Summer’s Swift Portrayal

Cut the cords

we’ve no more room today

no more rooms
they’re gone, I say

Goodbye, push back
your hello—pull a thread
on the word farewell
tightly along your lips

let that sink in
like the ship at sea
now one with the swell
now alive and well
against rocks, against fish

sand and salt spray
like that in our skin
the ship settles in
to a home of washed light

and I, its captain,
have gone and made
some tea from seaweed.

And within our shells
we toast with the water
we breathe, and dance
as the tide would do.

Tagged: #poetry #PC's poetry

Old Stitches

The embroidery of these seconds
sinks against my brow
and life sits still—so quiet.

I’m left without a sound,
but the future nestles
like a devil against my ear
and tells me that I

have many more miles
to walk,

and the weight from my
stitches and pieces of time
makes me weary—
but a couple more years
and maybe
I’ll be strong.

Bees at the Orchard

I watch them
pick the fruit from the trees.

Some pick the fruit
gently at the stem.

Some rip the ripe meat
from the branch.

Some saw the branch down.

And there was one
small boy, who brought
with him an axe.
He spent all day
sweating, with eyes
nearly closed from the pain—
his hands blistered, swelling.

The tree fell,
and the young boy
gorged on the fallen fruit
and slept—

leaving the next day
with his axe and his
full belly, leaving
the rotting meat behind.

Stings Against Gentle Hands

Monsters carry venom,
a vile solution used to
dissolve and break down,
injected amongst sweat and spit

Monsters bear craftiness and greed,
they’re callous and confused,
with one simple goal in mind:
to devour

Monsters claim its their right
to take of flesh and bone
that’s born of another soul

and monsters bump in the night
so that they can keep
the glee of destroying without
being known

They take, they break,
they see no fault
in the mirrors they keep

And yet they know—
they know!—
the torment they bring,

and smile knowing well
that they will get away—

since there is no defense
for the bright colored mouse,
too young to have seen
a monster’s bite.

(Source: preoccupiedthoughts, via aquietjoy-deactivated20140608)

An Old Foreshadowing Thought

My writing isn’t beautiful

My writing isn’t dark

My writing isn’t some great mystery,
some great expression,
some great something
that I felt had
to be relayed

My writing is my thoughts,
my feelings, my need
to breathe, the result
of my yearning
and my unease

I’m writing
to share the world,
or at least parts of it,
with you -

cause, sometimes,
it’s hard for me
to walk closely, or
make a call
so that I can share
those moments too.

There are halos in the wind,
the air we breathe in are wings
for both angels and demons
and our luck,

and reformation, and renaissance,
clings to thoughts we think,
the ones expelled,
the ones brought in
like an anchor holding on

heaven on earth
and we mix it with
our hell—
we get the grey,
the brackish water

we’ll have something
at the very least to drink,

and we’ll drink to ourselves -
glasses raised even as
hearts stay heavy

like a stone lifted, though,
day in and day out
the muscle grows strong

don’t let go—
not until you
can throw the weight
far enough outside
of the blast zone.

Prose - Monster


What makes a man a monster?
What simplest word can cause the tamed lion to bite?
The gentlest rainfall can turn into a thunderstorm in a matter of minutes,
The light crackle from an April shower— it can bellow up into a terrifying shudder—
Shaking the Earth below it,
Rattling the wooden limbs above it.

Everybody has a Mr. Hyde,
Though concealed with false words and a pressing smile,
Even the bat of beautiful lashes, or the teasing words of a delicate whisper,
Sometimes things are like a rose,
Stunning to see, but hurtful to touch.

They say, “what a wretched creature; crack the whip”,
But I’m telling you this,
It is what it is.
Those who do not believe,
Have not yet looked in the mirror.

Tagged: #poetry #PC's poetry

Duck, duck…

The choices amongst me
are an infinity.
The star filled sky
is a straighter road
than the one I walk - with
possibility circling
around me just as
a vulture from above
hunting in wait for
the putrid dead
to ferment and decay.

Each road I’ve
been shown
carries thousands of
footprints, numerous lives
already marking the trail,
yet the sands of time
blow anew over every
new soul to wonder
against every winding route.

So I’m left here,
to choose which trail
in this winter
will turn to spring,
or turn to cliffs
and falls - and leaving
me to falter, prolonging
my search for a
life to finally lead.

Tagged: #poetry #bleh #PC's poetry

I don’t like being around these people.
I lose my sense of self,
my humanity is disposed of.
They ask to see a smile,
and my distant mind forgets
what that’s supposed to mean.

My memory loses consciousness,
and my senses reflect the loss.

I don’t wish to be alive
around these certain folk,
and so I try—unknowingly—
to transpose flesh to stone,
and play with pigeons
instead of smiling a lie
toward these blood-filled ruins
that carry more than just
old memories and older names.

I need a means of
restoration—I need
to settle for sanity
rather than wait
for luxury that may
never be found
amongst these waves
of aged rubble.

Full Bloom

      The petal peddler came to town today; he asked to meet the clergy.  He had once sold rose stems, and sunflower blooms, and flowers long since dried—sun soaked to grant escape from the decay that is life, that is time, that lingers with us forever. 
     The petal peddler asked to see our shore, he asked to set up shop, but the clergy told the mayor, who told the clerks, who told the builders to refuse his money and gold and force of will, and have him look out into the crystal water, but not to keep it for himself.  The petal peddler went his less than merry way, finding his feet against the rocks and sand of our illustrious coast—flooded with pounding waves, that for a moment in time gave the beach blossoms, and gritty white petals, before withering in an instant. 
      The petal peddler stared into the great expanse of the sea, as the sun itself knelt before the night, and water pressed down against the peddler’s cheeks, until he too fell onto the sand and along the rocks.  A cross, and a jar of petals, were in the petal peddler’s hands, and he laid them to rest against the shore.  He stayed in that spot, till he too dried and ebbed into nothing, leaving only his petals, his cross, and a charred child’s toy. 
       The clergy met, and planted two stones where the petal peddler had watched the sun set—flowers would bloom their in the Spring, as children would come to play amongst the petals, the shore, and the sand. 

       And the petal peddler would stand there in the Spring, happy to be reunited with his child— watching the children play amongst the blooms, his immortal family.

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