Mad Poetry Tuesday

They say there's a day for it, I know Sometime after the leaves change, We change. We get voices, a voice, As if we didn't have choices, a choice. A daily say in our own philosophy, Our own fate and the fates of others. Be kind. Do I have to rewind this for you? We have choices, a choice, actions speak louder Than your voice. But what if systemic change only happens When we lift a pen with the masses? The past fought for our right, wouldn't we fight For the expression of choices, for different voices? I must amend, amend these words, your voice Matters, your choice, matters. Actions and words. You've been heard, you're being seen by the future. You're examples, role models, and human beings. Is it true? Have you given thought to the thoughts thought By you? Is it enough to vote and not act? Schools need funding, roads need repaired, What do you plan to do about that? Look. Results. Words, words were placed down and picked up By gene

I'm trying to remember What it feels like to hear words And for them to conjure in you An understanding. I'm trying to remember That I never intentionally sought How to handle heartbreak, or loss, But I found words that said, "There will be joy... Again." And I'm trying to remember, That there was wisdom I needed to hear When I needed to hear it - and all I had to do was listen, and breathe. I'm trying to remember How we reflect the media mirrors, How we roll with the role models We choose. We look without seeing. I'm trying to remember How a single word can have an impact, A name, a spell, a word with emphasis, Intention. Conjuring feelings into tangible, Tongue-striking things. I remember Being thankful that there was a word And that you spoke it when I couldn't. When I wouldn't say what you could, but I read it, and it was real. -- It's about how words are connecting things and that they help us heal by showi

Imagine, if you may, the dream. The translucent, ever shifting Truth. First, a moon rises, In the magic of nightfall, then Drops with the weight of a silver coin Into your pocket. An automaton's pocket That sings a clinking song. Can you see "you" in this moment? Are you the Dream You, Who crossed leagues of velvet, Who stood cliffside and jumped, Who made it through the Mind Maze Just before winter, but had to repeat it in the snow months later? Are you the You of Infinity? Are you a thousand mirrors Glazed and reflecting In a thousand stories Your Brain Artist paints As your body lies there On the pull-out sofa, or in an IKEA bed, Or on the dirt floor. Being painted, Like verdigris over copper, Are you the makeup? No, depicted - are you The Waking or the Dream You? -- Mad Words List 9.18.18 Automaton Dream Verdigris Infinity Truth Moon Silver Magic Song You

In the vicissitudes of life, I had started to know The downturn from the sky-high. I watched it wax, Wondering if it would wane, or rain, or snow. Instead, it was just cold, like silence. But not the silence Of respect. Nor the silence like standing in a band room in 6th grade, Instruments still, while we heard about Terror on the television, and watched the towers fall. A tragedy, it was something close to that, but less Permanent. There was hope of rising from the grave After three days or a hundred, I’d wait for you To come around. But I wasn’t the symbol to your meaning, I was just the cymbal that brought noise to your busy Mental street. Clash, bang, just atmosphere humming. Notes on a page you barely read, maybe skimmed. Swipe, like, scroll -- just another “friend” making The Honor Roll. On my honor, do I solemnly swear, To care. To carry your memory like a wound, Unforgettable and deep, oh the colors you made beneath my skin. I wanted rainbows for days. But

Across from the neon parlor Where the strangers in a strange land Bet their lives on pachinko, I searched the sky, for the sun and the moon. Not here, not anywhere. The machines buzzed, hummed. Poisoned, the eyes of the Earth Have closed and keep sleeping. Once the hub of empires, Of lilies, and olives, and respect, This glass we lean on will break. No more bets. We can say we knew better. We can say the weather felt a bit patchy. But we've tilled this soil And planted our seeds, and the harvest Will always be death. This ramshackled body, The gardeners know, has a place In the dirt. Your graftwork is to grow With the seeds until the stars swallow us all. Did I find them? Oh yes, her lids slid open And there was daylight. Closed, And there were the Leonids, shooting across. Did I say to grow? I meant to grow in love. Did I say to grow in love? I meant to love Like the lilies. I meant to, but the stars Swallowed us. I meant to make peace With olived branches. I meant to respect her.

