Tag: transpoet

Ivy

Posted on by Brooklyn

Ivy

I have little suicides
running up and down my arms.
Ivy on a mansion wall;
chaotic beauty, generating
new buds each passing week.
The more I cut them back,
the faster they grow,
coming in thicker than before,
choking one another, racing
toward an end they do not know.
Always vying for position,
for sunlight, for glory,
they go on regenerating
when one is left behind to die.
Crawling up my flesh,
they speak in whispers,
tighten their grip,
daring me to slit their tiny
throats once again.

written: unknown – likely 2005 – 2007

 

 

 

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Iceberg

Posted on by Brooklyn

Iceberg

I love you in the darkness –
Even when there is light.
Not the noise of the daylight,
More artificial. . . late when
The house is silent
A book open before me.
In the story I place you
On a ballroom floor
Wearing the black velvet locket
Encircling her neck with particular tenderness.
Or, the mouth, open, poised
Waiting for lips to whisper to your throat
Words shaped to fill
The empty spaces of your soul.
Yes, in stories, I love you.
In darkness – only. In winter. In Fall.
When the leaves gather on the frost,
Auburn and yellow upon crystalline white.
The spot, the colors, I spread your
Black hair across, opened your mouth,
Shaped that emptiness with my lips,
Whispered the truth to your throat –
On leaves of auburn and yellow.
The truth of darkness and stories;
Stories of solid whispers and a love
That I can only feel beneath my tremble…
Beneath the shadow of the leaf pressed
Against the iceberg of your skin.

written: October 7, 1999

  

 

 

 

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Honeymoon

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Honeymoon

The waning of their love began with the honeymoon.
Suspended in the sky, a tether of understanding
she sheds light on their story.
Lying naked and exhausted from sex
their sweat sparkling in the candlelight
they look to the sky,
clasp hands
and ask some wish of the stars —
long life, health, love?
All the time
she looks on, winking,
knowing what they do not.
Waning slowing, waning nonetheless.

written: November 30, 2001

  

 

 

 

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Conversing

Posted on by Brooklyn

Conversing

I cannot invoke bouquet;
withering and dying before it passes my lips.
Implausible 
that it could rest 
in the quietest recesses of me,
nestled along side
precious 
and slender –
huddled together 
in this hostile land.
 
I’m allowed
the close landscape of
jigsaw and gerrymander; 
stalemate and sawdust; 
hash marks and hypotenuse 
(and hypotenuse), 
stretching out
connecting the angle 
of my bouquet 
just out of your sensing.

written: December 22, 2017

  

 

 

 

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