them with words of your own,
with images and memories and laughter of your own, tell them
they were the best family to be born to.

Today

Laughter, feathers brushing against flesh
      a smile, effortless as a brush stroke

     Eyelashes spread, spider legs over denim

Ignition, deep down, in corners
            of licks of flame
that will flutter, casting pools

     of light and shadow

The Writer

The frosted grass crumbled under his boots
the shadow of the stones fading
But still they lingered as he sat,
his hands resting on the old black typewriter
How was he supposed to begin?
How was he supposed to choose the words,
when all he had left to give was words?
How could he let them bleed out of his hands,
when his heart had already frozen, when they
were all that he could live with?
He sighed, black coffee eyes dead and grieving,
the kind with burial veils and a sarcophagus
Then he wrote one word
WHY?
His chains tightened, a boa constrictor on his lungs
HOW?
Could he bear it? Did he even have enough words,
to begin to tell a love story
no one had ever heard before?
Did he have the courage to make them realize
this was no fairytale, no tragic romance
but nothing less than his own life,
his own bleeding, broken, bruised heart?

Unmoored

This cannot be
Heat of August, stifling and intoxicating
then this cold sunlight of February
only instead of barren bones
this landscape glows with new grown green
Days fought through have become weeks,
slipped through my fingers,
into months I see only in a glance
May is coming, a month of soft warmth
that descends into heat only as it closes
But how can this be?
The chill of this cold light is more familiar
than the heat of dark green grass
This cannot be. Seventeen cannot come to be
in only five more days.

Shatter

Spun of steel, of unbending spine
Head held high, unwilling to bow
But in the catch of waterslick sunshine
the steel is not so
a clever illusion of sand and lightning

In a clap of thunder, the silent kind,
the illusion would break apart,
scatter the sand and disperse the lightning

Who would dare to be
      that clap of thunder?

Spring

Pale ash, stained
          with burnt umber

Gray sky,
  the kind that steals away dimension

        The only light that remains
  shines through the pale veins

                      of newborn leaves

Dance

Pulse
      of a hundred hearts
Beat
      of a thousand notes
Exhale
      a million breaths
Heat
      of sweat and lust
Ache
      of all the muscles that can be fixed
             with a good night's sleep

White

It does not fade with the melting snownor does its crystal perfume vanish
It lingers, in the soft curves of blooming petals
in puffs against the cerulean blue sky.
on the edges of the sky, resting on hilltops
It bleeds, from the skin of people onto their clothes
as one darkens and the other lightens
It smells no longer of crystals but of
grass and dirt and sun and sky

City of Glass

Cold wind blowing
Squall of gulls over its whistle
Gray and white quilt stitched overhead
Rhythmic thunk of cars over sewer grates
and at the base of paved hills
The smell of the market: tulips, daffodils,
fish and cinnamon
Underlying hint of rain
Then, from on high,
the quilt is pierced with fierce white,
It bounces off the buildings,
reverberates off the ocean
and turns every stone into a rare jewel
and every stain into a priceless artifact

Small Shadows

Deep down in a place,       I haven't begun to explore
            there's a flicker,
a fragment, a tear
      in the fabric of my soul
            in the silk of my heart
Sometimes, I sense it
      I feel it in the spring breeze,
            in the hills lit up with gold
It frightens me, to venture too close
      If I pull it back, I catch a glimpse
            of small shadows
the ones that smell of clover
       and sing of happily ever after
             and smile gap toothed smiles
Down past that flicker, that fragment,
       is a cavern, deep and endless
              filled with stars and dreams
Where one day, love will go to grow
       born when the shadows morph
              into my children

Double Standard

Speech, ideas, requests
grate against my mind
and my heart of hearts rebels,
my soul seethes
They want to leap into battle,
rip apart the other
the one who dared ask
of us what they will not
do for us.
Filthy hypocrites
With all their superiority
and their pomp
Double standard be damned
Oh, how we wish,
my mind heart and soul,
that we had the weakness
to leap forth and tear
the throat of their
speech down

Wound

Sliver of steel, so thin and fine
it doesn't even scratch the skin
or make veins open

So slim it fits between letters,
between words,
right through hope

This is the kind of wound that
cripples not the body
but that place, deep down

The place where we go
when the world tells us
no, we can't

and we whisper,
Yes, we can
but that sliver slices through

The letters of defiance
scattered like spots of blood
broken, deep in the place

where some things never mend

Fighter

I look at you and see that
smug little look in your eyes,
that demeaning glint that says,
"You think you know what
you're talking about?"

