crows: (Default)
The World will ration out
. . . . its love and hate,
As it is measured by
. . . . the weight of blood
Upon your hands. And when
. . . . the hour is late,
You'll execrate the ground
. . . . on which you stood.

Would Victory not not live
. . . . upon its price?
You swell, triumphant, clutch
. . . . the Earthly fame
That 'round you furls the flag
. . . . of Sacrifice.
O martyr, bend your head
. . . . unto the flame.

Go, sit behind their tithes
. . . . of straw and gold.
Your paper palace raised
. . . . above the smoke
Of burning empires, where
. . . . your eye meets cold
The pages of a foe
. . . . you can't provoke.






[I've been staring at this for a while now]
crows: (Default)
The weight of the glass in my hand.
The heat of the fire in my throat.
The ring in the sound of my voice.
The loose ground upon which we stand.
The hollow words of the old toast.
The feeling of losing a choice.

The hand that I grasp in the dark.
The desperate gasping for air.
The taste of the wine on your lips.
The searching in vain for a spark.
The lie that no one can compare.
The things I don't think I can fix.

The sad morning ache in my bones.
The dishes that wait in the sink.
The hesitant close of the day.
The message that you won't be home.
The wandering eye that I blink.
The telling myself you won't stray.

The more time we're spending apart.
The realizing that I can breathe.
The things that we once thought were true.
The still-dimming ache in my heart.
The old, broken things that I leave.
The things that remind me of you.

.
crows: (Default)
[Written originally in the Same_Oh! community. I'm very on-the-fence about the word 'until' in the third stanza. Keep it, ditch it? The line would otherwise stay the same.]

He lived next door to
Our apartment in the Projects.
His equipment was loud,
Studio of smoke and
Fire.

He caught dewdrops,
Shivering
In quiet midair. Every
One like a
Star.

Until we moved away,
Now the diamonds no
Longer sparkle, impressed
On empty
Space.

Forty-five now, among
My own children, magic
Still washes
My memory in the
Dark.

Bramble

Jan. 3rd, 2008 02:29 am
crows: (Default)
Can I?
Read the searing word out of your head
Plucked as if, as easily, from
The pages of a book... held
In lives lead in neat, parallel safety.

Before, we were crossed
Wires, the accidental connection
The break, in a telephone line
That shatters out a few words
Breaking open the heat of
Someone else's secret;
Peaking into the interior of the Earth.

Is it like this because:
There are things in this world,
You cannot un-know?
A print made on my mind's dark eye.
Burn a gaze on my retinas.
Ghost shape of the voice,
Retreating laughter,
Sympathy-ache:
My throat closes, too,
Around a tangled wish.

My heart is a bramble,
Wild as sunlit summer,
As dappled black with shadow.
crows: (Default)
From the first house, ghosts have set me free.
In one great gesture, I am brought to bear.
Do I sail by moon or more by sea?

Here, I search an echoed, ancient history
In mirror, tomb, and endless spiral stair,
Where from the second house I am set free.

Face of muse, or maid, or mother disagree
What task a resolution, what throne's heir:
Do I sail by moon or more by sea?

Here in fathoms, dirge, and jubilee
I've searched the face of life for every care
From the third house, ghosts have set me free.

A year for motion; another, memory.
Inertia guides me onward, and I dare:
To sail beneath the moon, beneath the sea.

Reforged by fire, volcanic gravity
Reborn by stony fountain, echoed prayer.
From the last house, ghosts have set me free
To sail or swim by moon, by frozen sea.
crows: (Default)
I walk these paths until
They come familiar,
Nothing but veins to my feet.
The names of my companions
Do not matter.

Whether it is you, or it is you
Time will be no different, and
In time the sand forgets
It does not name the footprints.

In my silent life,
That quells my soul in secret
I am at peace with
This: that how I want to understand
Is cheek to cheek, is
Mouth to mouth.


[When I am with you, I pretend to be content with my life. When I am alone, I pretend to be content with myself.]

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