[x]

For the ChildrenIf my spirit flies at the end of Winter

go down every day to the soil and watch for the sprouts to rise
watch their green fresh moist leaves reach upwards to the sun
know in your heart their tender roots wriggle downwards to water

and if you think of me then, perhaps I am there

If my spirit flies at the end of Spring

go down every day to the moss beside the bubbling wood brook
feel your body sink into the soft greenness as you listen with care
know in your heart the song of the brook carries the healing of fire

and if you think of me then, perhaps I am there

If my spirit flies at the end of Summer

go down every day to the meadow wh

Grass AngelSunsplashed buildings, clear blue skies
No traffic, no pedestrians; silence.
The end of June, the end of music.
No birds, no wind, no dreams

except this one.

This clinical, sterile dream,
Inside looking out
at nothing.

As the sun slowly makes its way
across the sky,
The only sound is the ticking clock.

I'm going outside to make a grass angel.

Metamorphosis.Year's stump, new birth.
Begrimed footprints bivouac in budding spring,
Winter's wax candelia, moseying,
Claude Monet, Etretat daubs ebb; lidless burettes brimming,
Splintered, sticky gum buds; water purged, jarred blades,
Peel back, green, coated in,

'pale-brown, downy hairs.'

Tined bracts unscrunch; blushing stalks, bosky stomach, pale spine.
Marked, with a crow's foot is spring.
Beryl berries ripening.
Burgundy

'honey guide'

blossom bearing white petals,
Honey drones, pollinate Neutral Tones; stamen pollen purloin.
Ovary ripened seed couplet; dahlia dipped broad-blade wings.
Latched fungi; blotched backs.
Hedgerow disban

After TuesdayElizabeth,

I will not live like this anymore.

Not anymore.

There's a small Universe to the West,
that sits idle in Autumn,

I will be there.

Hinged on all sides,
by suicide maples
that fall from the trees like droplets of blood,

and that old Raven
(the blackbird that taught us Canasta
on the lawns by Cedars Lodge,)
he hovers quietly above me there, in the azure sky
like a guardian,

and those two shining moons Elizabeth,
the ones we happened upon
through the windowpanes,
between our screams and shouts last Tuesday night,
in this Universe, those moons weep misty vanillas
across a falling horizon and I am free,

yes, I will

mansuetude and sentiment.parietal flowers of your (mouth, eyes, ears)
plication and pleating of the house plants lives

revel in it: swim in it.
litter your hands with it.

house plants, house cats, house shadows on the grass,
all so orthogonal and plain.

oh
your
grasp
and
tales so phatic, maybe penitent but never dull.
maybe.
maybe your
parasitism should be pushed to perdition
maybe the limbs of the house plants will
pave your terrene and turning gaze.

oh dear
votre sentiment est tardive et vil et pâle.

SOMETHINGWhat smoky poltergeist has lit out

across the dusty plains of my mind

and left no footprint?

A contrarian alchemist turning

my gold into lead and taking with it

all my illusions of clarity

Those wizards and sorcerers hawking

their false incantations and last right lies

I sense another curve in my future

Something just up ahead

Negative space

Indefinable,
and you are off again,
spinning a wheel
whose name you cannot call,
cannot countenance,
and yet you are off again,
awaiting rescue that may come,
that may elevate
the far geographies
of need
and terror,
to what you saw once,
to what was heralded,
upon a dream.

MouseMouse is in the wall.
He listens for your breathing.
Mouse is in the wall.
Whiskers on the outside of your inside,
he feels for signs of loss.
Homes in empty spaces,
halls between our thoughts.

Mouse is in the wall.
He listens for the cracks,
the notches and the secrets.
A tiny nose vibrates,
an eager tail explores.
Mouse is in the wall.
He writes his unseen stories,
surrounding you like dust.

The money breaks.
The high-rise falls.
The ground thunders.
The skies fault.
Mouse does not flinch.
This is meaningless to him.

Mouse is in the wall.
If you listen, you can see,
if you focus, you can hear.
The blank spaces crawl

UnbuttonI declared love dead.

There was a ceremony, and I did the obituary.
"Dear love. I told you so."
Then the burial of an empty gesture, broken
promises integrating with the earth.

I visited the grave, let my fingers run
along the unmarked stone. I would sit at the TV at night,
awash in a sea of detergent and other peoples' wives,
forgetting everything about this. One day I just woke up cold.
And it was fine.

I wrote my acceptance on the inside of my door.
Life is full as it is. Full of spoons and dirt and ways to slowly dig.
Full of reflections on what passes and what does not.
Curled up in itself, a wad of dirty bills. Life is
blu

She says I'm cuteSometimes, I want to take the lush from your lashes
And crush it under my workmen's boot;
The sheen from your lacquered pout
Ground dull by the efficient might of these chompers;
The slink of your stance, sex of your motions
Dissolved by the clumsy encumbrance of my embrace.

These traits, I best love and hate:

For as long as you are lovely, you can leave
This oddly brute-

She says these gargantuan feet of mine are cute.

In the WildernessDown the street they've got a trash fire burning,
and it gathers the wind and paints ghosts upon faces
all orange and black, lucid and lascivious.

This ain't the Motor City though, it ain't the Bronx...
truth be told I live outside of town, outside the loop,
and people on this street rarely speak English,
and I rarely understand what they're saying.
And I see them, and I think, "America the Beautiful"

I don't really know what's expected of me,
sometimes you find yourself places you'd never imagined,
find yourself locked by gravity in a space of time
and you're where you're supposed to be,

because

you're where you are.
And if

Unfold, Part IIHear me read it

My bones are creaking.
I hear them gossiping while I sleep,
and they talk of me.
They call me maddened.

