When They Call You a Mistake

The world is too cold
and sometimes I do not have
the fire I need. 

~~~

If only you can stop 
forest fires
do the evergreens
burn at your whim?

Why do we?

Why 

Do

we celebrate the healing
of an ember;
and fear the destruction
of a flame.

Midnight Personified

I was going to write a poem about bruises. 

About how we over estimate pain,
under appreciate healing and
somehow manage to lose sight that
scars tell stories across time. 

I wanted to start with their colors.
Swirls or imprints or or starbursts 
of tortured black, royal purple, blue
so warm it brings tears to your eyes. 

But the thing about bruises is, they're left behind. 

They're left behind until they're found,
at which point we choose to ice them out. 
Scars, those indelible fuckers, we'll 
welcome into our narratives. 
But bruises, they have no place beyond
a background character, a filler
until the moment resolves. 

I wanted to write you a poem about bruises,
but there was no more space on the page,
no more room in the air after scars were whispered.

So, instead, I settled for midnight. 
Midnight, a familiar comfort blanket,
dragged around and over the world. 
We all claim to know it, but we've
spent more time asleep in its presence
than we have awake.

When's the last time you searched for midnight
in a tale,
in a scene,
between lovers tangled in sheets
or giggles shared between friends
or that picture book, the one with
beautiful illustrations in between 
tucking everyone in for bed?
What was it, midnight moon?
Goodnight moon?

And if we're wishing the moon goodnight, 
shouldn't the middle be recognized?
The point of no return before the sun 
washes everything anew, yet again?
Before we lose sight of the stars,
visible against a deep black sky.
Or forget that nightmares and dreams alike
can feature purples so regal it 
literally takes our breath away.
Or ponder why we are comfortable
finally feeling so blue in the safety of darkness. 

I wrote a poem about bruises. 

I hid it in midnight, scattered lines
about trauma and healing,
nightmares and dreams,
blacks and purples and blues. 
I buried them like treasure
in places they would likely not be found. 

Because we leave our bruises behind. 

We carry the weight of our scars,
we'll bring our wars into new battles.

But.

We leave our bruises behind. 

The Opacity of It All

He asked how she could see,
how she peered into 
the truths of the world. 

She left the question to itself for

how do you explain sight?

Is it the process or the premise or

the content of potential and promise?

She'll claim she's as blind as the rest,

let inquires float through conversations. 

But she'll remember that once 

she felt the gossamer of the world,

That She's older than Laughter and Mirth,

younger than Creation and Chaos. 

That She's witnessed the world undone,

unmade, vulnerable, with curves that 

knew no pain, only patience. 

She'll say She has old bones but

Her cage is new, shapeshifting

from one lifetime to the next. 

New materials and scars,

each an improved attempt 

to dull the ache of knowing. 

Fate, forever Her faithful companion,

Her compass as She wanders, 

restless with the weight of it all,

keeps His eyes open for

Timing and Context, those tricksters,

always promise that they're 

right around the corner. 

So when he asks how she *sees*,

she'll hide behind pretty words,

behind wit and curiosity and affection,

because how can she ever explain 

the exhaustion of what she knows.

Passion

What's a blush if not
quiet affirmation that
you're under my skin. 

The Problem with Muses

Rarely is a muse 

An amusing thing.

They’re planes in the sky 

stretching in vain to become 

Shooting stars or the 

five impossible things 

we believe before breakfast. 

They’re deep wells, steady

Until you brush their surface,

Endless, until your lungs 

Become the buckets 

they needed 

for their own survival.

They’re nothing like what 

You expect them to be. 

Their radiant feathers? 

Stolen from the sun and 

the optic nerves and 

The truth of prisms. 

But the chemistry of pain 

Is two parts analogy 

One part metaphor 

And seventeen syllables 

Of economics, cost vs benefit. 

It’s poisonous, though.

Leaving you questioning

The means when it ends. 

When the ends are

Meaningless and 

They’re written like a salve 

A principle of gifting 

You hadn’t experienced yet, 

that defies the laws of physics. 

When they’re nothing like what 

You expect them to be 

their plumage humble, 

Gathered during nightfall

With consent from the 

Eyes of the forest. 

When their waters 

push and pull and 

Fill you with the slight

Sting of the ocean breeze

Their salts wanting nothing 

More than to keep you afloat.

When the moon returns 

From it’s trip around the earth

capable of so much more 

Than it’s given credit for, 

A Cheshire grin the sky… 

The sound of laughter 

Is so delicately placed 

Upon characters.

Soft consonants 

Become harder… 

Until it ends.