Flicker, flick
don't exhaust the candle stick
drip drop plip plop
the wick will run out soon
hiss, spit
goes the flame
it slowly drowns in its own remains
watch the waxy colors changes
from orange to blue
it takes on a whispering hue
such a tiny thing to snuff
too bad it had had enough
The ink of a writer comes from the creative juices that live deep within the heart
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Bitter Taste
Moments counted & measured like ripe
fruits of summer. Tugging, tasting, your
kisses sweet with pulp, sour tongue, always
unfulfilled. Do the inside and the outside
of things, I am quite partial to the teasing
memories that drone in and out of what
once was us. But those days are done, do
unto yourself as many others have done,
become a memory. Become yesteryear now
that I am forever young. Never remember,
never forget what once was is now nevermore.
Be that as it may, you are still words and sweet
promises gone sour in my mouth. Rotting pulp.
Stop & don’t you ever come back to pluck me.
fruits of summer. Tugging, tasting, your
kisses sweet with pulp, sour tongue, always
unfulfilled. Do the inside and the outside
of things, I am quite partial to the teasing
memories that drone in and out of what
once was us. But those days are done, do
unto yourself as many others have done,
become a memory. Become yesteryear now
that I am forever young. Never remember,
never forget what once was is now nevermore.
Be that as it may, you are still words and sweet
promises gone sour in my mouth. Rotting pulp.
Stop & don’t you ever come back to pluck me.
Dilly-Dally
Laying awake to sleep
causes fuzzy memories
to and fro to go
When my here become there
for anywhere
is my destination
or recollection
Let tomorrow be today
hereafter and neverafter
shout your words onto paper
to convince it otherwise
the ink will curdle
shade of blushing envy
bleeding through my fingers
permanent captured
causes fuzzy memories
to and fro to go
When my here become there
for anywhere
is my destination
or recollection
Let tomorrow be today
hereafter and neverafter
shout your words onto paper
to convince it otherwise
the ink will curdle
shade of blushing envy
bleeding through my fingers
permanent captured
Your Move
Stages and stages in all the world to which I am merely a player
Scenes of my life written in stanzas and rhyme schemes that create their own jargon and ambiguity
Strategy and mad chatterings of the imagination become different colors when you whisper clues and secrets to them
Advance a space, capture a piece, read your dialogue to the audience, fool them all with your smiles
Twist the dial to turn back time so you don't miss a thing, so you can see how the game ends
Scenes of my life written in stanzas and rhyme schemes that create their own jargon and ambiguity
Strategy and mad chatterings of the imagination become different colors when you whisper clues and secrets to them
Advance a space, capture a piece, read your dialogue to the audience, fool them all with your smiles
Twist the dial to turn back time so you don't miss a thing, so you can see how the game ends
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Fleeting Thoughts
As glossy white as winter snow
frosty bits
everglow
Taken by the wind to dance
alight upon my nose
to dream of simple things
of frost nibbles
milky crystal
forming rosy patterns
Budding within my mind's eye
as I glance a thousand miles away
To a place I'll never know
frosty bits
everglow
Taken by the wind to dance
alight upon my nose
to dream of simple things
of frost nibbles
milky crystal
forming rosy patterns
Budding within my mind's eye
as I glance a thousand miles away
To a place I'll never know
Saturday, October 22, 2011
At a glance (prose poem)
You wouldn't think someone was missing a few gears or knobs or thing-a-ma jigs if you simply looked at them.
Passing them by as though you were in a hurry, with things to do and people to see.
They are not machinery, they are simply broken.
Broken things can be fixed. Tools twisted and turned and molded back to the way it once was, or somewhere close to never were.
If they are shattered, that is harder to repair.
You need a lot of superglue and patience. But you wouldn't know this at a glance.
You wouldn't even guess, you would simply just do not know.
Ignorance is a beautiful thing sometimes, others...it is absolutely heart-breaking.
Meld it all you like, the seams will still show.
Until it is all polished over you will not begin to understand just how barely pieced-together someone is.
Passing them by as though you were in a hurry, with things to do and people to see.
They are not machinery, they are simply broken.
Broken things can be fixed. Tools twisted and turned and molded back to the way it once was, or somewhere close to never were.
If they are shattered, that is harder to repair.
You need a lot of superglue and patience. But you wouldn't know this at a glance.
