Friday, November 17, 2017

Because I Love You

I know it hurts.
I’m sorry.
I can fix it.
I can make you better.
Why won’t you let me make it better?
You’re pretending.
You’re pretending, aren’t you?
Why are you pretending?
Stop it.
It doesn’t hurt.
It still hurts?
I’ll fix it.
I’ll make it stop.
I’ll make it stop for us both.
I can’t do this anymore.
I’ll make it stop.
I know it hurts.
But now it won’t anymore.
Now it won’t hurt either of us.
Not anymore.
Never again.
I know it hurts.
I’m sorry.
I can fix it.
Why won’t you let fix it?
Stop fighting.
Let me fix it.
It won’t hurt anymore.
Not anyone.
Anymore.

Friday, April 21, 2017

From Tethered to Tattered

Souls were meant to travel
To permeate each other 
ebb and flow
to soothe into one another
and withdraw like the dew

Yet they are constrained
pushed into this world
caged inside flesh
Tortured by glimpses
of infinity in a moment
and eternity beyond touch

So, what happens
to the soul that escapes
Who shredded its tethers
and flows in and out
of itself and others

What of the body
left behind soulless
during dream time
with connections awry
the cage splayed open
Empty with soul absent

Or of the reunion
And the soul returns
and the body reawakens
when the soul no longer fits
and the cage is weakened

How long can a soul stay
in a cage it hates
when it’s felt freedom
and the touch of life
true as from the source

The shell never fit
A body ever left wanting
Captive of in-between
Undecided
on staying or leaving

So it leaves just once more
and then returns
Ambiguous
Searches again for clarity
Tearing the strands
of body and soul
ever more
and more
Forever more

one last time

Wednesday, December 9, 2015

The Edge of Art

The palette knife was nothing special to anyone but the painter. The palette was covered with globs and smears and swirls as the painter worked. There was something calming about mixing the colors before the application. He took his time, slicing a bit of color from this shade and that, mixing them together slowly and gently till it matched his mind's eye just so.

The ingredients with this particular medium were tricky, there were so many variables to consider when cultivating it. Event the best of colors could go bad. You had to work quickly and with strong strokes before it dried or died. Living mediums were like that.

This latest piece was a sunset. His own life was coming to a close soon. It was a hazard of this line of work. Life his father before him, and his grandmother before that, he worked to perfect his craft, to uphold his family's legacy. They had all been artists and with each generation they tried to improve upon the last.

He had been the first to truly utilize the resources at his disposal, making and mixing more than one color for a piece of work. This had been commissioned by the grand museum in town. It had to be perfect. He didn't know how much longer he would be able to work once his work was publicized to that extent. It was a risk, but one worth taking.

He walked to one of the steel slabs, Table A, examine the blue veins of color. He took his knife and pressed its tip against an azure line. The liquid needed to the surface, a lighter red then he was looking for. He turned to the next table and traced the veins on a younger limb. He took the palette knife to it, revealing a darker, richer blend. That was better.

He made a mental note to add more iron to the lines for Table A. There must be a nutritionally deficiency forming.

He worked with the knife, forming the sea cliffs, sharp jagged, and dark against the fading light of the sun. He had to work quickly, slanting with the thinnest part of the blade. This pigment was younger and clotted faster.

Saturday, December 5, 2015

Fly Away

They keep telling me what I can't do. They keep telling me I have to be careful. To be safe. I'm sick. I'm fragile. I can't be like other kids. I can't jump and run. My teacher says to be patient, that maybe I'll be stronger when I get to first grade.

I'm mad.

It's not fair.

I've been swinging as high as I can go, the wind helps me feel better...

But the tears still hurt.

I need to get higher, even as the swing hiccups and snaps, I want to go higher. I want to get away.

Maybe... if I get higher enough... I can let go... and jump into the sky... Or... they could be right...

Wednesday, November 25, 2015

Starlight

Ghosts
Standing at my door
Throwing pebbles at my window
Inform
Inconsistent
There and gone
Come back
Stay away
Remind me
Make me forget

Only in the dark
Peak at me from the past
Whisper to me you're still here
Tell me you're not gone
Things I wonder or know
That I feel kisses in the breeze
During nights I'm alone
In my own company

You are my lights
My beautiful night sky
The patterns of chaos
Panning out into order
As understanding dawns
Upon the small and blind
We are immeasurably alone
Yet, somehow, connected
As we shine upon each other.

The Shattered Iris


Gardens are so mercurial, temperamental; even in the winters... and it was always winter here. It was a blessed sort of hell for the research my team and I were trying to accomplish.