They say that the blackness,
the ravenous cave, has devoured me.
They talk of me,
as if I am not here. Am I?

This was my safe space,
I, cacooned
In the warmth of my own breath
Now it cages me.

My fingernails grow so long
That they pierce through the paper
and my eyes go wide to see
fragmented light once more.

I Took the Blue BusYou didn't put the phone back, left your pills on the table
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You made cookies I didn't eat, watched movies I didn't see
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You talked, then you didn't, then you talked some more
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her

You took the elevator, she took the stairway to the stars
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You swept out memories, wrote a manuscript of dreams
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
I had coffee and cigarettes alone at four AM
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her

She took the stairway to the stars
I took

Palaeothic Art     The mind in the cave
     At Altamira
     Paints rock face red with ochred
     Bison, horse, lion,
     Megafauna come to life.
     Yet in one corner
     The tiny stencilled hand print
     Says 'Kilroy was here'.

caminoi am full of war song sadness.
gathered to you in disguise i
am past you, i who lived beyond
the path, beside your route, your
avenue,
a roar on the moors,dwarfs my lonely
sigh
i am casting
myself upon the edges of those
lanes you touch
weary lover
i am a broken tourist low
with dissent, i can
travel no longer with only my
bones and conscience, even
if i am dismissed by you,
i would cross the hardened steppe,
to come upon the highest land
and trawl the eastern shore
for the sound of you in a moment
yes, how is it that you have thrown
yourself so far away from me,
what was it that compelled
you to become there,
even

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For the ChildrenIf my spirit flies at the end of Winter

go down every day to the soil and watch for the sprouts to rise
watch their green fresh moist leaves reach upwards to the sun
know in your heart their tender roots wriggle downwards to water

and if you think of me then, perhaps I am there

If my spirit flies at the end of Spring

go down every day to the moss beside the bubbling wood brook
feel your body sink into the soft greenness as you listen with care
know in your heart the song of the brook carries the healing of fire

and if you think of me then, perhaps I am there

If my spirit flies at the end of Summer

go down every day to the meadow wh

Coyote and Crone Part 13Riverbeds yielded wet, thick clay.
Dried plants added pliant texture.

Bricks formed in barkboard shells
Baked in the hearth oven slowly.

And the smell of the cooking clay
Brought dreams of Twig Man back.

"He chased me though the woods."
"He chased me to the oven door."

"He chased me but I got away."
"He chased me but I ran too fast."

"Why does he always chase one?"
"We two are more than just one."

"Can we dream together, strong?"
"Can we make a plan for our dreams?"

The old woman smiled, content.
The sharp man frowned, confused.

Coyote and Crone Part 12"Does she have bows and arrows?"
"Have you seen any large game near?"

The man smiled around sharp teeth.
The woman watched and waited.

"Did you see a spear or a sword?"
"What game can she possibly mean?"

The woman sighed with contentment.
The sharp nose man was impatient.

"I've seen nothing bigger than us."
"Silly! Large means bigger than us."

"Large means bigger than rabbits,
For that is all we have had thus far."

"Silly! No one eats people, do they?"
"I've never known anyone who did."

The man chuckled a hoarse grunt.
The woman cut her eyes at him.

Coyote and Crone Part 5BHunched beneath a load of wood,
the children returned to the fire.

"Do not put them down! Follow me."

The old woman marched briskly away.
down a path they had not noticed.

They followed her for hours and hours.
They were weary, and hungry again.

Just as twilight descended, she stopped.

In a clearing ahead was a stone hut.

"Here is my home. You are welcome."

"She cooked potatoes far from home,"
he whispered in her ear, quietly.

"Why do you tarry? Come and eat."

todayIf I had my way
today
Iwouldpulltheblanketsovermyheadandstaytheretilthecowscomehome.

But instead I
must
p r e t e n d I w a n t t o c o m e u p f o r a i r t o d a y.

Do You Believe in Magic?What we do not understand
yet see accomplished,
we view as magic.

And it is.

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7 November 2012

by ~wh0rem0ans, Nov 7, 2012, 7:46:25 AM
Literature / Poetry / Spiritual / Urban & Spoken Word

If you should capture
the whole of my last breath,
I will dwell in you
with contentment,

for a portion of a moment.

If you should share
the whole of your next breath,
I will dwell with you
in them, contented still,

for a portion of a moment.

If all should release
the whole of our breaths,
We will dwell everywhere
with all, more content

for all our forevers.

7 November 2012by ~wh0rem0ans

Literature / Poetry / Spiritual / Urban & Spoken Word

©2012-2013 ~wh0rem0ans

On the occasion of my 56th birthday, I miss my mother and daddy and sister very much. But then I inhale and am content.

*AGMeade Mar 3, 2013 Professional Writer

Sometimes there are no words. How beautiful.

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~wh0rem0ans Mar 5, 2013

that made my day

*** and it was a good day ***

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~hell-on-a-stick Feb 3, 2013

how beautiful, truly.

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~wh0rem0ans Feb 4, 2013

I was just thinking about you yesterday. But then, no one is surprised by that. Thank you.

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~hell-on-a-stick Feb 10, 2013

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~writeritalian14 Dec 9, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Oh my god..I love your writings! I look up to you now!

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~wh0rem0ans Dec 9, 2012

Thanks

Reply

~writeritalian14 Dec 9, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

no problem!

Reply

~Cr2O3 Dec 9, 2012

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