Poemetry: Gray

Silken brume breaks into stone walls,

a castle rising behind mist,

and all outward advances halt

in the morass the fog has kissed.

Wizards weave white whispers wound tight,

and deign to dream the world in blue,

cast upon the winds words shy,

silent to all who would see them true.

Petrichor crushes the magic

and dispels the incantations;

fleet flee the magi frantic

and weep for their keep’s bifurcation.

Poemetry: Untouched

A book unknown, yet to read yourself;

words writ not by pencil but pen.

Pages untouched bear no bend

and stow soot and space on the shelf.

The dim and dust veiled your label,

left by men of miserable taste.

I drew you from your holding case,

placed you on a nearby table,

and read every tale and fable.

My heart halted with each comma,

and we wedded with each hyphen,

as I touched each untyped trauma

of whispered verses reviving.

Leave me to  stand your sheets as I

inscribe love across your wrists,

faith and troth upon your spine,

and tell you you deserve to exist.

Soon the scars no longer seen

will fade with your faux gold lining.

Free yourself from your bindings,

flee with me from this library,

and let us build our own study.

Poemetry: Call Me Nothing

Through the years, my name has changed,

though the font has remained the same.

Handles and labels and appellations

have loved me and left me, cast me to damnation.

I bid you to heed one adjuration:

by letters lost and sandy scripts,

forbid these from your tongue and lips,

and forget epithets of lore:

call me Nothing if not Yours.

Poemetry: She Lies

She laughs and sings and dances in rings.

She writes poems about life and meeting her knight.

She lies.

She smiles and prays for promises made.

She says she’s fine and that she’s alright.

She lies.

She doesn’t feel alone, that she’s on her own.

She doesn’t cut or consider suicide.

She lies.

Poemetry: Unspoken

Beauty or Death or Hate or Love,

which purchases my silence for you?

Not one, nor two, nor four, but three.

A glance and all would count Beauty.

A word of mine and Love is true.

Forswear, though, Hate by God above.

What but Death is left to comprise

the hushes of my wordless voice?

Yes, dead, and silent in demise

for the tongue no more stills by choice.

Dead, soundless by stiffness of heart;

living, mute to adore your grace;

In both, buried by empty space

where past phrases limned oral art.

Three have seized the name two once spoke,

but despots die, the lifeless live,

and all that sleeps may be rewoke

if the unspoken we forgive.

Poemetry: Black Dress

She strode in wrapped by the star-sequined night,

of roiling black and flashing fireflies,

and starlit wonder raised me from the earth

into the glitter of a thousand skies.

The shine of a thousand thousands of stars,

that wink and blink in the synchronized dark,

dazed me, amazed me, but, familiar, found

the sidereal black shrunken and stark.

A dab, a dot, a thought, and a tittle,

by turn, waking, passing past the middle

to a newer, truer, adoration,

seducing my soul to spark and bristle.

From the dawn, night diverted my eyes

with perjuring promise of greater sight,

for it was a star, not stars, that I sought,

a slant of sun above the starlight.

A  million astral flickers, flecks, no more,

bright by contrast to dark but to day short

of her brilliance, of her luster, of her,

resign their reign to sit in her court.

So crowned by peers, she rises far above

the common radiance, the world draped dun

by her glowing gait — and soon no others

can be seen —, and bids all the world to come.

The rayless heavens are lit by her beams,

and by them all the earth begins to teem,

and, though once shrouded in sable, so is

my rayless heart illumined and agleam.

Poemetry: Mountainside

Amongst the crags, where nary a grass grows,

what I sought scarce I shall ever know,

my eyes beheld many a restful place

basking in the trail and mountain face.

A mountain goat dancing rock to rock was first

and entertained my eyes for a time,

but wearied saw the beast not best but worst

for each falsen step and guileful climb.

Flowers blue and white, five by five spangled

in ordered beauty, beset my mind with light,

but the blossoms were choked and tangled,

strangled by weeds and thistles twisting tight.

 At last, I saw the mount, and my search, cease.

The peak rose mighty in still, silent peace.

 I worshiped there with the clouds crowding it,

one with the zeph’rous host, turning to sit

for a time. Every morn since, every morn

yet to come, finds it by my mind reborn.

And on that day when I can count no more,

I shall see again that peak I adore.