We were supposed to create a flower that could survive the cold, the snow, the ice.We were failing. Had failed. The garden I kept was my only comfort in this desolation.

I had kept it in my room, at first, an Iris. She was a beautiful sort of flower. Delicate in her beauty and resilient in her strength. She had been my inspiration through all the frustrations.a

When worse came to worse I converted the hydroponics works into a sort of open air greenhouse. Safe from the wind but frozen like outside.

No one understood. One by one, they left us. I was so close, I knew it. I had to keep trying, keep testing. My beauties weren't ready for the winds yet... but... they were withstanding the cold without shattering.

I only had one chance left before I was out of test subjects.

I walked slowly back to my room. There is a price for science and I cried while I paid it; bagging my beautiful Iris, filling the bag with a warmed gas to keep her petals supple while I wheeled her down to the test area.

An eternity later I gazed at my specimen's test results. All readings looked hopeful. I had done it. We had done it. My beautiful Iris lay living, not dormant, beneath the layers of ice. Nothing had cracked, nothing had shattered. She lived and could move, could bend when the winds caught her.

My Iris swayed on the table as I touched her, my gloved hands trembling. Beauty, finally frozen in time, alive.

Wednesday, September 16, 2015

My Limerick

There was a deep, wheezing voice floating over the crowd as our eyes adjusted to the darkness inside the door. Poet's Den was the oddest bar I think I'd ever dragged my man into. The incense, coffees, and teas mixed in the air, giving each table it's own aromatic aurora. I felt like I"d crawled out of my skin and into my soul with so many kindred spirits about, my poor date just looked like he was suffocating on all thick vernaculars in the air.

He took up residence in my normal haunt, a corner in the back of the room, pretty much out of sight. I was the social butterfly here, an inversion of our roles beyond these walls. It had been so long since I'd spoken with other writers. We read each other's pieces, listened to the poets on stage, the musicians wove melodies, discussed what we really meant by what we said. It was thrilling... in a calm, sipping warm spices kind of way.

Then a sort of raucous rose up from the back. There he was, obviously enjoying something a bit bolder than my tea in his glass and being the loud, fun loving sailor I'd fallen in love with.

Excusing myself I walked over to him and whispered an appropriate encouragement to get us out the door without too much disruption. While we were walking out a heard a few sneers and distasteful remarks, a classic case of" who do you think you are to be in our clique" kind of nonsense that drove me mad.

I paid the cashier and said, a little loudly and maybe with a wink, "You'll have to excuse us for the night. My limerick needs its muse.".

It was cheesy and silly, but what can I say, my sailor's rubbed off on me.

Friday, September 4, 2015

Dandelion Diadem

The room was sparse but for some handpicked flowers from her garden and the Chihuahua's amenities. There was a crocheted blanket pulled up around her shoulders.

A quick rap at the door startled her out of her limbo like reverie about how life had mistreated her. A slight woman entered the room, too thin for her height, limp curls hung like dirty drapes around eyes encircled with the darkness of sleepless nights and worried days.

"Morning, Mother," she said, like she had every day since this has started. Her voice had gotten quieter as things had deteriorated. "How are you feeling?" She asked, looking around the room. A disapproving snort from the bed had tears shimmering in the visitor's eyes.

"Are my roses blooming?"

The question was impatient and and whistled off at the end, overtaken by wheezing.

"They should be blooming. You should have brought me some fresh flowers... Did you fertilize them like you were supposed to? You have to feed them every few months or they won't bloom as nice... I bet you didn't, or you didn't do it right. If you had then you would have brought me... flowers..." She wheezed off a huff of indignation, looking to the window for flowers outside.

"I'm sure they'll be blooming soon, Mother." The daughter replied softly. She fidgeted in her lap, eyes examining the blanket. "I think I skipped a stitch on the hem on the end her. I'll have to unravel it a bit to fix it, but I could bring my hooks tomorrow and fix it."

"The blanket's fine if not a little lopsided. Don't put yourself out on my account. Not like I'm going to be tossing it around my shoulders and running around naked outside."

"O-okay."

"Is your mother so boring that you can't just sit with me for awhile? It's not like you have much longer to wait. You were always impatient. Ungrateful."

The daughter squeezed her eyes shut, wiping at the tears that escaped.

"I made you something." The hurt visitor said, opening a small box and placing it on the bed. "It's a dandelion crown, like you made me that one time."

She grunted with a glance in the box.

"It was a good memory." Her daughter whispered as she let herself out.