Monthly Archives: October 2013

A walk in the Light

I stare at that light,

that light at the end of the tunnel,

and I wonder,

“Why are there no colors?”


Then I devour the light.

I watch it twist and dance –

it is not only at the end of the tunnel,

but it runs along the sides,

liquid diamonds.

I long to drink it.



I spit.

The uselessness of these words!

ow many times

do I say the exact thing,


and over?

Every time these same,

comfortless words.

What are they?

An expression of my desire?

I write them,

think them to the light,

hoping it will hear,

(for written language is nothing

to the light).

I beg again for that light,

and I touch it with my finger,

snapping the dream.

I fall again into the useless reality.

The light will not let me in,

not alone.

But no one else can see it,

and I quake with frustrated rage.

So close,

yet close

is meaningless.

But in that light,

reality and that narrow tunnel between

are less than a dream.


There I know myself,

as I melt into my guide

and the light penetrates

my soul,

purging it of shadow,

fusing it to another soul,


But where is my guide,

and for how long must I search?

I grow weary of games,

of testing through words,

these same words.


Step into the light with me,

hold my hand and we will explore that world.

We can explore the light.

I say ‘we’,

but who is that other?

Where can I find that soul

with courage?

One that wants to taste that light

with me?


if only you could see that light

as I do!

If you had put your hand into it

and felt that jolt

of life

that stops the heart.

There I have seen the world melt

as time stood still.

There you can go beyond tasting the world,

drinking her colors.


come with me –

it is so much easier than you think.

Let go

and come with me.

I cannot understand your fear,

and I hope that you do not see the light

through my words only,

for they are nothing.

I hope that you have been touched by the light.

But your fear speaks otherwise.

Let me take you to the light.



1er Soir Apres La Rentree

So it looks like all I’ve got now is what’s in this pocket.

Memories don’t fit,

so I slip them to the wind.

Run away again,

do you think this is something I need?

Do you think I like to be bitten?

I see these walls surrounding your faces,

strange faces,

stories of lifetimes I no longer care to know.

I have been lost,

and you all have lost me too,

I see.

I look inside,

then in this little pocket to see what I’ve got –

a wad of cash and a few pieces of paper,

some soviet smokes and the keys to my cell.

This is not my world.

as I had once hoped,

but now I see this is a foreign place to me,

I am alien.

I look in this pocket,

what I’ve been given to finish

whatever it is I must do here.

I look and see my work,

my words,

words of welcome,

expressions of friendship,

but none of you knows what I keep in my pocket,

and you never will.

I am a liar,

and a mocker,

and I suffer from emptiness.


what did you expect?

Why did you call me friend?

Have we given each other something,

exchanged something?

Do you know me?

Is you life different without me?

That is why I look to this pocket –

to see what’s left

and to know what is mine.


do not call me friend,

for such we are not.

I am an island here,

in this world,

in your world.

I am alien,

nakedly clutching the meager contents of my pocket.

A wad of cash,

some paper,

and some soviet smokes.

That is all I have to fight the emptiness?


But what do you know of emptiness?

Or for that matter,

of completeness?

Who are you to judge what you cannot fully see?

Can you speak of my love,

of what I have tasted and helped to shape?

Who are you to believe I am as simple as what the surface belies?

Fly, Blindness!

I have no room in my heart

for your sadness,

and your biting words are nothing –

only words.


it’s sad with only this pocket,

and this handful of life.

But I have loved like none can imagine.

I have loved purely and deeply and solemnly.

Fly away blindness!

And send your biting words to the wind.

They will not fit in this pocket.



The Lay of Arbin – Pt 1, The Shores of Birra

And by the shores of the Birra,

on the very banks,

dwelt Arbin.



The river blonde,

for in spring’s thaw,

the water flows white,

the color of the hair of Birra’s mother,

who into the falls dove

to rescue her child

and now searches eternally,


raging in the spring

for the loss of her daughter.


And on this river lived Arbin,

and by this river

oft on here very banks

Arbin studied,

and Arbin grew crafty,

for the love of knowledge flowed in Arbin’s heart,

and indeed,

through his solitude,

was the only love

his heart knew.

And long he studied,

and long he grew old

even as he learned of death

and of dying

Arbin drank of the cup of mortality

and studied

as only Arbin could study,

and learned of shadow-lore

and darkness magic

and of the very changing of natures.

And Arbin first learned of the name Arrueil,

the false giver.


Response to Ladygleesy

“Do you have a place you like to go to to write? Tell us about yourself, sir?”

Do I have a place?
As in,
a physical location,
or more metaphorically,
a place?

Historically there have been many,
as I reread words drafted so many years ago,
fields of battle that birthed a nation,
a ‘prison’ – symbolic ire of an expat
against a foreign land.

More recently,
I scribe in a cave,
a corner tucked away underground,
removed from the sun,
devoid of history and purpose,
yet bordering on lands rich with craft
and music
and memory.
But this place is of yet empty,
and I have no yet into its few cubic feet
poured any fluence of meaning,
nor instilled therein
the distillation of thought,
and thus gilded the walls with depth.

and yesterday,
I scrape the barrel of time,
eking a moment here,
a word there,
as I test this renewed bed
of poet,
something nearly forgotten,
comfortable as old shoes,
memories of prior works
that need mending
and modernization.