Some words cling to us like ivy, While others slip, drip, fall; I didn’t know you were called Aquilegia caerulea, sweet Columbine. But I knew you looked like a star Holding a flower with a heavy heart, A chest that drooped in the dusklight On a soft evening in June. Sometimes we forget “you” And think of the Forget-Me-Nots, Growing in our own arrogance - Our own, our own want. What did you want? You wanted to live like Chrysanthemums in bloom As the trees shook off Their green coats and became butterflies. You wanted to dangle With the Spanish moss and forget yourself. Become part of the scene of The world and blend. But I wouldn’t let you fade. You were the star holding a flower, And each time your petals fell I wanted to be the water, the sun, the soil That made you lift your drooping eyes And spread your leaves like fan palm. I wanted to put you in a vase And carry you to see the sugar pine Or the sea oats on the breezy shore. It’s possible I’m fo

Do you ever wish you could view yourself As others see you? At a distance? That you might become one of the crowd Or the speck from the airplane? Or maybe you might become so close That you are nothing but locks of hair And the smell of Cabernet and black tea And a force in the night. I imagine you could even be mistaken For someone else. Could you mistake you For someone else? I think I could do it, Be you, or her, or him, or that dog over there Sniffing the fence, sorting out these Divisions. I didn't say I was I from the Beginning, but I wonder how we drag "I" Around like a stick, and chew a piece off Now and again. You were thrown the stick, And you fetched. But what if you could sniff Beyond the fence and be something more Or something less? Would you? Could we?

I have jumped the couch cushions of Mount Vesuvius, Tiptoed above lava floors. The carpet was Smoldering. Then we landed on a hammock ship, It swayed along the wayside, the waves waiting For pirates. I wanted to pass the years under oaks, And oaths, but life changes and you find yourself Under ash. Separated and out to sea, I lost and I Gained. But the sea wasn't full of familiar faces, It churned, Waiting for another rock to mosey into view. But mostly there were just shells, tossed By the waves. I took out my cutlass, thinking I might use it As a harpoon, and out of the salt soup of life, You parried. I didn't see the excursion. I just felt the efficiency Of your blade against mine, as if equals, well-matched. When the sails came down, we used them for blankets, You said they were the softest illusion you'd ever, Ever held. But when we reached the lighthouse, You hoisted the skull-and-crossbones, Eyes afar. Peering elsewhere, gold filli

Go! Roam the world with curious steps and pass a thousand miles next to buildings built by ghosts. Amble along in search of falling falls, and trek the mighty bodies built by stars just for you. Today, friends, we compass the sea of ourselves and the shores of distant harbors we have yet to tread. Don't tell me you are satisfied with a pilgrimage 'round the bend. Take an excursion to the stars that made the place you rest your head! And go! Forget the souvenirs. We're making memories that last more than a thousand years. And I say, time, time is shorter every year. Seek out the people you've never known And the corners you've never crept. Light up the darkness of your map with each and every step. Go! Don't wait another day. Adventure will meet you on the road and turn your home into the place you are today. Go! Lose yourself in wandering. Meet the journey on the road. Become someone with stories to write, like an Ode to the

When you cast your boat off that dock Your trust is with the builders, with the ideas Of man, who saw nature and found a way To hoist sails and lay boards just so. This connection, this estuarine moment, Your river of a life, meeting the sea, Takes all of you. No longer a riparian Bystander, you lift your sails to the sun. Whatever maelstrom you face, You meet with the eyes of Poseidon. Today is your fusion with the Atman, You are a shell in the deep. You cannot see yourself through The waves and the soak. But you are There, and you know the sand layers Beneath your rudder all play a part. The stage was set by the stars And how they shine, guiding you Home, to drown in the sunlight, bleached Of fear, to become the vibration and the wave. -- Mad Words List 7.31.18 Estuarine Riparian Maelstrom Soak Bleach -- I've been thinking about how writing (and poetry especially) reinforces connections in our brain, but I also was inspired by the words this week to think of how we are always par