You wouldn't even guess, you would simply just do not know.
Ignorance is a beautiful thing sometimes, others...it is absolutely heart-breaking.
Meld it all you like, the seams will still show.
Until it is all polished over you will not begin to understand just how barely pieced-together someone is.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Paper Faces
The music was hauntingly beautiful, a melody that was slow and pensive yet sweet and sorrowful. A violin trilled its heart out to the thick crowd of masked figures as she waded and danced my way through to the center…where he waited.
He was the core, the goal, the focal point of the warm marbled room. Everyone spiraled and twirled and dipped around him as he stood there like an admiring and omniscient statue.
His dark mask looked to be crafted from the very essence of shadows and smoke, resembling a haunting stygian mark against his bright and pale complexion. The moment he saw her dragging her hampering silver skirt into the center ring he smiled wickedly and extended an offering hand.
Such a gesture could not be refused. She was lured in easily, like a moth to a spider’s labyrinth of a web.
They glided together, circling around one another in a melodious and intricate waltz. He held her firmly against him, his powerful arms a mere facet of his true power as he loomed over her tiny existence. The moonstones and silver baubles that dangled from and adorned her attire seemed to match his midnight doublet, as though he were the sky and she the stars.
Suddenly he spun her and dipped her low along with the steep cry of the violin. She felt as though her body was no longer her own. She was merely a marionette, and he controlled her strings.
Those dark eyes of his burned like hot coals sitting in a hearth, watching her every move as the rhythm of the dance grew to its crescendo and slowly began to still.
The hundreds of people who danced around them halted in their own dances, watching, waiting, witnessing their private dance. Their paper faces were blank, becoming less and less animated as she was led into another dip, concluding the song as well as their waltz.
When she returned her gaze to him and fell out of the spell of the violin, she was met by a chaste and frightening kiss. His lips were like poison, drawing her in to his intoxicating presence as though he were wrapping her within a dark cloak. She became cold, then steadily sleepy, as though she were sinking into a warm bath. It was an odd series of sensations that lasted until the kiss ended and the applause filled the room.
When she parted her long eyelashes, the room had changed completely. There were no marble halls or grad stairwells. There were no dancers with masks or musicians. There was no prince. She was alone in her bed, the candle on her bedside table guttered from the open window. The only remnant of the evening’s dream was one of the silver baubles that she had worn, which had stationed itself just underneath her bed.
Still jingling softly.
He was the core, the goal, the focal point of the warm marbled room. Everyone spiraled and twirled and dipped around him as he stood there like an admiring and omniscient statue.
His dark mask looked to be crafted from the very essence of shadows and smoke, resembling a haunting stygian mark against his bright and pale complexion. The moment he saw her dragging her hampering silver skirt into the center ring he smiled wickedly and extended an offering hand.
Such a gesture could not be refused. She was lured in easily, like a moth to a spider’s labyrinth of a web.
They glided together, circling around one another in a melodious and intricate waltz. He held her firmly against him, his powerful arms a mere facet of his true power as he loomed over her tiny existence. The moonstones and silver baubles that dangled from and adorned her attire seemed to match his midnight doublet, as though he were the sky and she the stars.
Suddenly he spun her and dipped her low along with the steep cry of the violin. She felt as though her body was no longer her own. She was merely a marionette, and he controlled her strings.
Those dark eyes of his burned like hot coals sitting in a hearth, watching her every move as the rhythm of the dance grew to its crescendo and slowly began to still.
The hundreds of people who danced around them halted in their own dances, watching, waiting, witnessing their private dance. Their paper faces were blank, becoming less and less animated as she was led into another dip, concluding the song as well as their waltz.
When she returned her gaze to him and fell out of the spell of the violin, she was met by a chaste and frightening kiss. His lips were like poison, drawing her in to his intoxicating presence as though he were wrapping her within a dark cloak. She became cold, then steadily sleepy, as though she were sinking into a warm bath. It was an odd series of sensations that lasted until the kiss ended and the applause filled the room.
When she parted her long eyelashes, the room had changed completely. There were no marble halls or grad stairwells. There were no dancers with masks or musicians. There was no prince. She was alone in her bed, the candle on her bedside table guttered from the open window. The only remnant of the evening’s dream was one of the silver baubles that she had worn, which had stationed itself just underneath her bed.
Still jingling softly.
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