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On NaPoWriMo

Well, this has been quite the 30 days, to say the very least.

I feel as if every last metaphor has been sucked from my fingertips, every alliteration pounded from my skull, every monotonous rhyme spilled from my lips.

And somehow, I still want to write more.

I’d forgotten what poetry really can do, what a powerful medium it can become when it’s no longer about anything but what’s deepest and closest to you. I’d forgotten what it feels like to have the words rush out of your mind as your fingers struggle to keep up and the keyboard pounds madly. I’d forgotten what “inspiration” really is, and even though I still can’t define it, I know I’ve touched it by forcing myself forward into the poetry that is this life with pen and paper in hand, ready for the moment the first glimmer of an idea strikes.

It’s been an awesome, exhausting process.

Now excuse me while I see if I can mop up the remains of my melted brains.

Farewell to the Bastards

The fragments of my heart are scattered now

across a lifetime spent in loneliness,

in twilight painted by the broken vows

of countless criminals. This sorry mess

of me is stretched across my memories

until the very fabric of my soul

is broken.

Torn.

Dragged through pools of tears

and left out to dry 

in reality’s scorching light.

It’s hard to believe anymore,

hard to see outstretched arms

without waiting to be shoved away.

I long,

I yearn

to see, somehow, what everyone else sees,

to take back what those times and traitors stole.

These chains cry out; my mind screams for relief.

You speak your peace, a peace now still and brief,

a strength enough to breathe another breath

and whisper soft surrender to this death

of ages past. The memories die hard,

so save me, Savior, from each piercing shard.

NaPoWriMo Day 29

Color me sapphire

for the pool of broken dreams

screaming in my soul.

——————————————————-

Just one more, just one more…

Terpsichorean

In gentle, nimble loops and spirals, bound

in hoops of golden light and rusted chains,

I take my place upon the soggy ground

and, slowly, start the waltzing of my pains.

This strange and slow revolving through the years

is slowly tearing out my heart and soul

until the earth is flooded with my tears

and all I quickly shattered is made whole.

The beauty of eternity cries out

through life’s slow hardships. I shall dance

with tear-stained, smiling eyes and hopeful shout

until I rest in sweet Divine Romance.

I dance til chains of memories shall die,

til I at last in peaceful slumber lie.

NaPoWriMo Day 27

Knowledge sweeps away

our barriers and bound’ries

til we are exposed.

—————————————————————

Yeah, I’m a tad behind. Patience, please.

I Am…

A trembling troubadour

in a world of lyrical wonder-workers

who speak love to the star-flecked heavens

amidst fields of wild roses,

while the moon falls to meet me

on a lonely hill of daffodils.

 

A weak-kneed thinker

who longs to lock himself away

in vaults of ethereal wonders

while the world rushes by

in terrifying glory.

 

A desperate heart

clinging to every drop

of joy

dripping from the overflowing bowl

of the table of the world.

 

Afraid,

yet strangely strong,

as if perpetually held

by the arms

of an Unseen Romancer.

 

Unsure

of what I have done

to deserve what I have received:

friendship.

 

Learning,

growing,

slowly and surely

as the bright wanderer above,

looking ever forward to the day

this trembling,

weak-kneed,

desperate child

can stand with those he loves,

upheld by grace and redemption,

and climb.

 

Kiss of Eternity

The kiss of eternity comes on bleeding lips,

embracing time and space

with arms torn by foul acts and fierce pleasures.

 

He walks,

lonesome king

stumbling to our salvation

with our burdens laid upon his broken back.

 

Every tear shed across the generations

tumbles down His scarred body,

scorching his open wounds

with each

trembling

step.

 

How dare I,

crying out for refuge

in the wounds I forged in sinful night?

 

He turns his sacred head

to cast His love upon my soul.

He promises

Paradise.

 

I cast my pennies at Your feet,

these feeble fingers bent

with withheld offerings

and broken promises.

 

As they clatter upon the hard earth,

I cannot help but moan

at my pathetic plea,

my poor offering.

 

How is it,

Master of Creation,

that still you bend Your head,

stretch out Your bleeding arms,

hold me in the heart I broke,

and smile?

A Melancholic Eyes

Clouded shadows brimming crimson foam

and golden gush through melancholic eyes,

through winding labyrinth and catacomb

of ancient curses, phobias, and lies

to penetrate the heart–an easy task

on one so scarred and scared of His romance,

the hand that peels back my iron mask

and guides my feeble feet into His dance

of sacrifice and love. I slowly choke

on my own breath until He meets me here,

our secret place where first my spirit broke,

and stitches up my soul, and draws me near.

With stitched-up soul I’ll take each soft surprise

serenely in through melancholic  eyes.

——————————————————————————

The title came from an anagram of my full name. Shocking how well it brought out the way I see things.

Thunder

The angels walk the clouds on high;

their spinning-wheels in full-tilt spin

the sapphire highway of the sky

the angels walk. The clouds on high

make melody with angry cry

that bursts in peals of mirth within

while angels walk the clouds on high,

their spinning-wheels in full-tilt-spin.

NaPoWriMo Day 22

Simple seedlings sprout

in tender morning glory

at the break of day.

To Write

My fingers tremble as they grip the quill

of ebony and sapphire, depth and dark,

with traces of vermilion instilled.

The inkwell of my memories, so stark

and yet so frail and fuzzy, slowly boils

from years of frenzy never channeled. Now

the vellum seems to scream, and all my toils

will never tell me why I write, or how.

It pierces me until my fingers weep

and makes no promise to repay my pains.

Yet still, the truth, the beauty, dark and deep,

with flames of joy–I know these are my gains.

The ecstasy is slow, the labor long,

but still I write, and sing Creation’s song.

Clarity Through Clouded Vision

The broken memories lay deep,

embedded like broken glass in the earth

moistened by the rain of tears.

It will take something more than rain

to break up the bedrock

long hardened by years

encapsulated in mere moments

of pain.

 

It will take a moment of light,

a shaft piercing through the soul’s caverns

whose echoes will all but stifle

that still small voice.

 

A curious beauty,

the moment everything falls apart

and the shattered heart

has a chance to fall together

better than before.

 

Fear not your tears, your life. Expose the night

inside to grace’s ever-present light.

NaPoWriMo Day 19

One sound in the night

refreshes my weary soul:

The sound of silence.

When

When time seemed timeless, and the world looked young

from where we stood, our vision intertwined

like hands embraced in longing–there hope sprung,

the hope that healed my soul with wrinkles lined.

When Spring came nigh, so too the time to part

and string our memories across the stars

that guided us, and so we took our hearts

and took our paths along this life bizarre.

Our time is gone, a season ‘neath the moon

that smiled to see us smile in her light

as soul met soul in words sung to her tune–

a time now whispered by the candlelight.

We walk apart, yet we shall meet again,

and say with peace, “Do you remember when…”

NaPoWriMo Day 17

Welcome to the house of steel cards

balanced on a stormy precipice,

each timid moan a terrifying screech

that echoes down a cavern paved with ice.

 

Welcome to invisibility,

to permanent transparency of life,

where tender scars are hidden from the day

and every shaft of light cuts like a knife.

 

Welcome to compassion unrestrained,

to deep regrets impossible to share,

to one who holds the world inside his heart

as bitter mem’ry whispers, “They don’t care.”

 

If this be where you wish to rest your head,

a hearth that burns in love and drowns in tears,

then welcome, friend, and know that you are safe.

But please, forget me not in winding years.

The Window Philosopher

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dum spiro, spero.

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