I look at you and I see that
if I opened my mouth, if
I let you know, if I let
the words fly

They'd slice right through you,
leave ribbons of blood on your pride,
shatter that glint in your eye
And I'd smile and you'd see

that you never had a chance
against me

Gold

When the valley is in shades
     of gray and brown
and even the color of
  the evergreens has faded
          and you wait, in agony,
for the change
You pray and cry out and plead
     for something to come, to break
this spell

And then, silently, it does, in a handful of
    gold, scattered by spring's forgotten hand

Still

Come and sit,
     with a gentle breeze
  the kind that stirs more
         than just the blades of grass

Allow the world to settle
     like a sheet, floating down
  like gossamer spider webs,
         lighting down with fairy wings

And breathe
             in and out
             in and out
             in and out

      Feel the cool damp grass
against your legs, and the warmth
    of sunshine on your face
 and the breeze across your eyelids

Flicker

A flicker, just beyond sight
    a whisper, barely there

Cold still lingers,
      clinging to the gray world

    but there it is.
The flicker of gold

     that promises
          a new year

Without Words

I know boys
better than people think
I know their sense of humor, their
quirky smiles, their oblivion
their tendency to forget small things
As writer, it is my duty to observe people
to watch them as they struggle, as they laugh
as they falter and find their way
So I know boys, better than they think
By knowing them, I know myself
And now I know it won't be the boys that
make me write
but the one who takes the words away
will be the one who I can't bear
to be without.

Wind

Pins of ice, slicing into cloth
Throwing hair into eyes, stinging
Shut them and see nothing but a kalediscope
Shivering, the kind that wracks the whole body,
makes the spine shake, muscles clamp up
Makes everything ache

Mist

Trickling down dew drops
      fallen needles, clinging

against frozen blades of grass

      Wrapped up in a sheath
hiding from the yellow sun

Good morning, the clouds whisper

Valentine's Day

Bright, rinsed blue sky
         just perfect, to reflect the red and pink
of hearts

Hearts on cards,
               on chocolates,
       on balloons

All I see is a dark tunnel,
    with yellow light from failing bulbs
shadows hissing at the edge of my sight

      Shadows with those hearts,
shrouded in a torn veil,
     left fluttering in the cold winter wind

I remember the heart of chocolate
     he gave to me
The memory a trap set to go off only

on the fourteenth of February

So leave me be, in my shadows,
     with the hidden hearts
and torn veils where dreams linger

Love Story

Dawn pools in the corners of her eyes
      stars sparkle across their surface

His eyes hold no hint of night
     shining, brilliant blue
as they smile down at hers

Her demons screech in protest
       but they are powerless

against the bright sun he holds in his heart

and freely gives
                      to her

Thoughts

Fluid, flitting on butterfly wings
   streaming together in long lines,
   verses of poetry
A shadow, a shining shadow
   and they scatter, dandelion seeds
   on the wind, torn apart
Yet they return, cling to the shadow
    dew upon the needles
    of the pine trees.

Just Beyond

Come dance with us,
the reflections whisper to me

Come run through fields of silver,
leap brooks of ice
touch the edges

Don't stay out there, where
nothing is risked
Not blood, not fear, not sleep,
not your heart

Come to us, come dance
Come with us, take just one chance.

How Strange Are We

How strange are we
letters on the page
struggling to form
the next word

How strange are we
pieces of hearts
trying to put
us back together

How strange are we
lovers left alone
wishing for more
space, more time

How strange are we
fallen souls in the valley
waiting for something
to change

Love Letter

I've lost count of how many times I've started this,
imagined these words
So I'll start with one.
Love.
Even after him, even after countless stories
I still can't really imagine two people
holding so much power in their hands
I still can't see clearly what it would look like
We hear the stories of love that broke
everything put in front of it and
we hear stories of love that was forgotten,
broken, or merely evanescent
After everything I've seen, everything I've heard,
I don't believe in great love.
I want to believe in it, so much so it hurts
on nights without stars, on days without
joy
But still, somehow, I won't dare believe.

Frozen

Winter's hand, writing
      ancient letters with the fog
spilling from my mouth
      The land is barren, dry
Dead
       Dying
Blue sky beauty
       mocking the cries
for snow, for sleet, for rain
       for anything to take away the dry
Even without ice, the valley lies

frozen.