Poems, page 4

Once I had a beautiful voice, rising

to the height of angels where its allure

summoned mystery and wanderlust.

I believed in myself then

Life can be cruel; it can cut you down,

shred you into pieces that no longer

remember where you belong, with

only a trail of memory left behind

You become a husk cracking as it

dries, your broken spirit withering

while those who have used you gloat

that what was yours is theirs

I only sing in the woods now where

trees dance to my songs and sprites

with no voice to call their own giggle

that they know my secret

The old escape 
of psychedelic bliss
sings its siren song

the last time was at his place. 
His cats were playing with eachother
the floor was spiraling. 

He had nothing but a silk robe on
He called me to the bed

Even with the greatest effort
no words could be formed.

As his hand brushed against 
the tits that had just grown that year
he commented how this was only
my 21st lap around the sun,
how in his own seasoned perspective 
he saw me as just a child. 

At three am
he wakes me up and ushers me out
citing the moon and his need for isolation

in that moment the spiraling
of the world around me
clerified into the cycles I had repeated
since the choice was mine. 

By the grace of something greater
I made it to my friends, 
went to work the next day,
and blocked him. 

Yet I can’t help but retread
and long for the temporary enlightenment
those chemicals bring. 

Please forgive me
but I cannot
not devour the earth,
cannot not pry
open my jaw
like a tear in
space-time and take
the universe in,
the stars and comets,
the moons and green
men screaming,
I cannot not
lie on my back
and open a hole
in my head so wide
the laws of physics
fall in, I cannot
keep myself closed,
cannot sit with
my own blood and sinews
and the fingers
wrapped in my fingers
and let that be everything,
cannot not chew up
all that matters
into gristle.

You butter my bones  

Sense me silly with your riot
    of lemony limbs  

Your canary wings taking flight            
    that wildness of freedom  

What a heavy burden to carry
    the sun’s yellow lust

Tucked softly
in the waistband of my shorts

is an expensive black box.

It opens up a world

and holds the lives of mankind

like herding livestock.

Beware opening this black box.

When you do,

it will become fused to you.

A dystopian hell’s wet dream.

All Hallows’ Eve Eve, and I
dress in lambskin,
slip a dirty book
into my bag,
make a pilgrimage
to the reading,
where you’re waiting
to wink at me
and see the rose petal
I keep pressing
to my lips,
to my knee.

You trot
to catch me,
walk me
past lamplit buildings,
talking of igloos,
close enough
that my body forgets
where it stops,
until the sidewalk ends,
and I turn
while you keep going.

this lead organ peeking beneath 
my rib cage sheath, cracked and weary
turn this dull heart to noble gold
and promise to hold it dearly

just behind front door autumn wreath
making out, tongues soaked in whiskey
we puddle up on the landing
love soaked arrows keep us tipsy

My young garden calls out to me, chirp
by chirp, where sparrows sing sweet, sweet, sweet,

then trill in gratitude for bee balm— 
blazing purple bursts of fireworks—
and lavender sparklers of liatris.

They praise dahlias’ dinner-plate heads,
folded creamy petals where legions of bees flit,

and the upright sunflowers,
the tallest birdfeeders in this haven.
They belt out for all the flowers in between.

To whom did these flighty creatures
once call out their gratitude?

Color from across the centuries-old
pasture catches my eye. Wildflowers populate
the grasses, sown by years of northern

cardinals, Carolina chickadees,
and tufted titmice dropping seeds with blue

jays and gold finches. A mourning
dove’s familiar coo-ah coo coo drifts
down from above. I look

back at my new sowings, then out
again at what their scatterings have built.

I close my eyes and bow my head
to the true keepers of this color-filled song.

(After watching Cooking YouTuber Ethan Chlebowski)

Among twenty temptations