Sleep will come from now till then,

and as it does, the nymphs of memory

in sash-ed drapings of delight

will abide to remove the wells of worried weight

from the dead of drowsy day.

And, for you and your beloved companions,

all shall be well.

Picture: www.lullabysleep.com

When our chest, house of the heart

is laid open, nakedly shredded,

ribs cracked apart, the carrion birds

of our darkest realities

peck and stab, tearing chunks

of yesterdays, also laid bare

from the bloodied flesh of

our morose todays.

We cannot see a sky,

whether grey or blue,

when the crows come

to eat our dreams and

blacken the horizon of our hopes.

But, even a small child,

whose heart has yet to be broken

can run with heedless joy,

through the foul flock,

scattering the scavengers that lust

after a mouthful of yesterday’s bad news.

To find this one is no more

to feed the crows.

Picture: www.opednews.com

Dedicated to one of the dearest, most wonderful people I know and one I am blessed to call friend. You know who you are.

Derided, undefended and desperate she speaks

from silent depths where wonder stopped long ago,

replaced by a dry and lonely wind, parched and shrill.

Here she sees her own ghost asking questions

with answers long forgotten.

Now? Should? What if? Why? When?

Courtiers, rapiers, cads and posers

all seek her hand, her gentle touch

of light ascending, moon arising, darkness waning

but offer nothing in return but the cold assurance

of a promiseless land, a garden of stone, a song without notes.

But dawn brings only a nighttime warmth

to her daytime soul, her wounds heedless of their sources.

And on the cold and brittle staircase of their empty desolation

she floats and twirls, rising above her cistern of boggy solace

to the phoenix above, having paved her way

with the ashes of her heart’s demise.

And she meets herself again, as if for the first time,

on the way back up.

You might want to keep the kids out of the room while reading this one.

Her beaded skin befriended, welcomes this encounter;

her universe moist from moments

of close-folded intrusion, heaven’s mixture

of fluidic grace.

She stretches out arms long entwined

in the twisted briars of warm perfection.

Limbs, taut and tingling, simmer and sigh

and follow their own presence

to the unmeasured gardens of depth.

Protruding and driven like hunter’s arrow

the straight, hard road approaches a hinterland

and readily channels a hungry planting

in her shadowed lake.

Delivering a sower’s gift, there comes

the careful immersion of cries bursting in love.

Their song complete, the mingling of rain and soil

attached soul to soul, and in morning’s light

there emerges a tousled joy.

.

For all those whose cruciformity brings light to dark places, hope to bleak places and promise where there is none. God sees.

Dark and insistent the vultures come,

descending on unsuspecting lives.

Ripping and tearing this salty flesh,

distraught, disturbed, disjointed,

carrion fuel, bespattered spiritual spoil.

Stand your ground, oh lovers of day.

Plant the scarecrows of virtue,

your unmoving brokenness,

your gleaming dark,

your song of voiceless vagabonds.

Though preyed upon, yield not

your hidden beauty, prayed upon

with stubbornly sanguine faith.

Though experience tells you to run,

love bids you stay.

As blood is bridge built from richest vein,

so their sightlessness becomes our sight.

As the corners of simple garments

heal deep wounds and clothe

the healer, so the faceless ones become

in an instant –

the smile of God.

Challenged in polite embrace

she mocks her fear

and removes her sunglasses.

When the sun comes

and light arrives,

even blindness is better

than apathy and

two good eyes.

Photo: www.rapgenius.com

Adorned in the jewels

of another man’s life,

there stirs within

the hymn to strife.

*

Its hollow notes relieve

dead eyes from sight,

the requirements of love

that abandon stars to night.

*

Fools on stringless harps,

the orchestra of songless space

produce the music, not of spheres,

but of notes that stones replace.

*

As one dares eyes not to see

a feeding trough of dead flowers,

here the blindness is complete,

trading one’s life for another’s power.

Photo: www.srpsj.wordpress.com