Navy blue, the salty sea, I colored the map in pencil, Before I saw the territory. This shrine of mine, an aqueous continent, A liquid breath, heaves under the weight Of all who make paths that don't stay. But these tides tell no tales, There's nothing written in the waves. If it's a story you seek, You better look beneath the blue. There, hidden next to decaying coral, You'll find the shipwreck you're looking for. And soon you'll feel it pulling you under. Mystified, the storm above will keep you In the depths of the details. And you'll kick, you'll flip pages, You'll nearly drown in the oceanic skirts of someone else's story. And then you'll be tossed out And you'll clutch the shore like driftwood. And you'll crawl into the dune grass and You'll finally write your own damn life in the sand. -- Mad Word List 7.24.18 Aqueous Salty Dune grass Storm Driftwood Waves

Out beyond the cerulean deep There cast a ship of crystal. A ghost on waves, it splashed in the haze of the rising sun. The surf was strong, but it flowed like leaves down a current in June, you might have seen it in the moonlight, a ship with one room. The captain aboard holed up in his hoard Had not so tranquil dreams. Slipping undertow, as the riptide rolled, he promised the stars He'd never go, never go back to the shore again. "Oh fair and trembling shoreline, Oh frothy salt life of mine, Although the world is waiting, I will not tread the sandy line. He feared the break and the shallow, He feared what was left behind. And although he was out of stout, Dear friends, he would not make the climb. For fragile was his vessel, And more delicate his soul. He said to the gulls, "Look through me. There's nothing left to see but the sea, you know." And that's the story of Pirate Glass, The ghost on the rolling sea, They say he'

We had wanted you, To hide the unsightly green box To shade us during the Mid-afternoon sun. And you grew, and grew Like the weeds, you were Getting so big and beautiful, And then he told me We didn’t want you anymore. So I threw on my all-weather executioner jacket, Picked up the shears, blunt as they were, From the garage, and under the pale Gray of the early evening sky I began to chop at your shoots Some small and easy, others large And hard. It was so hard To take my coat hanger-shears And tear at your life as if it was My choice to stop you from living, My choice to tell you this was where Your pulse was beating and where you would Not turn into a full grown birch. How are we capable of these decisions? How do we just pick up the shears, Amid the rain-soaked grass, Place you in a black plastic bag, and Listen to the windchimes as they sound Your funeral song. I didn’t want to tear at your life. We just wanted a view without you in it. And that se

An endless slate Washed clean by waves. I atone in the dunes. Take me adrift On the sands; Let time erode Instead of pour. Into my glass, A longshoreman Entraps the steeped Grains of long Forgotten gold, ale. And we drink To the gales, And the sails, And the lasses. To the ship that made it. To the harbor She passes. Give me a glass, And a steady Windlass, dear. Let's drink. Let's drink To the hold. Valovima! Forty fathoms Deep, off the shore Of the isle, We dropped the Anchor in the Devil’s Deep Shoal And felt the Unforgiving Maritime sleep That comes with Reaching the goal. And we drink, drink, Drink to the gales, And the sails, And the lasses. To the ship that made it. To the atoll She passes. Give me a spoon And the bluest Lagoon, dear. Let's drink. Let's drink To the gold. Valovima! In the offing, Beyond the Flotsam and Jetsam of life We might wonder If matter is all just Debris, floating betw

I wanted to feed them all - The sparrows, the doves, the jays, and the one with the little red and gray head That didn't need to be named, but I would Have loved to hear him tell me it was Fred. Still, without seed, I listened to them welcome the morning sun, the long grass in the wind, and Heard the one with a lower tone whisper above my head, seeing more than I, and telling. And the owl, off from the nightshift, hooted softly Somewhere in some Cottonwood hotel. And the energetic choir, full of morning song and chatter, and hope, Flitted behind me and gathered in the church Of the underbrush. "Hallelujah," they sang, and for the millionth time, I felt the angels Weren't in the sky, they were perched on the reeds.

