Tag Archives: longing


An old creak as the doors of the morning rattle from the sweet cover of unconscious dream.

The painful light of being bears down on me,

urging and pressing and warring.

In waking there is no repose,

Duty latches onto my first thought –

a schizophrenic voice,

maleficent and sharp.

There is no soft glow of morning here,

no quiet solitude before the dawn to prepare.

Here no sailors press the shoes of luck before the day begins,

for the night has been a brief pause only,

and yesterday’s burdens beat the dust of responsibility from their coattails

and into my sputtering,

coughing lungs.

Now the cold light drips down on me,

artificial and frigid,

it stings my eyes even as it reminds me that nature lies afar

just outside my reach,

just outside my sight.

I rot in this cage of the mind,

watching as each precious moment of being is traded for a morsel

and mortgaged for another sack of chores,

always waiting

always bearing down and pressing crushingdehumanizingdamningkilling.

There is no escape.

I have no metaphor,

no poetic analogy.

I am trapped.

This is Hell.



The inverse side, the inside song.

Your words, the words run like smoke.


I held on and once again, burned, I cry to no one.

She held out her hand,

not knowing why,

and I took it,

not knowing why.

A cold wind,

gray and sad,

blows me down and those hands are there,


laughing that I fell.

She looks into their eyes and I see a mockery

of all that I have.

I have no more room for sadness.

So, look at these eyes

and understand my goodbye

as eternal.


Oct 1998

Mr. Dudley’s Not Home

Mr. Dudley’s not home,

say good-bye to his empty smile,

always alone,

always reaching

for someone or something

to hold.

Knowledge of being a burden

was his only security

other than the maddening depression.

Drink it all away,

it does ease the pain,

at least for a while,

at least at night when it’s dark,

something to occupy your mind,

again the pain dissipates.

Soon it’s time to go,

the knowledge is somewhat of a comfort,

delusions of peace,

if you had only listened.

Now you have found that which you sought.


For Uncle Donald,

October 16, 1995

no love

If I have not love,

I have nothing.

That is where I lie,

and why I shudder

to gaze in the mirror.

Can one learn to love?

Can it be forced from concept to practice to characteristic?

I do not love you,

I do not care.

I cannot grasp the social, collective spirit of humanity.

I drift,

a ship broken free of its moorings,

alone and unheeding within a storm

of uncaring.



(untitled) – Cracked Sky

I watch the sky crack.

The horizon is painted glass,

and it cracks.

I press against the glass.

It is cold,

frigid and biting.

It is so cold.

I strain to see through,

but all my excitement allows is a furtive glance,

a peek at another world,

a world of mystery and shadow.

Through the crack I see my dreams,

those who painted the dome surrounding this world,

the dome that serves as a border between the two.

I flatten myself against the glass

and struggle to slip through the hole,

through time and into another world.

The icy presence of the painted wall

reminds me to watch the sharp edges.

I must not be cut.

It is perhaps because of this caution,

misplaced though it is,

that I fail to see the long,

sharp blade

as it slides into my belly,

and up through my ribs

until the point rests just within my heart.

At first,

the mists of shock numb the pain.

“What has just happened?”

The words form in my mind

as my warm lifeblood spills over my body.

The feeling is elation.

I no longer feel the bite of the cold touch

of glass.

Yet with time,

the seriousness of my wound becomes evident.

The pain drops me to my knees,

I fall,

kneeling in both worlds,

a part of each,

and neither.

I fall within arms’ reach of my dreams.

The world of mystery calls to me,

its trees singing of serenity

and peace.

The moon cries in my pain.

“come to us,”

sing the sweet voices of a thousand birds,

“come and fly with us.

we will show you wonders,


This is your world.”

Yet the loss of blood is too much.

All I can do is retch.

Even breathing is deathly painful.

I look at my chest,

and see the blade is still there.

From out of my belly

comes the last inch of a cruel blade.

I follow it to the hilt,

and behold the pained that pained me so grievously.

The hand is beauty,

exquisitely soft

and warm.

I long to hold it,

to feel it on my face.

It could end the pain.

Please let it end the pain.

But the hand trembles,

violent sobs jarring the blade in my chest,

and my tears dry in the force of the pain.

For days,

it seems,

I rest here.

A wound that cannot heal,

complicated by the blade within,

barbed and poisoned.

It writhes within me,

and I cannot heal.

And yet the pain is a comfort,

an irony I do not comprehend.

Perhaps it is madness,

from the strain.

Eden at my fingertips,

and my blood on the ground.

My emotion overwhelms

and I remember that I live.

The pain reminds me of life.


like the Cyclops

(for he was granted the knowledge of future,

albeit the knowledge of his own death,

in exchange for his eye,

a cruel trick of the fates),

like the Cyclops I see my own future,

my reward for the pain.

Yet this too is the sight of my death,

a sight I do not wish to see,

but my eyes can not close to the vision.

I am one with that image.

I see the knife withdraw,

only in the vision,

I remember,

even as my fingers probe the wound),

I see the blade slide out,

pulled by the same hand that had there thrust it.

It is rent from my chest,

one swift motion.

Yet the blade was barbed

and so with it comes my heart,



“Please let it live,”

OI cry in my mind.

This pain is unbearable,

Yet I cannot escape consciousness.

This pain is too great.

The wound reopens.

I bleed a painful bleed,

each drop striking nerves.

My God,

can I stand this pain?

And then the blade is gone,

the trembling hand of beauty,

the cruel twisted blade,

all gone from my sight.