I do not have a place defined,
thus you read many remnant words,
as the birthing of new verse
is laboring under this dearth of resource –
a lack of time
and of devotion of space.

I have built for myself a space,
and recently imbued it with mystery
and memory
and craft.
With my blood,
my sweat,
and my thought,
I have constructed four walls and a roof,
hardly guarded against the elements,
yet rich in inspiration.
I believe that I shall go there,
for as of yet,
no word have I there uttered,
nor recorded of my own.
It has been a place of physic,
of thought bent to creation of form
rather than thought bent
to the recording of perception.

Perhaps the time is ripe?


Oft I long for greatness,
To taste of the cup that few do,
Tho I know it is rich with solitude
And misunderstanding.
Alas, but to be great,
To bear that soul bursting forth,
Soaring to heights incomprehensible!

But I understand the cost,
And I swallow potential
As part if the dutiful repast,
Seasoned with bitter mediocrity,
Shall the flavor lean to regret?

standing still

Maybe he stood there still, but not quite long enough.  Maybe he started, but his magic was hidden, even to himself.  Everything moved.  He looked to see that he had remained still, and he smiled inwardly and whispered, “I am proud.” But everything was moving and he began to fear.  For though he had remained still, he know that soon, he too should have to move.

“But not now,” he thought, “and tomorrow is just a day, as any other.”  But he was no longer sure.  And again, as in times nearly forgotten, he began to think and to fear.  Tomorrow loomed closer, and yesterday melted into folly.  Holes arose.  Holes in everything, and the sun started to dissolve.

“I am strong,” he chanted to ward off the darkness, “I am candle. I am light.” He shone dimly.  All things were moving shadows and he was no longer sure.  “I am not separate,” he cried as the holes began to attacj his light, began to attack his soul.  Through clouds of smoke, rolling thunder shattered holes into everything.

Across a field, the sight of trees and white crosses sheltered the elusive horizon.  He jumped, climbed the trees, and stepped on hills to see the other side.  He ate his meals dreaming, “an apple as the world, yet I can never see the other side.”  And dreams of unspeakable darkness came into his mind.  “I have been knighted, and I now carry my device on my banner — I am me, and that is all I need.”  The words echoed in his mind, yet ever the fear of that horizon, and who waited on the other side – always these fears tainted his brightly polished shield and tore at his fluttering banner.

A few of them remained – yet did not remain unscarred by the passage of those who had gone.




And long before the end of the council

he stood before them all,

lost in the eternal darkness

that swallowed the faces of his judges.

He stood alone,

nearly naked,

his skin covered by tattoo.

He stood to prove himself.

his skin tanned brown between the ink,

for he was of the Earth,

a child of his Eternal Mother,


they called him,

and he did not move,

but remained still

and quiet,

judging his judges

with the fire behind his eyes.




“How do you spell emptiness?”

I asked and she held out her hand,

withdrew her heart,

and breathed my name.

“How do you draw alone

and afraid?”

I asked

and tore the colors from the sky.

I danced that night the dance of the trees,

the slow,

drawing of magic from the Earth

as I cried for the changes in my heart.

“No one dances together,”

she whispered,

again breathing my name,

again tasting my name in the wind.

“no one dances together,

and together is not…


she sighed,


“Look at me!”

I cried;

dull words that came back to me on that wind,

that most terrible wind.

“look at me and see me,

for my insanity is not of the surface.”

I glanced at my skin,

“cover me.”

The dance for that day,

again the dance of the trees

was meaningless in her eyes,

and she knew nothing,

only I knew.

The stars loved me that night,

and the moon touched the world

with her cold light –

there were no more colors to steal from the sky.

Afraid and alone melted in my knowledge

and she diminished to a shadow.

Here at the edge we are all the same,

and she diminished.

“you know nothing,

and have no wish to learn.

You know only of my emptiness,”

as the cure was lost with the colors

as the night awoke and scattered the day.

She knew nothing of nothing,

and still I believed her,

her honeyed voice of milk,

sliding the blade into my world –

I would not be that again.

The past is a story, a legend.

Remember tomorrow,

for thoughts of yesterday make you die.

“Do not wilt,”

I told her,

for already I had dreamt of fire

and of paradise falling.

“Do not think of the legend,

of what was or who I hoped to be,”

I grew enraged with futility

as her mind closed on false thought.

Drown this story,

forget these colors -the moon and the stars,

for fantasy shines form within,

and it is to the inside we must flee.

The inside is safe,

warm-fuzzy safe.

I go to the inside when I think of your name.

I go to watch the tragedy melt.

I go for the rivers.


I fell into the river that night

as she sang the similarities

between my name

and emptiness.

I pulled her down into the river to stop the song

and to find those colors.

I danced in the water,

again the dance of the trees,

and forgot of empty

and of words –

I forgot the difference.

I am there now,

sinking in the river,

forgetting yesterday and her stories.

I sink into peace.



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most sincerely weclomed

The Mockingbird in Me


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View original post

Rent Mist

It is with such sadness,

such rending,

that I look into those eyes to see

reflected pain tinting all that is observed,

coloring this world

through mists

of misperception.



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