Tell me a story, tell me a story, Of numinous entities that come at night, Of eldritch figures that gibber in light. Tell me a story, tell me a story, Of aeons dispelled from the histories, from time, Of ages forgotten, of cave paintings and rhymes. Tell me a story, tell me a story, Of ambivalent maidens, of onanistic regrets, Of chests of gold and pirates. Arr. Tell me a story, tell me a story, Of whence the witch goes to find eyes, Of ghouls who WHAM at the ceiling tiles. Tell me a story, tell me a story, Of the window, the curtains, the height, Of the wrong that, henceforth, is right. Tell me a story, tell me a story, Of teeth-clenching children awake in their beds, Of monsters that gather behind their sweet heads. Tell me a story. I’ll tell you a story, Of babes of the future, presently napping Of ye and y’all with those fingers snapping. -- Mad Words List 7.3.18 Numinous Eldritch Gibbering Aeon Presently Whence Hence Onanistic Clench Wham Ambivalent Y'all Ye -- This week’s poe

We have come to the table Of the earth, sistren and brethren From all corners, the proletariat to the bourgeoisie, Here - like lambent light, Flickering for a few precious moments. We fetch cups of the finest libation And lolligag and entertain the hours away. And then the Barmecidal feast comes, Served on invisible platters, and we indulge, Oh how we sink our teeth in with pleasure until A few of us have meteorisms, or just laughing gas, And we walk wanton onto the particularly wet lawn, And flip a coin to see who might dance in the fountain of youth And who might retire, pooped from the gaiety Of life among strangers - who became Less strange and more strange As the years passed. Then God says take my robe, grab a bath, And join me by the hearth. We have some rad stories to tell. -- Mad Words List 6.26.18 Pooped (as in tired) Fetch Flip Particularly Proletariat Bourgeoisie Barmecidal Sistren Lolligag Lambent Meteorism Rad Gaily -- This list was collected by asking the question, “Wha

Out of the earth, stems cut, And into the glass. A spectacle, a marvel, A reminder of the Outside, placed inside. They dazzled for days And then one by one They drooped, stooped over the Cold, round edge of the Vase, reaching for the door. And she said, "It's time, These must go. They might delight a few more Days, but no! Look at this Single one limping. They must Go." And into that brown bag They were buried, without ceremony Or song, amid napkins and other plastic Horribles. And that's how I found them. Heartbroken, Ruffled like goose feathers, Waiting to be taken out Again. To feel the air, Even if it would be among The dead and uncompostables, let their feathers Rest back into the earth They were clipped from. "Let us wilt in the place We call home," they said. And I just wanted to caress One - its soft, pink goose feathers - And tell it that it was the Most beautiful thing I had Seen all day. The most beautiful refuse,

In the saffron summer, something grew out Of the weeds of empathetic words between us. It entangled and took over; I thought It might be invasive, but it turns out We planted it together. Not deliberately at first, sometimes Tomatoes just sprout from the compost Heap of life. Sweet, and Unexpected. Blossoming out of Honesty, and nourished by laughter, Maybe a little water, and days in the daylight. Your supportive arms held me up, And we grew stronger in the warmth And flourished in the garden of nonjudgement. When one of us withered now and again, Or when we palavered into madness - Sometimes there was rain, Or necessary silence, but there would always be a harvest to come. My dear companion, sibling of the soul, In this serene truth I rest - That however many winters bury Our roots in the snow And try to make us forget the Fateful hours when we lived in the young heat - Let me tell you, I will never Forget the lushness of what you left in me. The leaves m

