Friday, March 24, 2017

Burning, Alive, For You


Fading lines blurred
Edges bleeding as memories pale
Things you left, scattered about
And here and there
I find your hair on my clothes
Or in my blankets
Sweet reminders, caught at the periphery of our senses
Like the faint whiff of perfume
Fading at the edges of passion
As it burns inside
Like an eternal flame
Bearing the heat within
That lingering shock
At the tips of my fingers
The memory of lines traced
Down the warm landscape
Of soft, sweet skin


There are photographs
Behind glass
Cradled memories
Of the wisp of smiles
That lay dormant under the cold ice
Of days and times before
Where the darkness was more a part of me
Than I knew how to be comfortable with
Emboldened, embrightened
The little flame melted away walls
Placed by the cold, dead hands
Of undying demons, writhing inside of me
Snakes in a pit
Singing siren songs with poisoned lips

I sit, under old trees
Where your name is not carved beside mine\
But under whose leaves, our hearts reside
As if a phone call would be enough
To make up for soft words
Whispered directly into ears
Curling through the cold
Warmed from within
By the same heat I feel
From your hand, pressed to my chest
Heart pulsing, pounding
Like a monster created
By mad science
Finding life at last
Sweet, cinnamon kisses lingering like smoke
As if my memory would sustain me
Past the long days without
While you sit
Not alone at all
But merely apart, for now

Throwing petals to the wind
Tossing them aside like overwrought cliches
To drift away 
On cold beaches, where the sun shines
On your face
While the moon shines on mine
In slumber, a world away from you
Apart
Though not alone
As you are the fire now
A sort of artificial, eternal dawn
Melting the ice I'd bound around my heart
To hold me in the darkness
Where the snakes and demons once resides
To dance and be merry
A darkness which no longer feels like home


Tuesday, March 21, 2017

A Day For A Lifetime (World Poetry Day)


For Jessy, and all the times we've played with words

***

There are days
Long days perhaps, or days often overlooked
Set aside for the sharing of ideas
Ideals
Ideally to conspicuously denote
Those who share the passion
Predilection
Predisposed towards the sort of thing
That we see fit to give a day to
Agreeing perhaps that these things are worthy of praise
Though we afford only a single day to share them
Today, they say
Is a day to celebrate wordplay
Something I find insufferable at the best of times
But through which I have found many things
Like a dear friend (more like family)
Far, far away
In a world that may as well be from the pages of a book
For all distance between us
I've also found a way
To write without writing 
Perhaps without writing well
Though I'm sure there would be hackles raised
If that statement were made in sincerity

There are people
Living these days
The long ones we peasants deign to acknowledge
Perhaps but once a year
Every day of their lives
With scribbled words
Or brush stroke
Or just appreciating who they are, where they've come from
The milestones reached
Things both within and without their control
Today is a day for poets
And lovers of poets
Tomorrow, though
A day for remembering the thirsty
And the day after, will be something else
But for each, we see only the days we know
Be it a day for science (November 10th)
A day for love (May 1st)
Or just for cookies (Decemeber 4th)
I think we all know
That these days do not stand alone
Mutually exclusive of the enjoyment of other things
Each of us, instead, choosing to live the way we love, the things we love

There is too much art
Even within a medium
To take a single day for any appreciation
And it may seem so cliche
To use it as my excuse to scan the works
Of Bukowski, Rimbaud, or Gibran
After long days of scanning textbooks
And preparing for exams
You won't find me sipping wine
Watching bad beat poetry on youtube
As if there was any other kind of beat poetry
Wincing delightedly at every un-ironic snap
And spoken word cliche
Spit with such candid vehemence
Like the poorly scribbled
Cliche-ridden angst, of every teenager
Or the childlike, saccharine of rhyming
Clumsy, or elegant
A cacophany of thoughts and emotions
Roiling through the mind and onto paper
Or into ears
Such sincere, heartfelt art
That even the worst is endearing
Because even the (subjective) worst is art