Poetry Blogs (Loss)

Bedlam

The greying morning

Barked like a dog

Trapped in a well

A sound so hollow

It shattered glass

In the cabinet where

She kept her memories

Tied in knots

The braying moon

Shone silver needles

Into the face

Of the weeping child

Screwing its hooks

Into soft flesh

Making the lanterns

Quiver with rage

In the ragged garden

Tendrils...

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The rain falls

My soul weeps

Masquerading

All the secrets we keep

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She was a spectacular tree.
People called her the flame of the forest,
for she was obviously striking, vivid and classy.

I need not narrate the superlative majesty
of the flame – tree, for one time or the other
we have all been breath-taken by her peerless glamor.

What matchless artistry!

I am here to quickly share
my ruminative gloom for that lovely assembly
of flower, leaf and wood, which grandly stood
in...

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Is it still love when the cracks fill with lies?
And you know that you shouldn't crave their presence,
But they make you feel alive.

Is it still love when you long to break away?
But the notion of their absence compelles you to stay.
Is it still love when you try to forget?
But nothing will fill the void that they left.

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it’s 6:21 and when I look out my window from the corner of 29D, 

there’s a subtle hue of blood orange outlining what looks like the perimeter of 

a space

of sky

and a breeze of clouds, lighter than feathers, so thin, as if it forgot to carry the mist it was designed to pour tonight 

but that’s okay, because it found itself a new purpose:

your shrewd orange spirit is now perf...

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We track the oblique, sly fireflies
that keep popping fitfully by.

While life swarms invitingly by the side
we remain rabidly hustling
recklessly trailing
those brusque cracking stars
      ...shifty, deceptive, volatile
in onyx-bronze, raven nights

❋

We: the tenderfoot novice
bulldozed on many a graceless trip
half-cocked, peripheral, stoned
and profoundly ill with pitiful

short-sigh...

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