Just this minute, the white-tailed Magpies are finding themselves In the verdant glades of the Rockies, As the aspens, fresh green, quake in the wind. They know nothing of Jon Snow, Or the window on the second floor Where I look out, remembering, Longing for apricity, the sun on my face. But the gloam is settling in, And the magpies will soon be seeking Windows of their own To look out of. And I think the shadows on my page Are cast like dark rainbows - made of light And things in the way. Awe-inspiring shapes I couldn't see in the dark. Is it best to be inside or Outside? Or can I be moved To appreciate this Pedulumic cycle - To be tossed, fro and to, Between creation and decay, Between sunrise and Sunset? Do you feel the loam in your hands, How rich it is when you dig deeper? Do you admire how perfectly The lilac blossom, with its powerful redolence, Seeks your attention as if to say, "Stay outside for a while." As my colleague yamm

How does one end up In a house on the trembling edge, Breathing in the mountain air? How do you, stranger in a strange land, Decide this paradise is the one to throw Your blanket down on in the grass And smell the sweet lavender While it reaches out its royal arms Toward you, tenderly? Did you smell the dankness Of the city first? Or were you born On that fresh mountaintop, Skiboots strapped on shortly After diapers? I wonder about your place In the sun and wonder if you've ever seen Oceantide in the evening, Foaming up on the soft-sanded shore While the sea turtles scurry in head-first? And I wonder if you've ever known Five lanes of traffic, or swampy flatlands, Or desert thirst and the miracle of cactus. Mountaineer, you are a force of curiosity, Barreling through my thoughts as I drive Back to the dankness, to the five lanes You've never needed, to the people You may never meet. And I leave you To the rocks and the trees of Heaven on Ea

I shuddered at the cacophony That roared outside my door. What lay beneath the hairy branches Of Nature's constabulary? That primordial design Ever building, ever breaking, Wonders surreptitious, its pleasure - Oh, divine. That green thaumaturge Did stand at my gate And sent down roots To some chthonic place. And when the rose buds bloomed In June, I knew that my garden Was written in some kind of Pesharim, its message lost to most. But I listened, oh I bent My ears like a litigant to the Judge, as the vines made me An interlocutor in this earthly tete-a-tete. It felt dastardly, to peel back The petals of this stupendous joy And see the inner-workings - The hearts of stars that grow at my feet. Inside the stems We're galaxies and mysteries, unventured Life. Knee-deep in the shitter, They shined. With new perspicacity, I saw The unmitigated farce that A Digital Age would be, Breathless and choking out life. The key wasn't on the keyb

These words aren't for everyone. They aren't your standard party platter fair, But the acquired taste developed over time by feeding a love and a hunger for rich, dig-in deep sounds and meaning. I can't feed the masses, dear. But I can try to feed the broken, the people who feel like they deserve a second bite at life but can't grasp it in their cavities. I can hold out my hand And the few who haven't eaten of that juicy, dripping-down-your-face purpose today, They will come pecking. And that is why this meal is served.

Sound asleep Or so I thought, Until right then when I was brought awake and shaken, Stirred. It was like cold lightning, A chilling surprise When I saw a phantasm Before my eyes. An austere spectre Gazing at me Reached into my bleary soul, Addressing and assessing all of All that was me. And in a second It fused with the all, the all of me. Part to whole, we were all, My being became synecdoche. It was like a paramour Inside me, incandescent, searching, Finding all the chinks In my soul-china. “I got that one From my mother's mother,” I told it, wearily. Years had passed, maybe twenty. It stopped looking at the pieces Shelved on my life-hutch. This ghost dug in deeper, Like a tick with pride. It grabbed the wheel. Swerving this way, Veering that, looking For all my alley cats now. It found the reigns Inside my bones And cantered toward That softer place. That space where struggle Comes to rest And in me that vision It said its prayers

Take this cup, you're going to need A little dram of courage. Because this life, it ain't Something you can slink away from, My dear. You might want to hie down to The River of Regret and Wade in your behind-the-scenes Sorrow, but that just isn't living, Is it? Turn in that badge of shame And guilt, and cast your eyes To shore. You may totter At the rocks, but you'll stand Once more. You've been burnt by a thousand Unapproving glares, but you tell them You've come from the same life-water That slistered all of us into Existence. And despite the moke-words that drubbed You in the thinking place that day And knocked your soul toward the door, You're done listening. This elision is Final, M'dear. Peel off that lowring face Winnow opinions so only the ones That heal you remain, and breathe in All the graces of the sun before The grave. Be done with everything that slues you Off your course. Wake up to Living dreams, no m