My heart lay at my knees.

I collapse beside it.

I collapse into the world of dreams.

Yet that was a vision.

I snap to the present,

to the trembling blade,

to the pain,

and I am somehow gladdened.

Here I watch that world of shadow,

watch it grow

even as it drinks from the fount

of my blood.

And from it grows flowers,

singing in the sunlight,

calling to bees,

“come and taste,

come and take our gifts.”

Here I see the sky,

I see angelic forms dancing,

master of the air,

they giggle as the soar.

And I watch the hand,

I wish to caress it,

to love it,

to follow it back to the body,

to find the face of beauty

I know rests just out of sight,

watching me with distant eyes,

eyes that see only magic,

crying, laughing eyes,

eyes that can trap.

I long to hear that voice,

the melody of that voice

and the dancing waves of accent,

its laughter and song.,

I dream of those ears,

of their understanding,

of the desire to hear my prattling.

And so,

the pain is a comfort.

The pain has become my desire,

an excuse to rest in both worlds,

a bridge between the two.

I have fallen for this hand

and I hope to keep it near,

both for my passionate longing,

and for the fear of its withdrawal.

I fear the pain IO know will come,

yet even for that,

I wish to stay

and slowly work free this blade,

perhaps I will heal?

I see the magic of that world,

and I speak of it to the hand

(for I know the ears are listening),

and I speak of my world,

of the stars that rise so that I might tell a tale,

as a connect the dots drawing,

they lay as pieces of the epic.

“See, there is Anaeolbeth,

the star of the lovers.

See as she rises,

she will catch her love Corant

just as the first rays of the sun strike the heavens.

They will fade together,

only to run again tomorrow.”

I speak of the mountains,

distant and grand,

towering over the world.

They watch everything and hold council,

slow and ancient,

council for centuries.

The mountains are full,

the bestow their love on me,

jewels and ore.

These mountains whisper my name,

low and rumbling.

They laugh in the storms.

I speak to my companion,

I hope against hope for the unthinkable.

I hope against hope to hold this hand,

and to walk in that world,

to see those wonders,

and feel the winds,

to become a part of those legends told in the stars.

I plead with the hand,

and I hear a reply/

I rise from my knees,

oblivious to pain.

I rise form my knees at that voice,

and smile at the heavens.

Yet the words are not what I imagined,

and their meaning sinks slowly into my mind.

I listen and hear,

not understanding.


I fall to my knees.

My head swims in the pain.

The words drain my strength,

and annihilate hope.

The answer echoes in my mind,

the answer to my plea.

“come with me,”

I begged.

The answer breaks my mind.

“I cannot.

Please understand.

I cannot.”

November 12, 1997

Left of Me

“There’s nothing left for me,

nothing left for me.

There’s nothing left for me,”

he said,

looked down at his bloody hands,

“The guilt on me

all the things I’ve done,

all the things I’ve done.

There’s nothing left for me.”


“I’m all used up,”

he said,

I’m all used up inside

and there’s nothing left of me,

nothing left of who I used to be.

Twenty-two and all used up,

I’m the empty river,

can’t you see?


You’re all that’s left for me,

you’re all that’s left of me,

I’m all used up,

you’re so brand new.

I can find myself in who you are,

but I take,

can I give?

You know, my dear,

there’s nothing left of me.


Company’s not here,

alone – it’s just me,

the empty river,

alone and complete.

How much does nothing need?

How much more do I need,

really to really just be me?

How much more do I need,

how much can one need?


Take me.

Make me.

Use what’s left,

all that’s left of me.

Do you have a need?

Maybe you can make me feel,

feelings are filling.

Can you find what’s left,

left of me,

left of me,

left of me?


The angle light,

you drown me,


just starting,

you’re so young and full.

The that make a shadow — me,

the sound that makes the echo,

you’re the start of my favorite dream.


All I need,

need to be,

to finally see,

what is really me,

what is really

left of me.


April 25, 1998

It’s Christmas, My Love

It’s now Christmas

and I sit alone,

or as alone as I allow myself to be,

for in my mind

live a million memories

of Sundays past,

summer days in the sun

and futures still to be seen,

for nothing has become impossible,

and this world belongs to me,

or at least my own very small part.


It’s Christmas now

and tonight I dance in sweet dreams

of you

and love,

and us

and love.

I remember yesterday,

and envision tomorrow’s midnight dances,

and her king destroyed,

better for the dance.

I envision tomorrow’s loves,

tomorrow’s losses,

and tonight I feel warm.


And I ask you,

a form of pleading with you,

to remember our warmth,

how it shone between us,

a star all our own,

oh, feel that warmth

change the world around us,

the sky above us.

Remember how easy it was to smile in the sun,

and still remember to smile at good-byes,

to remember them as pauses,

rests until later,

for I cannot taste of what you are

and then remain unchanged,

for I give to you

and share in what you give,




but I ramble.


Christmas, my love, is tonight a warm glow,

the dance of my shadow

on the memory of you.

And that, my love,

is what I ask of you tonight,

to place your thoughts on those memories,

how we laughed together,

how we learned to think together,

through time,

almost to be together.


Tonight it’s Christmas

and I cannot help but smile

in warm thoughts,

to think of you and whisper,

“Merry Christmas,

My Love.”

December 25, 1997

Mick On Everything

Just a regular guy who is interested in everything

Wherever you go, there you are.

And here I am, Judith Clarke, writer.


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