Songs From The Edge

It was fortunate
The way his voice floated through the cracks on the second story
How could a voice so full of feeling glide so effortlessly on air?

She knew the weight of sorrow
She had carried it through the slums
As they watched in windows with discontent

Even the rain knows misery
Who else breaks rain’s fall?

It pours
As she picks up the violin
She knew once how to play
Before she lost all sensation
In the tips of her being

His voice rises
Carrying her to the open window

She feels light
As the music from long ago

And the rain, it jolts to a beat
As it strums her blood through the streets

(Dedicated to C, and his voice, which carried me to wonderful places.)
© Copyright – All rights reserved – forpoeticjustice.wordpress.com – September 26, 2014

The Prodigal’s Plight

He was born, only once
His one want, to want not

He learned sorrow in the faces
Hung lopsided on his wall
Of friends and family
And a stranger he knew once

When he died
They threw out his leftovers
With the crystal fragments
Of a chandelier
Which fell from the
Chateau de la Grange

And when his soul
Which had fled long ago
Glanced in passing
It stopped to admire
The picture of a stranger
Lying atop a bag of bones

(Dedicated to Jobina, a stranger, who in just a few passing words, inspired me to write.)
© Copyright – All rights reserved – forpoeticjustice.wordpress.com – September 26, 2014

Think On Our Love

Think on our love not as wild
For I have no wish to out run
The reach of your fingertips

Think on our love not as right
For there is no one way I could hold you
Naked beneath a starless sky

Think on our love not as young
For I feel faint of breath
Having loved you my entire life

Think on our love not as long
For there is no time I wouldn’t give
To see you dream peacefully atop my grave

Think on our love not as love
But a knot between two souls
Which tightens upon the sight of your face

© Copyright – All rights reserved – forpoeticjustice.wordpress.com – February 27, 2014

Chrysanthemum Blue

Sun-dried tomatoes
And I love the texture of your lips
Cracked
As I taste the frailty of your days

Owl in hiding
And I sing you to sleep in the field
Thorns
As I pick through your fallen hair

Black Tourmaline
And I hope these gems will heal you
Chrysanthemum Blue
As I place flowers by your grave

© Copyright – All rights reserved – forpoeticjustice.wordpress.com – February 23, 2014

For the Stream

Her final cry
Forces the stillness from the air
Inside their hearts

The nakedness of her back
Contours the water’s edge
Shielding them from their reflection

They look away
There is nothing left to see

Still, the fish swim in circles
Knowing not which direction to take

For the stream, it runs both ways

© Copyright – All rights reserved – forpoeticjustice.wordpress.com – February 23, 2014

There Came a Time

There came a time to listen
And I knew not how
My ear against the bark
And even the foolish dog laughs

You do not listen with ear, he says

I do not hear him
He is just a dog and dogs do not speak
I press my ear against the wet Earth
Alas, I hear the rushing sound of mud

It sounds cold.

© Copyright – All rights reserved – forpoeticjustice.wordpress.com – February 22, 2014

In My Last Hour

Spare me the leisure
For I am far from fond of comfort

Take down the rows of China
Bring the lilacs from the garden

Put the curtains out to dry
Let the fire simmer freely

Open all the windows
Hang the birdcage from the ceiling

Pour the garlic from the chalice
Stamp my letters with the date

And please be sure to listen
To not a word of what I say

© Copyright – All rights reserved – forpoeticjustice.wordpress.com – February 22, 2014

To the Broken

Lose yourself in the crevices of lovers’ lips
Where drunken delirium abounds
Let the Moon in all her splendor
Lead your miseries to drown
She guides the tides of passion to
The sands of conscious shores
And when the waves of pleasure pass
Broken shells you will adore

© Copyright – All rights reserved – forpoeticjustice.wordpress.com – February 5, 2013

The Deserter

When the children come, they come bearing stones and sticks.
I say to them, “where is the twine which to tie them together?”

They continue, barefoot along the uncultivated grass.

They hadn’t understood me.
They are only children.
And the world is too simple, too sweet,
For the formation of knots.

Positioned alee the iron gate, they arch each stone and stick at the other’s crown.

“Harm not your brother! Lest you spend eternity seeking that sacred
Salvation which cannot be found!”

They hadn’t heard me.
They are only human.
Now they lie on that ancient road
From which I have long travelled.

My feet bleed, blister. There is no hide along my brittle boot.
I search for them, they are lost. Only mad men slump in place.

Beneath Earth’s dust stained red,
Irises battle to see God.
Mounting toward the smoking heavens,
A view bombarded.
And my shako chord falls
Along the apple of my eye.

© Copyright – All rights reserved – forpoeticjustice.wordpress.com – February 5, 2013