Monday, May 1, 2017

Out of Step

she comes from a different time

of this I am all but certain

a time of simpler intricate things

of words that are no longer spoken

her memory, her greatest friend

there are libraries within her

stories my mind cannot comprehend

I delight in their mystical nature

she seems out of step in this place sometimes

out of synch with the calendar’s turn

her heart kept locked up inside of those walls

she watches as if through a lens

it’s not for lack of ability

that she moves at a different pace

it could almost be called an impassioned disdain

for the state and nature of things

so often I am swept up in dreams of a time

when we both could have fit in place

two pieces woven of similar thread

yet in contrast they seem to blend

there is something about the passing of years

remembering things come and gone

so few things now hold any weight

to anchor their place in time

in ways she is like a history book

filled with page after page of lore

with stories of how one becomes

yet never being that thing at all

she tells the tales as if she saw them

yet was never truly there

and now she has found herself wanting

to be the character that defines the tale

~ for my muse ~

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

The Internal Turn

it starts slow, deep down
undetectable to the gaze of the eye
it digs in, foraging
carving space in the places you hide
it is simple, really
one unspoken word
the smallest thing
that you let slip silently by
once planted, the tiniest seed
begins to take root as if into stone
the root becomes a web
an intricate maze of lines
exquisitely forming a fortress
that cannot be breached
and then into the darkness
into the shadows, silence speaks
until all that you hear
is the empty hollow din
the lonely and the quiet
take over full control
and then in this prison
you slowly pass the time
minutes turn to hours, hours into days

and the blur of their passing
simply turns you numb
taking the edge off the numbness
with whatever you can find
your pour the endless loss
down your throat
then time is spent recovering
the vicious cycle spins
so that all you have to focus on
is yourself

Tuesday, April 4, 2017

Her Shadow

I have always ‘seen’ things, ‘felt’ things, ‘known’ things. I see them in the trees as dusk settles on the day. I see them in flashes as I turn my head. I hear voices that wake me from sleep. I spend a lot of time lying awake at night as some thing, some unknown presence needs me to know it is there. I have to turn on lights, most of the time, as for some reason, that presence does not seem to comfort me.

One particular night, I was deep in sleep, when my doorbell rang. It was late, middle of the night, and scared me as I had recently moved and didn’t know anyone here. I went downstairs and looked through the peephole in my door. I saw the shadow of a blonde woman, head tipped forward. She looked remarkably like someone I know but it was an impossibility that she would be standing there. I yelled out, “who is it?”. No answer. I asked again. Still nothing. I moved to the window, and saw no one. I went back to the door and threw it open. No one was there.

shadows love to tease

spring night becomes cold

and then still again

*written for
Haibun Monday - The Shadow Knows