All of the poetry... my heart in a kaleidoscope .

These ten poems are VERY personal... why I'm posting them I don't know, other than poetry is meant to be shared. If you don't know who these are directed towards with the absolute certainty of me telling you myself - don't even hazard a guess, it's the secret of my heart and belongs there. For all who have been asking how I've been and why I've been quiet for the past months - here is your answer in full.


I.

My words have been stolen
as I put my heart upon the shelf
quivering in it's sudden new position
cold and vulnerable
outside of it's bone prison
which gave airs of security, protection
what a mistake, that.
The daggers thrust between
proving the weak points of the
flesh to be real
and not phantoms.
After a long talk
we both decided it would
be safer on the altar.
It seems my argument
made sense
since my heart agreed
wholly and without reservation.
In the night we have long
conversations
my heart and I
calling to me from it's new
residence
asking when it can come home again
weary of the cold
and trembling when a stranger
walks too closely by
I reassure - even when they peer
closely at the jumble around you
you remain invisible
my voodoo is that strong
It agrees with a wet, thumping sigh
wistful and nostalgic
for the incessant whispering
of the Siamese twins
named, unoriginally, the Lungs.
It wonders what treasures
the gurgling idiot stomach
is dissolving today without judgment
(unless, of course, the stomach is throwing a tantrum
and decides to toss everything back out.)
I understand
these are the musings of an organ
misplaced
who misses home and forgets
the pain which drove it away.
If only my brain would forget
that old library
huge and dusty as a mausoleum
never throws anything out
just shelves it and adds it's placement
in the card catalogue
(If only it would upgrade - cross-referencing and rediscovery
would be easier.)
However, the librarian holds grudges
when the heart has been
played with too roughly
and keeps the pain files on her desk
constantly rifled through and
shuffled, reshuffled, shuffled again
"One day I'll have enough to write a book"
she mumbles over the complaints
of my heart as it bleats and moans
about it's new home
She doesn't hear it - it's too far away
from the Central Nervous System
for the message to be transmitted
in the proper form.
When she remembers
that ole librarian of my brain
where the heart has gone
she stops to listen
and in anger over it's pathetic pleas
she cries
"We have not learned
So you cannot return
If I did as you request
We would take back up the quest
And we all know...
He -
He -
He... "
She breaks down in literary sobs
reminding the heart of
the nature of it's exile
and why
it's truly
for
the best.


II.

I would write to you
as a man writes to his
beautiful beloved
Of the glory your form
takes under the gaze of my eyes
Of the sweet scent of your skin
which lingers in my nose
Of the divine music
that your voice becomes in my ears.

But I am not a man
that form belongs to you
and I feel cheated
as if the roles have been reversed
wrongly
and if I take a closer
look
I might find I was right
all along

We label ourselves according to
the inness or outness
of our genitalia
and I am here to say
Brother, you are not a man
I am
So why do we allow the flesh
to dictate
which is which
if the internal is switched.


III.

Dreams hold more truth than
any reality our waking mind
can construct
Pretense holds no sway there
it is stripped bare
and shoved beneath the naked light
The consciousness of daylight
is a lawyer
it bargains holding air in it's
hands
as if that were a poker hand
with all four Aces.
Dreams do not need to
play such petty games
they have all the facts
can show you the minuscule details
our Sol Counselor
would prefer be kept under the rug
Dreams delight in the bizarre
and show us what's
behind the curtain
door #3
and down the rabbit hole
all simultaneously
If you relax into it
take a bite
take a sip
make a deal
all while walking through the poppies
You'll see
Oh, you'll see
You'll definitely, finally, truly see.


IV.

Slowly coming apart
my seams are becoming threadbare
the stitching has turned to dust
there is a voice inside my head
which will not shut up
it just keeps
screaming and sobbing
screaming and sobbing
screaming and sobbing
no words are needed
or wanted
those blow away on the wind
seeds of dandelion arrogance
and bad judgments
which try to be reasonable
even when such things are
proven to be folly
when bashed upon the rocks
by the unceasing tide
of this primal voice
Someone slap me
but be gentle
I am the velveteen rabbit
if you strike too hard
my stuffing leaks out
and who will clean the mess
when Nanny has quit
the nursery
driven to perpetual migraine
by this colicky voice
of unreason and heartbreak
whoever said that worn out
means you are well loved
lied.


V.

