She looks
In dark amber,
Bright eyes—
Watery,
unclouded
Windows—
from them
hidden Purities
of a gray world
are reflected.
No
Heavenly Saint,
But she thanks
for the slightest things,
And Virtues
does she audaciously
Address,
that because of Her,
My feet are rinsed
Ever clean.
Of something
Fresh and rare—
Eager like the
Playful
Spring Breeze,
Blowing
Your loose
Lettuce
up,
Up,
and awaaayy—
An enigmatic
Encounter,
So New
and
Ancient
Once again.
Scars that won’t heal
Pain that cannot absolve
Now
What are you
But an empty crest of
Everything you once were?
Once immaculate, un-clever,
Never mutilated.
Seeking in despair
For sentience
From without—
Blinding lines of lyrics
Taking all your minutes, and
Countless, heart-wrenching
Silver-screen Plots,
Stealing away
All the hours—
Do you remember,
Or do you
Simply fall down low,
Empty
Once again,
When the Show’s over—
Still searching
Voraciously, tears lost—
No hindsights,
For the next wave
Of manufactured emotions?
There is no Pill
Or Beverage
That can fix
It
All—
One can run,
Into the open,
Escape the slaving dungeon,
But darkness
Follows, and condenses
Wherever He should
Lay to Rest—
One can forever
Run,
Only to realize
A Life’s Time
Is not enough
To hide.
So Young one,
You and your
Unspent Beauty,
Take to the Strenuous strides;
Learn to work
In darkness,
But resting in Light.
Have drunken
So Much
Coffee—
Black, White,
Creme filled,
Sugar loaded,
Or Chilled;
Even three days
Old—
That Coffee
Hated you?
Don’t you know,
Dear one,
Need
There is not
to lie.
Little do you
Know—
Or much do you
Forget—
The Silence
Knows
All
Yet says
Nothing at
All
About your
lies.
You were told
To close your eyes,
So you do–
Without suspicion,
Eye-lids
Shut
In an automatous,
Curious flutter–
Then,
A miniature
Bouquet
Lay
Beautifully
Delicate
In your hands.
Fresh, delightful,
And fragile–
Too good
Were they, for
Your more wicked
Self cringed
At their sight–
Exuding a new gleam
In that cold night,
In your hands
A gentle cradle
of Love and Joy;
Some of which
You still
Cannot understand–
Like a sound
Of Redeeming
Purity
Amidst a fallen
Mecca-full
Of deafened
Drums.
A dose of sweet medicine,
Leaving you blessed and terrified—
Were you sick
Before,
And were you
Only then,
Upon inhaling Innocence
And Scent,
Finally beginning to,
Through
Great Effort,
Wakened from an
Ageless Neglect,
Overcome
Your Fatal
Illness,
And become Well
To and for all
Once again?
The Rain clouds
Had come down
And washed
The Dirt
Away—
It got cool,
Wet, and Gray
For a while,
The air anew;
Once more
Un-stifiling—
A Revival Breeze.
Then the Sun
Peeked out,
And slowly
Brought the Sky
Back to day;
Its
Late afternoon
Brilliance shone
Gentle yet luminous,
Tranquilized
By the impossible,
Afterward caressing
Of the Rain.
Though
In great pain,
I was Happy
To Live
That day.
After great pain, a formal feeling comes–
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs;
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?
The Feet, mechanical, go round–
A Wooden way
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought,
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone–
This is the Hour of Lead–
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons recollect the Snow–
First–Chill–then Stupor, then the letting go.
—After Great Pain, A Formal Feeling Comes, Emily Dickinson.
Coming forth
With Old
Ball and Chains;
Stars Apart,
But even
Opening up wide,
Won’t take me
By surprise.
Tell me why,
Why did I
Believe?
Particular Moments 