3 poems. On needing to create, writing as a soothing distraction, & fear of our own words |
Rest for the Noncommital I went away, but it wasn't for play Certainly, though, it didn't show, the strenuousness-- head wrapped in gauze and cement at once. And your bed is your grave like a mummy entombed. No sleep is ever enough because it's too late. But compared to the rest of the world, it's your sun-infusing life pod. As Earth's energy grows stalks to the sky in nature, emerald green and in the city, tin men and women wound with a key tight to within an inch of their lives to build pillars of silver and glass, equal parts plaintive and proud. The atmosphere and ants proceed as they would while I cannot be worshipful, as I should, to this planet we've been given. My tributes were never tangible-- whispy as they're twisting to, I fear, be ephemeral. So why does a pen or keyboard taps feel like a moral stand? They say the Devil's playthings are idle hands but in reality, my corpse hands cannot volunteer to any definitive ends. Though sin of sloth, I'll have to admit. ~*~ A Blocked Writer Seeks Love's Distraction I don't want to feel your hand upon my cheek Or face your words of love. We've shared an hour of conversation this week. Spent every night under the same covers with our feet touching, but our fingers never intertwine in the light. I have my pen, like an extension of my hand. The alchemy of blood to ink flowing to the page is enough of a miracle transformation And I'll have to teach myself to marvel at it instead of looking for one from you. ~*~ Art and Risk The stars in the sky, they seem to sear They are pasted onto a charred black canvas It's only a matter of time until the glue melts And what then?- I think it will rain molten glue And when it falls, Who shall it mutilate? Who shall it blind? Who shall it bind together? |