Final Lament

(For Dverse poets open link night, I post an old poem I wrote while in the midst of struggling with major life changing events. To fight my panic attacks, I found the idea of metaphoric suicide very cathartic and have always been in love with gothic poetry. This is by no means my state of mind but a mere exploration of an idea. I am working toward finding my current poetic voice but, for now, it remains silent. I didn't want another open link night to pass unanswered) 


Final Lament

Severed ties to the living,
bring me closer to the dead.
The pounding of my anxious heart,
fills my mind with dread.
Luminescent breath of ghosts,
obscures the moon above my head.
Shadows thrust upon the tomb,
where my feet now gently tread.
Fiendish sounds, mid-blackest night,
a sepulcher for my bed.
Will peace now overlook me,
for the life that I have led?
A razor pricked across my wrists,
strange demons now are bled.
Eyes fixed upon cold, marble stone,
life runs out crimson red. 

                              

I Fall Surrendered      

You saved me from drowning
and placed me in your ocean,

I fall surrendered at your feet.

Let mercy pour down upon me
wash the mud from my skin,

I am tattooed with words,
let them be prayers.

When I am Dead, My Dearest

When I am dead, my dearest,
and gone beneath the ground,
lay me gently in the earth,
so roots can travel down.

So roots can travel down, my love,
that break the flesh and bone,
my pallid skin, frail porcelain,
beneath the grass and stone.

When I am dead, my dearest,
and the soil my eternal bed,
when my breath has all expired,
lay no flowers at my head.

My hair will weave a firmament
of stars as sacred crown,
when I am dead, my dearest,
my love, when I am gone.

Rebirth

With the feeling of Spring in the air, my thoughts are about gardening. Tilling the soil, planting the seed, nurturing, hands in the earth. The smell of fresh turned soil brings thoughts of all the possibilities presenting themselves into my life. Hope is abundant, the sun on my face and I am excited by the prospect of new adventures.


Rebirth

Freshly plowed earth
awaits, untapped
potential of seed.

Sense of Place

Stagnant dead space within,
darkened hollows between,
where the concrete wears thin,
leaves us nothing for dreams.

Darkened hollows between,
dusty wallpapered rooms,
leaves us nothing for dreams,
frail debris now entombed.

Dusty wallpapered rooms,
what remains can't be taken,
frail debris now entombed,
brittle bones left forsaken.

What remains can't be taken,
sung prayers sweetly taunt,
brittle bones left forsaken,
hearth and stone echoes haunt.

Sung prayers sweetly taunt,
where the concrete wears thin,
hearth and stone echoes haunt,
stagnant dead space within.

Thoughts of rain

Pale lavender, orange sunrise,
breaking through cloud cover,
surfaces wet with last night's rain.
I breathe in moisture,
smell of earth and creosote,
raindrops collect and slowly gather,
rolling down the terracotta roof tiles
dropping to the ground-
plunk!
plunk!
Breaks the silence of
this crisp winter morning,
chill snaps me awake,
aware of my surroundings,
this present moment,
my surreal existence of late.
Getting used to unfamiliar surroundings
and constant disorientation,
the word "temporary"
travels through thoughts,
all things temporary,
makes me question
what creates meaning
as material things fall away,
surroundings change,
aware of how this winter
sunrise smells,
how the air
snaps me awake,
aware of the raindrops
slowly rolling
down terracotta tiles
to the earth under my feet.

The Ruins of My Temple

Despite it's condition,
the ruins of my temple,
still sacred,
soul's trappings,
entangled in the brambles,
fixing my position,
grabbing hold,
thorns break the surface,
nuances change my trajectory,
growing out,
pulling in,
dragging down,
underground,
learning to adapt,
contort limbs,
ligature marks burned
across brittle wrists,
earthbound dwelling
crumbles,
fumbles against gravity,
brevity,
as the soul
bears it's body.

By Sunday

By Sunday

By Sunday,
a thin veneer,
all that remains
of my shell
I built,
to protect myself
from the world.

By Sunday,
it has worn
membrane thin,
scraped away in layers
by life's daily upheaval,
dark forces
without and within.

By Sunday,
I feel bumped,
bruised,
rushed, pushed,
pummeled, abraded,
irritated,
discouraged, heavy,
I drag chains,
my hope wanes.

By Sunday,
I long to wander
deep in the woods,
get lost completely,
swallowed by the trees,
breathe pure,
be alone,
meditate, center,
rebuild my soul,
shore up walls,
that wear down,
membrane thin,
by Sunday.

The Gift My Friend Gave Me

The Gift My Friend Gave Me

In a cafe',
sipping coffee,
my friend would read to me,
Persian poetry, in Farsi,
his native tongue.
The paper he held,
covered in exotic symbols,
graceful curves and dots
on the blue-lined paper,
like notes of music,
played right to left.
As he read them,
my eyes would close,
to hear the poem breathing,
feel it's pulse,
lose myself in the caress of each
beautiful, melodic sound,
rolling into the wave of the next,
feeling each end rhyme.
It felt so familiar,
a primal recognition
of our ancient voice,
a soothing lullaby sung by a mother,
rocking vibrations felt
deeply in the body,
comforting the soul.
In an instant,
my mind fell wide open,
I understood, that poetry
transcends language,
it's meaning secondary,
to the repetition of sounds,
the meter and cadence,
the universal sound
of our own heartbeat,
our first inhale of breath
into newborn lungs.

Words

Words,
wallow
at my feet,
fractured,
disjointed,
anointed?
fragments of gold,
delusions of grandeur?

Unable
to piece together
the puzzle.
Can I proclaim myself
"poet"
or charlatan?
focus my energy
on a practical trade,
nine to five,
benefits,
retirement plan.

Still,
the words
remain
stubbornly silent,
gathered up,
tucked
in my pocket,
spoiled children,
demanding
constant attention.