I cannot say
I cannot say
I cannot say
I cannot say
I cannot say
I cannot say
I cannot say
I cannot say
I cannot say
That One Name
and yet
He is all I ever talk about.
---
I wake up with you
I sleep with you
I eat with you
I drink with you
I bathe with you
I clean with you
I create with you
I write with you

I would get more privacy if we were
actually talking and seeing each other
your phantom is tiresome
it does not go away
I tried to sage and cleanse
you peeked over my shoulder with a grin
I tried to plead for one word answers
you babbled inanely, without ceasing
for an entire night of dreams and yet refused
to give me an answer to my question
I tried to push you away, out of my heart
and you appeared before me in the
dark night of the new moon
I felt your touch on my face
though my hand went through you.

I've pleaded, cajoled, whispered, yelled
Cried, tempted, sulked, seduced, sobbed apologies
and in the end was forced
to stand in your silence
wrap it around me
smell it's scent of pregnant
nothingness
feel the chilly warmth of you
poignant absence
and try to be filled.
My belly aches and grumbles
on the feast you refuse to lay
before me.
I am trapped and must find affection
for the steel which caught me
biting my flesh
breaking my bones
exposing my marrow
to the scavengers.
Luckily they are confused by my
laughter
and circle wide around me
not sure if the sound is
from death throes or ecstasy
It might be easier for them
If I knew the truth myself.


VII.

I have broken the seal
all the jumbled inside my
hand
bottlenecked in my trembling fingers
pours forth suddenly
and my blood ink stains
the pages black
This is the Great Flood
and the Black Death
This is the Renaissance
and the Dark Ages
That cusp of breathtaking proportions
where the long winter
is broken
and the dawn after the
longest night is come
The promise of fresh air
which does not hurt the lungs
Of warmth which pulls the sting
away from the frozen flesh
whispers through the soul
and the wait which
needs must happen
until Spring arrives
is even more agonizing
in it's first promise of arrival
than all the misery
the dark silence
ever
could
afflict.


VII.

Oh Balm of Gilead
Where are you?
My tongue is swollen
from misuse
If it bled or decreased
every time it betrayed me
I would no longer possess one
Vows of silence
broken so suddenly
me thinks it has a mind
of it's own
To break promises
carved in stone
and stained with blood
from the sacred living heart
Why can you not hush?
Must you waggle so?
Have you not learned
that you are the cause of so much
pain and misery?
Obviously not
and the lips, the lungs
they are your cohorts
Relishing in the the noise they help
you make
Rejoicing in it, whatever the
consequence of such
idiocy proclaimed
as if the whole universe was
created
to hear your donkey braying
Silence is more valuable,
more poignant
than all the treasures of heaven
If only the Balm would stick.


IIX.

I have lost
all pride
all vanity
all reason
all sense of self
All that is left
shown to no one
is this trembling mass
of flesh and bones
Gone is the sweetness
and the light
Peering at the world
as if already beyond the vale
Everything is detached
solace is a myth which
is no longer believed in
But the grave refuses to
claim it's prize
Saying no, not yet
You have not suffered enough
Fingertips bloody
digging the fetid soil
trying to escape into not out
and after so much labor
not a dent can be seen
as if the air above it
flays the skin
in resistance to the attempt
I am lost
and only you stand before me
the path I walk is gone
there are no signs
there are no omens
the voice of intuition stilled
you are a fortress
built up around me
swallowing all sound in the
void of silence
Though I scream I hear nothing
Though I pound and claw
no stone moves
How much longer will you hold me
in this prison?
I cut off my hair rather than
deem to let it down.
If I must be trapped soundlessly
here
I will not make it easy for you
to come to me, sneaking in the night
You must tear down the walls
yourself
Destroy what you have created
and nurse the wasted self
back to the beauty you
imagined would be waiting
when you placed me
in your museum.


IX.

Do you weep
or feel guilt
when you think of me?
Do you scowl
or spit curses on the ground?
Are you angry
or sad
or indifferent?
Do you remember all that passed
between us
or did you bury it in your past?
Do you care?
Are you hardened?
Have you turned your face from me
swearing never again?
Do you pine for me?
Or was my humanity too much to bear?
Are you torturing us both
or do you even realize the horror I am in?
Do you wish I would fade away
only a memory
like the belief in fae or fawn?
Do you hope I am still here?
Do you think I am mad - a stark
raving lunatic
who needs to be put away?
Or do you share this hunger, this longing,
this pain, this despair
of loving someone who is not there.


X.

Each dance changes
according to how the harmonies work
bow
and
spin
and
grind
and
shuffle
What was that you were just
humming?

I close my eyes and
new worlds appear
things work
as smoothly as the heartbeat
of the All
We all greet with smiles and hugs
or the invitation
to join a quest
usually these happen in unison
Whole landscapes spring into being
by our will alone
and we understand
that this is all we do
infinitely
creating
each a part of the
Divine Creatrix of
All.