She was more of an idea Than a person, yet Her arms reached through The wrinkled pages As I was planning Her defenestration. “Don't,” she said, holding My hand steady. Her typical loquaciousness Gone in a moment - being At the rim does that. Her desperate idea-fingers Grasping, trying to stop The Dusk. I brooded over her Resistance. This story Would be knee-deep In hardship, in never-before-felt Pain. How could I put her In the middle of this Vast dystopian wastebasket And hope she clamors Out? Perhaps I could give her A companion, a slobber-filled Canine or a not-so-kindred Spirit? I could fill her days With synchronicity, with a This-leads-to-that purpose, to fight through The drawl and the drudge, The beginning. In this oneiric world, More nightmarish than The last, she would find Herself at the cusp of Her Self. First demure, red lips Parting only for candy-laced words, And then later, only To respect a humble god or command Her hunger-ridden army To live. Yes, I see the smoke

Looking down, I read the priceless pages, Someone else, sweetly, precisely, Had written their drinkable life on. And I drank in the appreciation Of her words, one sentence at a time, A good, fresh white. Sensational, the clouds were Pouring in, filling my cup,  Easing in, with a soft voice that said, "Look up!" My eyes glanced, only peeking At first, toward the sky. Those rain-bringers harnessing My irises with glee. And as if it had been there All along, the whole long while, A sparrow drifted into the Watercolor before me, soaring. It glided on the currents That were my own world, too. And we shared the view, Him up there, I, eyes lifting further now. And then the wind found itself Playing in the cottonwood's hair. And I smiled, thinking About how good it probably felt, Those wind-fingers, sifting through. 

Between the laces of her fingers There were empty spaces, places That showed what wasn't her. I'd trace the places with my own Something, wondering what made her, Her and what made I, me. I found myself on the cul-de-sac between her middle and her ring. That sexy center, lingering. I'd give up all of my inimitable Parts, to find myself in the abyme, Blending deeper into her herness, a real, Real sublime. This separation’s superfluous, Didn't you know? No one's an island, This world's an archipelago, gathering. I docked my Something all around her, Harboring individuality, docking identity, Beating to the cadence of her drum-mind-drum. I left my repugnant self in the sea, To become the protagonist of some bad noir, And leaving behind the awful miasma of me, I surrendered to becoming One with the divine resting place, her eyes. The hand rested into the Nothing places, filling, Feeling everything, everything inside. “Where do you end

What was that? "The old house, it creaks," he says as if he knows And accepts. I don't investigate. I become a ball, wrapped up in forgetting Cozy in not-knowing. Huddled in for the long ignore. These ghosts, they don't live Outside.

Sleep, that juggernaut of consciousness, Washed over me, beguiling in its way Of easing us toward the darkness. With eloquence, it bade my mind “Good evening,” and then made it so. Truncating formalities with heavy lids. Conquered, I lay there, inching inward, Feeling the wind now, the sempiternal Soul caught between two worlds, each alluring. A blur, a not-sure-where-I-am, but I know, Know this form, this intention tension, To follow or to lead him to the End. To the final story, where he will lay His pen down on the paper like eggs on land, Reptile-like, he’ll slither into nothing, as is his wont. And the air will be moist with Fresh rain, and someone alluding To meaning, and tomorrow, and Then I wake and pick up the pen. -- Mad Words List 5.1.18 Juggernaut Impetuous Truncate Allude Conquer Eloquent Mischievous Sempiternal Moist Reptile Wind Wont Inch Beguiling Allure -- I’ve often been fascinated with dreaming, with being asleep, the a

