Tag: poem

The Sound of Loneliness [3-12-19]

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The sound of loneliness is

The lighting of a cigarette.

The noise of an all day Netflix binge.

A dog snoring in my bed, instead of a man.

The sound of loneliness is

My own voice thinking aloud and giving me pep talks.

The turning of pages in a book in dim light,

The shuffle of my feet as I pace across the floor.

The sound of loneliness is

The ignored notification dings on my phone,

And the clicking of keys as I text someone who doesn’t answer.

And audio books I don’t have to play through my headphones.

The sound of loneliness is

The tickle of a fish tank filter,

The soft rumble of its pump,

And hearing my parents talk in the next room because I moved back in.

The sound of loneliness is

A car pulling away,

A plane taking off,

A call being dropped.

The sound of loneliness is

Being sent straight to voicemail when I call,

The silence after I say “I love you”

The beating of my heart,

The taste of the salt in my tears.

Farm [1-27-12]

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She rose with the roosters, just before the sun peaks above the horizon, as any farm wife should.

In the early mornings, the small farmhouse filled with the smells of coffee and bacon and eggs frying.

Her long hair braided loosely down the back of her pale colored dress,

The end of her hair touching the place on her waist where her apron was tied.

She stepped lightly and barefoot about the kitchen,

Fresh sunlight and the sounds of waking animals coming in through the open window.

He comes into the room with the sun,

Hair ruffled from sleep and jaw peppered with stubble,

Worn overalls smelling of dust and straw hanging from his squared and load bearing shoulders.

They eat and talk and smile and love.

In the bright of the afternoon she feeds the animals,

Their calls and cries for her from the fences of their fields, matching seemingly to her singling.

Under the high sun, he walks and talks and plows.

His old stocky horses stomping and heeding and dragging the steel plow through the earth.

They sweat and tend and work and grow together;

Woman and man and plant and beast.

I Want [4-4-07]

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I want those country roads that we drove on in a flurry of snow,

My parents talking about moving out of the city,

As they followed timidly behind us.

I want to ride shotgun and hold your thick callused hand,

While we sing to Jason Aldean.

I want that love we had,

As we drove your monstrous red Chevy

To your grandmother’s farm,

Where you said, one day, we’d raise our children.

I feel like Jon Snow [12.3.15]

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I feel like Jon Snow.

To be more specific, when it is after the main wildling attack on the wall. The night’s watch has fought valiantly, and they fended off the initial attack of scouts. Jon snow has returned to the nights watch, run from the wildlings, escaped to warn his brothers of the impeding wilding invasion to Westeros.

He has always been a crow, even when he was with the wilding, even when he was with Yigrette, even though he loved her.

The men are patrolling the wall and castle black and the tunnels, surveying for their dead, and a damage report. John snow was in the battle as well, firing his bow into the wildlings scaling the wall and ramparts and towers.

Much like Yigrette fired arrows into him as he sped off on his horse, her screaming and tears and arrows following him off as far as they could reach.

Jon Snow walks among dead crows and wildlings alike, praying to the old gods for her to not be there. He walks and looks even though he’d rather not see. He walks and carries fear and regret and guilt with him in his heart.

And among the snow and black cloaks he sees a glimpse of red hair, and there she lay, kissed with fire and an arrow in her chest. Dead.

And so is he. Dead in the anguish of losing her. Weighed down and nearly killed with the guilt of not knowing is it was someone else’s arrow, or his own, which pierced her heart and lay her beautiful and lifeless upon the snow. 

Reflections [9.27.08]

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It is nearly noon here now, and we’ve already been up for awhile. Breakfast was fried eggs, freckled and warm from the coop, covered with salt and pepper, and crispy greasy bacon to dip in the bright orange yolks.

We spent fifteen minutes in hot pursuit-meaning he ran around the barn, appearing and disappearing, while I gave chase and tried to shoot him with a bow and arrows.

I am at ease here; the fridge is full of milk, the yard of wood for the bonfire tonight, and my head with thoughts of petroglyphs and praying mantis, and the sex we had on our knees on the wooden floor of the kitchen earlier.

The majority of today I’ve seen behind the lens of my camera; shiny blue glass electric line bulbs. Yellow argiope garden spiders with abdomens the size of grapes. A feisty horse. A teething puppy. A hayloft whose drying onions were illuminated by sunlight through windows.

My mouth tastes like hot coffee and cold mint tea. Hand-rolled cigarettes and semen. Fried eggs and the beer I gargled with when I woke up this morning.

