False Lines

What is the point

Of all these poems, these stories

They're not me

I try to weave

A spiders web

To reflect my shape

My silhouette

But it's grand

And I'm not grand

Or it's offset

And I'm not offset

Or it's majestic or beautiful

Or compelling or fascinating

Or off-putting or clunky

Or awkwardly-phrased

What it all is

Is shades and signs

It's art

And I'm not art

I'm me

Ode to a Horologium

my wrist at all times just look a

glance tells me five minutes fast

more like five and a half now round my wrist

at all times except sleeping and showering

and when I write. It's uncomfortable

leaning against the laptop so I take it off

lying facedown limbs up dead blink

closed eye my fingers wriggle freely

gargoyles over tomb or baby blanket

passed away but only now I wrap it

resurrection of blue plastic seeking sun

round black iris lines when I

white buckle hugs blue azure veins

matches lifeblood snug breaths settle

into my skin like lipstick mark

Who’s There?

Written with lines from CypressTheSacred and Macey

The fireplace burns

Pictures s m i l i n g on the mantle

an old chair, an older dog

sleeping in a bed of pillows.

Gods are said to inhabit houses

Lingering just above the rimey fire-smoke

Pēctārēs, family eyes spirit through velvet fuzz air

The comfort of a blanket, the coldness of a bronze plate.

Violet tapestries fall from unwaked stone

Ghosts can see gods but not each other

Inhale the scent of home in the dark

Nose twitches, head is raised to meet the eyes

Of white pictures in the sky, the mantlepiece

Holding up the world over two heads alone

Red-heat bleeds from a half-open eye.

Petrichor Lyre

Clouds have always appeared like silky tressed waves rolling ‘cross the sky

The Egyptians thought it was a sea stretching east to west

Spit of artificial smear from across the bay. A paper factory.

Cold water never smelled so good - morning is little different

Brushing against the bushes, reach out my hand and flick the branches

Trimmed back by janitor shears. Imagine the road overwhelmed.

Back at home the air was fuller, slung its arm across your shoulders

Trees are thicker, dropped a crystal in a puddle, turn it amber

Call it suburbia like the green doesn’t own the place.

I wish I could float away. Drift back on the

clouds and

sing softly to myself, drink the rain

like crystal drops, a blanket

for my wingéd feet

Ascend the stars. Climb piece by piece, hand over hand

Over the fence like a secret garden

Of unknowable wonders

Velvet, thick

Not floating, dancing

rock’s blood

Ghosts of the pine night

Never really was afraid

Of its mystery

Inhale stardust. Replace the air in my lungs with Celestial Fire.

Flesh evaporates, shadow swirls, become a sylph cyclone ~

Take my bones, take my bones away

My eyes are water and see gloria, gloria in excelsis

miro θαυμάζω

Drink deep water, and relief collapses over you like a cloak

Drink light tea, and your tongue laughs without joke

Early morning the aurora of the sunrise greets your eyes

Lie on the heel of the windstorm, see the valleys above you sway

Hum without noise, tilt your head, dig your heels in the grass

Lost, lose yourself; metahumanize

Dance when your bones start to stir; sing when your lungs fill with air

Cry clear when you read your books, and your soul is stronger for it

Only nothing is more important!

Span

I step into a shadow and

Find myself awake

I drop my burdens and

Find my feet carry me away

I wander in soft trills of silent beats

Find the music of invisible air

I drop like water onto a cave lake

Find my breath will merge

crackles and growls, what surrounds me?

murk and solitude. i do not fear.

Find my catch and

I wind my fingers through the silk water

Find a silence that speaks and

I emerge from some deep-grasped cocoon

Find the soft light and

I know it’s just as profound as what I left

Find not a story but a peace and

I seek what is already within me