The petrichor was thick in the air As he ran his fingers gently through my hair. I didn’t know if it was Love. A few months of dalliance, Letting my morals tip off balance. Viatic, my heart felt hiraeth, a need for Home. His words, mellifluous and charming, In my ears, were sweetly swarming, Maybe this was a limerence, a forever Place. The virga hung low in the sky, And I wondered, wondered why, He’d become so comely in my eyes, a Star. As if reading my mind’s utinam, He slipped back into me with a plan. Penis indefatigable, hot and Heavy. He’ll be my phenomenal everything, My affectionate dwelling, always. Make me sing Into forever, make me sing Our song. -- Mad Words List 4.24.18 Mellifluous Dalliance Phenomenal Comely Sonder Penis Petrichor Limerence Hiraeth Indefatigable Viatic Utinam Virga -- Today was a beautiful rainy/snowy day, and I wanted to capture that with a bit of passion and the twist of going from uncertainty to surety,

Sometimes I have to remember How gently the wisteria trees Sway in a sunshower. How the gossamers built with patience Must sometimes be built again, And again, and again without complaint. I have to listen for the laughter The one you'd almost miss if you were Too worried about the symmetry of the seams On the dress your mother sewed And you re-sowed. “Be at ease.” That lithe voice whispered, smiling. I imagine there on the front porch A child with golden hair and Sapphire eyes, planting a huge basium On the family pup’s nose, and they both Turn shyly and grin at my future. “Mommy, let's play,” she says, and I know it's everything. Everything I ever wanted. To play. To delight In words dancing on pages and Make the dirt at my feet into ballrooms. “It's not a tempest, my dear, only A little rain, swaying the wisteria Blooms.” My mother again holds my hand. The hand that would one day Write about what howl

It's only human to wonder, ponder Pour over what might be - the other side. An epiphenomenon of existence, a melancholy road To drive. Driven by babbling seraphims, Or demons in our dreams, singing aloud Requiems, feeding fears At the seeds. It's a road paved in history Encrimsoned in the cold blood of Ages past, gone like the Phoenicians, Our fate the same as the Last. Why? Why does the water run dry? We cover the world in dust. Ashes to ashes, Metal to rust. But here! Here now, seeing patterns in the sand Finding pleasure in "cellardoor," With this, we're moonstuck On the floor. This body, a flagellum to the earth. It seems rather fatuous, birth, And to admit we might, just might Have worth. Woah! Strike down this cod philosophy And for a moment see the resplendent Truth. It's sweet on your tongue, A lollipop of authenticity, some only see When young. Why? Why does the water run dry? We cover the world in dust. Ashes to ashes, Metal to rust. Behold, the stat

Toward Harmonia [Or, The Lost Soul of Eris] Done. I was finished, this chaos too great a weight to bear, And then the lilt of her voice brought me back, back, To the surface, to where her pumpernickel skin shined in the Daylight, ethereal and everywhere, everywhere solace. The Solstice to my Equinox, I bent low, “Lend me the power of good, the good you know.” And at my request, she did not reply, but that enchantress turned my eyes to look inside. On the backs of my lids, a movie played out, and out I cried. My whole life, alive vicariously on the screen, I was the anathema of my own dream. An interloper here, I did not want to be there. I did not want to be anywhere, anywhere. I denounce Eris, and all the paratheo-anametamystikhood, And fall to the feet of Purpose, a harmony, an order to my days. Henceforth, I’ll spelunk the caves put there before me, and wonder Why they were made. Made to live, made to die, Entropy is in the eye. Behold, behold, I grow old Wi

Every Tuesday, I request a list of words on a social platform of choice. Any words. And then I transform those words into MAD POETRY! A poem of the week, comprised of your words and mine. A collective madness. An art divine. (No, they will not all rhyme). It's mostly to help me (and you, if you want!) practice writing. It's also just fun! The following Tuesday, I will post my poem (or poems, if I get ambitious), along with the list of words shared with me. If you also write a poem with ALL of the words in the list (that's the real challenge), send it to me at madpoetrytuesday@gmail.com and I will post it on the blog as well! Join me for #MadPoetryTuesday and post your favorite word in the comments below!