24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Under a full moon the raven casts a shadow I can no longer see my limbs but the raven walks for me I can no longer see my surroundings but the raven leads the way my eyes have become dark pools filled with magick and the raven has become my guide trust in me he says trust in the journey as I take you home hesitantly I follow knowing my heart has been searching for home and if under a ravens moon is where I belong so shall it be
In the unending ocean
I send my song
my voice carrying
all my emotions
and pray that someone
would answer just once
at least this time
but no… my song
doesn’t reach them
No matter how loud I sing
Journeying alone
my heart withers
the dark ocean
is cold… and sad
So I sing still
knowing my voice won’t reach
I sing still because
in the end here I am
Even if no one else is
I sing for myself
Two by two, they arrived.
Two by two, came aboard;
Lions and tigers and bears—
An astonishing, feather-furred hoard!
Great flannel clouds gathered thickly,
God pulled the plank, slammed tight the door.
The riotous, rambunctious load,
Thundered and rattled and roared.
The rain fell with pelting and pinging,
Geisers spewed like never before.
When the tempest was totaled,
All was scoured and clean once more.
there’s a strange lethargy at the edge of gloom
more than when you pour the porridge in the morning
for when the fireflies are lighted and they start to zoom
to the treeline. greed and sloth can cease their warring
the heated iron cools too quickly so don’t wait, remove
the masks that hide you from this world (metaphorically)
speak truth sweep your cottage and don’t bottle up your mood
The moon held in a glass of bourbon.
The moon laid down on a canal bed.
The moon so bright it led you and me home.
The moon’s face travels across the waters.
Its spirit is always trained on us.
Its light thickens and thins,
but it often hides itself,
for more than a moment,
behind seasick clouds.
By moonlight I remember that old city,
born of revolution,
the only light in the sky sometimes.
All the stars rubbed out.
I remember us, in its streets.
Kissing at corners.
Frequenting the discos,
so, we could be closer together.
By moonlight I remember that city
Made out of cotton
Cotton streets
Cotton moon
Cotton hearts and mouths
I remember us
And I drink that full moon right down
The most interesting person I’ve met
Probably doesn’t exist
I wait
In the hopes
Someone completely
My opposite
Becomes my friend
bromeliad
touch of tropics
i step out into the night
warm sea air fills my lungs
the sea draws me in
feet step in the sand
the cloudy night hides the moon
the wind shifts and reveals the moon
and a second moon shadow
two alone on the beach at night
bromeliad
I said to him, we can’t possibly understand
what drives someone to contemplate
suicide. It’s true, he said.
And it was as if we’d connected
in that moment,
in our shared inability to empathize
with lost souls.
But I had lied.
I’ve sometimes thought
about how easy it would be
to die. All of me would fall away,
leaving no aches in my legs,
no catch in my back,
no kink in neck,
no pounding fist in my skull.
And my eyes would close to humanity’s
terrors. My mouth would seal
itself, become ash, and my heart would shrivel
and forego that drowning feeling
that tightens my chest every time
cruelty rears its head in this world.
Sometimes I think about how I fear
death. But I don’t really—fear it.
I don’t welcome it
yet, either. But I understand,
and when waking is difficult
and strange,
I think it would be so easy
to fall away with all my parts
from the world and become nothing
like I was before conception.
To be undone
means no work,
no sorrow, no voice,
no tomorrow. And sometimes,
that sounds just about right.
I remember camping
Under a moon so bright
It cast a shadow
Of Mr. Manaugh
Across my sleeping bag
As he walked from
Boy to boy making sure
We had
All
Brushed
Our
Teeth
Blank
White
White and black
Black and grey
Grey gardens
Gardening in the sun
Sunshiney day
Days and nights
Nightmares
Afraid of it all
All is happening
Happenstance
Standing on the fence
Fences break the cycle
Cyclical wounds
Winding streets
Straight or gay
Gay 90s
1990s
1890s
1790s
Where have we come from
From here to there
There is a puppy in the window
How much is it
How fond of me
My name is
Fear