Coffee Shop Coven [7-27-20]

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I should start a coffee shop coven; girls only, no boys allowed.

We could have themed aesthetic outfits:

Weekends black and gothic and macabre,

Tuesdays and Thursdays for whimsical floral dresses and sun-kissed skin.

Mondays and Wednesdays for battle armor and weapons of war.

Fancy Fridays for formal wear, also known as the

“I poisoned my second husband for his money” outfit.

We could gather and talk and plot and laugh and scheme and cry and debate.

We could meet at midday and dance in the sunlight,

Or meet at midnight and kiss under the full moon.

We’d trace sigils in our cappuccino cream with our spoons,

And build tiny replicas of the pyres they’ll burn us on with our wooden stir sticks.

By day we’d pick herbs and make men love us.  

By night we’d have séances and kill our enemies.

By day the right hand, by night the left.

You need coffee for both; long days and long nights.

Curse of the Full Moon [8-2017]

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These nights are long and so has been my suffering. I grow old but I grew tired long ago. I was a young man when the curse befell me, and now though grey in age and having gained more wisdom, I have not gained any rest, nor freedom from the chains that bind me. I yearned for solitude. I wanted to see what the world was like when no one was watching. How I imagine the forest must have laughed at my ignorance, my own naivety to think I was safe.

That night haunts me as a ghost, tormenting me awake and dreaming. My hands were raised to the night sky, crying out in anguish, pleading for my life.  How the beauty of the moon taunted me as the sharp teeth and claws tore at my flesh, and my screams drowned in my own blood in my mouth. And then I was gone. No longer of this life. Feeling nothing of my own body or the forest floor I lay upon. And then, such pain. Such stretching of flesh and snapping of bones and teeth, and such screams of prayers of wanting to die, and wanting to end it that caught as howls in my throat.

I wished for solitude and now I am cursed to it. Is the moon forever to be my mistress? Is death the only thing I shall ever reap? Trapped in a cycle which I cannot break. Even the moon sets, so when will I? Even the moon is not always full, so why am I always so full of this sadness? It is said that he who is unfit to live in society must be either a beast or a god. I’ve been one long enough and I have been forsaken by the other. I do not wish to be one anymore, or either at all. I only wish for an end to this curse I am bound to by the moon. Everything I touch turns to ash and the taste of blood in my mouth. I pray for Death, and all the world turns its back.

Thoughts While Looking out the Window of an Airplane at Night. [3-19-09]

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The blue and orange glow of the fluorescent and incandescent lights of the city below,

Dot the ground in patterns like a Lightbright from my childhood.

I feel like the world is trying to tell me something in these patterns.

Like piles of gold, yellow, and blue glitter thrown onto the floor.

Their positions against the black,

The intensity of their shine,

Something to be read.

Like tea leaves stuck in the bottom of my cup.

Honeybee Sonnet [5-10-18]

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  • Weather is beautiful, the sun is out
  • These two honeybee hives are bustling.
  • They have searched the whole farm, flown all about
  • Their endless work ethic is becoming.
  • They find pollen, nectar, resin, water,
  • Their buzzing can be heard across the yard.
  • Pollinating each and every flower,
  • Flying heavy and crooked like a drunkard.
  • Red orange yellow gold, white and black and brown,
  • These are the many colors of the hive.
  • Ruling them all, a Queen in her golden crown,
  • Millions of years, they’ve known how to survive,
  • Meditation and a calm state of mind,
  • Make these honeybees a friend, and most kind.

Ancient Kingdom [5-15-18]

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She ruled her kingdom with grace and wisdom, fairness and mercy, but also with an equal iron grasp of vigilance, order, and power.  The people loved her as a Goddess. They were in love with her as a woman. They adored and feared her as a Queen. The enemy kingdoms and otherworldly daemons were no match for the ferocity and absolute loyalty of her armies, and the men within them. Each of them would die many times over to protect her, for without the Queen there can be no hive.

The days were sunny and cool, and the sweet mead quenched her in many ways, but not all. The neighboring King had kept a peaceful distance; never challenging her authority. He followed her wherever she went, appointing himself as her bodyguard of sorts. His eyes followed her more closely than his body, although he wished to lose himself in the ocean of her divine. She entertained the idea; He would head her armies and lead her heart along a path not oft walked by a God.

The wind blew her way, and on it was carried the smell of happiness.