Poetry

Life Cycles

 

A young blue jay sings

Watching as her lover goes,

Over the shimmering ravine.

 

While not far off,

A pickerel frog pounces

From lily pad to lily pad

Searching for an insect

to be had.

 

Below the earth,

A worm wriggles free

From its cool, damp home

What a wonder it is to live,

To be.

 

Way up high, on the mountain top

A coyote howls for her mate

That she has lost.

 

A rabbit lies in death

Upon the floor

To bound through the green fields

Nevermore.

 

Berkshire Lace

 

The drowsy hum

of dewy afternoon

Sweet tea sugar rush

and swoon of the damp cocoon

 

Satin fingers

meet perspiring skin

Jewels of moisture

Buzz of the cotton gin

 

The blue moon rises

Candle wax drips down

its shaft, puddling

Into a molten crown

 

Listening for any sign

Of sanctimonious squalor

Or ear to keyhole

of clerical collar

 

Sound withdraws,

and hands make haste

revealing the evanescent

Berkshire lace

 

Necromancy of Poe

 

Golden Shovel poem inspired by The Sleeper by Edgar Allan Poe

It is upon the doom and gloom of June

We dance beneath our kindred moon

Electrifying the otherwise dim

Sky, nectar dripping from the rim

Without warning, red rain drops

Upon the surly mountain top

Drums drone and beat, musically

Echoing throughout the bewitched valley

A knocking sounds from the grave

Coming and going, flowing in waves

Clinging to the earth’s sweet breast

Until the beat of the drum comes to rest

Someplace

 

There’s an old wooden gate

It leads to both everywhere, and nowhere

at all.

It stands there, on two rusted hinges

Dragging along as it opens,

Reaching out toward the cool, starry night.

I go through, on the precipice

of adventure.

Brilliance among the cosmos,

I take a deep breath

Bare toes tingling in my shoes

I open my eyes

and I am at the front of that old,

wooden gate.

 

Ars Poetica

 

Raw sense of emotion

Prickles at this

Dark devotion

To a mental state

That only does me wrong.

No beauty and no grace

Just the gong of a song

That’s been left on repeat

Way too fucking long.

Because the meds make me dull,

Full of an existential droll

Not being true to myself

Yet I should probably ask for help.

But this hole in my soul

Only gets bigger, not smaller

As the inspiration dries up

Like a sad little sunflower.

So I’ll just sleep, then write

Maybe repeat it twice

And live within

This inspirational euphoria

Depression thrust me in.