I No Longer Need You

You were the safety net that caught me.
Barely alive.
Drowning, numb.
Dying in a frozen sea.
Pull me from troubled waters,
pull me from troubled times.
I would always need you,
you were all I knew.

You were the warmth.
The only light in the dark.
You had your fingers crossed.
I followed a farce.
Righteous rage
as a disguise for concealed conceit.
A hapless, happy haze.
A drudgerous, dangerous defeat.

On my couch and in my heart,
it was rigged from the start.
You convinced me my wrongs were right,
my plights don’t belong.
You left me alone.
You left me out to dry.

 

One of us must die.
Twice you failed, twice you tried.

 

 

I am done with your deceitful disease.
Teeth and knives
counting sums
of all the lives yet to be
pushes my newfound shoulders,
pushes me to what’s mine.
I no longer need you,
you and I are through.

I am the North.
I am the flood, I am the Ark.
My burden is the Cross.
I am a reckoning force.
Outrageous,
a reflection of rational retreat.
A new page,
with unwritten feats.

On my feet, in my mind.
I tied my own binds.
My wrongs were not right, they are mine just the same.
Guilt is my swansong.
I am not alone.
You hide others, you are silent and spry.

 

 

One of us must die.
Twice you failed, twice you tried.

The String Play

Actors of ice
tumble and wrestle,
dip, dive, and parry
to a pitch-black stage drop.

Enter Stage Right,
the archer comes.
Hooded and silent
a friend of the night.
The orange curtains open.
Stillness reigns over distilled rains.
Frigid tundra tumblers play their games.
The artist now in cover.
Calmly caressed in the cover of crystals.
The weight of the clouds rests on the back of a sleeping giant.

Enter Stage Left,
His Majesty enters
from luscious greens.
His crown is magnificent.
Seven Jewels on each side.
His crown, divine.

Crisp.
Quiet.
Cool.

Hoof meets snow.
Nose meets grain.
Wood meets wood,
and string meets bone.

With a flick of the finger, feathers meet the air.
The end meets the start.
Tobacco offered to the earth,
obsidian hardens the heart.

The artist sees the fall of a King
and shakes off his white robe.
He dips, and he bows.
He carries the regal beast.
The artic acrobats keep on dancing
and the curtains close.

 

The Loudest Voices

The loudest voices
talk the most and
say the least.
The loudest voices
cause deaf ears.
It does not bother them,
so long as their sound does not cease.

Cease and desist,
or at least try to resist,
the urge to be the loudest voice in the room.
This is best off learned now, learned soon.
The boisterous bask in their self-righteousness
and close their eyes while they clamor in empty victory.

It is the silent that are content to be acorns,
laying in the shadows and soaking the lessons scorned.
Patient, content.
Knowing that an Oak tree will be mighty in the ground
without ever making a sound.

Southern Blend and White Wine

Southern Blend and white wine

one half raw

and the other refined.

 

Do not pack me in
to fit into your lip.
Do not box me up
and use me for a sip.

 

I belong with the wild grapes
growing together under the sky.
Toiling, sweating, sunburnt.
Alive.
Thinking, listening, feeling.
Asking why?
An imortal soul
inside an indignant ape.

Autumn

The earth and leaves
leave an earthy scent
that sends me home,
refreshed from the homely,
weary ways in which the winds wave.

Crisp, October air bites
and comforts in the same breath.
Damp and dry,
Beauty and demise,
when life eclipses death.

The sun prepares her goodbyes
Her sorrow spectacularly lashes out
her tears splatter the sky.
She smoulders in a violet pout.
Her silver sister gleams in a stoic stride.

If I Only Had That Title

As I slipped into a sound slumber,
an anticipated array of idiosyncratic ideas flooded furiously into my manic mind. 

There’s the catch!

Like a great grizzly snatching struggling salmon
I pulled the greatest poetic title from the unconscious stream. 

 

It was glorious.
Shakespearean.
Uproarious
and unseen. 

 

It would have changed the way that you view life.
It would have made a 1/36th Cherokee poet admit that she’s white.
It would have made the artists put down their guitars, their brushes, their masks and their fifes.
It would have gifted Hellen Keller with both speech and with sight,
and her first words would be,
“Man, that title is tight.”


Some men pursue to be Kings, Emperors, CEOs, Prime Ministers, and Chiefs.
None of these titles mean anything to me.
I had the best title last night. 
It will never be topped,  
in my great and unmatched wisdom. 
My eyes were closed but my sight never better,
I had this title right down to the letter.
Ready to write down every letter.

But I smiled and pulled the blankets over my body.
Content with the future and with the present.
This title would produce my masterpiece, my legacy.
When they burn my body
this title will cling to humanity’s pipe as resin.

I fell asleep, knowing that my destiny was about to begin.
When I woke, I asked myself,

“What was that title, again?”   

 

High and Dry

High and dry,

satisfied.

Memories flood me
of the waves slapping, crashing, bounding, and lashing.
The sea’s ceaseless battery.
Helplessly panicking, beating, and thrashing.

Sinking like a rock, and heavy as one too.
Soaked as a dog with mange
Shivering, descending into the blue.
Saturated, destined to a watery grave.

Yet here I am,
my land legs still intact, my body still sound.
The sun warms my face, my skin supple and tanned.
I smile at my time in the water, the times that I almost drowned.

I appreciate the warmth
and look forward to the coasts.
My back to the tides.
Onwards I go,

to stay high and dry.