Category: Poetry

the thankyou letter

i feel defeated.

but I did it.

i did not turn away
surrendering to fear
letting it bring me to my knees in stillness
or stand only on pride
the shame of being a Fool
who did not see that you would do this again.

I stood with an open heart
and poured out the deeptruth
i would turn my life inside out and upside down
there was no risk I would not take
if you had asked
if you had wanted
me
to(o)

as you leave
i will know
i did it
i will not look back and wonder
what if, if only, if.

so thank you
for the challenge
the answer
and the knowing

i did it.

the final hours

in the final hours
before you leave
show me the simple curtesy
of Truth

do not expect me to be drawn in
to false arguments, to fight with your shadows,
to debate illusions you craft, simply,
to explode.

i don’t do battle with unarmed men.

continue these charades
and soon
I will lose my restraint,
i will walk away,
laughing
with pity.

i am well aware of the power of words
to be cruel

whose anger are you afraid of ? mine?
i doubt it.

rip your gaze
from your self inflicted wounds
your fascination with your own bleeding.
lift your eyes
and the shadows who pass in the mirror
will look back at you.

you cast stones
naming them personal responsibility
while in the midst of refusing it.
crying out, you feel unsafe
having offered your heart
while you endanger
all those that were offered to you,
held now in your hands.
you express moral outrage at those who build upon
foundations of untruths
while the earth tremors beneath you
adding sharp pebbles, broken glass
small lies and thinly veiled omissions,
to the rubble.

i can be gentle with your illusions
when you need them to support you
for a time
but these
are the final hours.

fighting over projections and lies is beneath me
and you
if you cannot look into my eyes
showing me the respect of truth
your fists, your arms, your heart
will meet only air, empty
of substance
or passion.
your body is becoming bruised
with the marks of your own weapons.

number 19

I wrote this fucking poem three times today. It was called Good Enough. And three times it vanished. the screen froze, stuck, like I am, the words unsaved, forever lost.

they are the words I have never dared to speak. my computer knows, my heart knows too, and they disintegrate, unspoken.
it has taken me a lifetime to believe. those three words… and what follows. it is what I risked knowing, but what i did not want to know.

no poetry. no metaphor, no veils, no illusions.

it is not possible, it is too hard, to love me. to be in love with me. it is not enough, nor am i, good enough. i am so sorry i put you through this. I should have been able to see it before, but I just couldn’t bear to believe the truth.

a Feri Sonnet

As Adam, as Nergal, you become as the tree
As Ereshkigal, Eve, the Queen of the Sidhe
Offer flesh of the truth, fruit of the wise
The sacred, the fearsome, in human disguise

The temple witch, the sacred whore
The One who surrenders to the One who is more
The power of the spell to rebound, to reweave
The desire, the fire, the dance they can’t leave

The Guardians demand a heavy price
Heart slashed and torn by sickle knife
Walking these vows of death and life
Breathing soul and storm and darkest light

Infinity devours itself in you
Dying, reborn and dying anew
Tearing your blinded vision apart
Exposing the eyes of the blackest heart

This journey will bind and tie and tear
The history of what you believed you would dare

Zero

i agreed to take the Fool’s leap
with you
but you mistook me
for a fool.

the walls around you are transparent.

i see the safety net you strung beneath the cliff
your attempts to knot it together
with flirtations, with charm,
with women who might catch you
the timbre of your voice on the phone
your posture as you return
the veil you drop when i ask
the answers you forget
merely confirmation

charm suits you now
the simple magics, the sleight of hand
work of a young apprentice
with eyes of narcissus
lying
in a glade of dark vision

know,
the eyes in my hands
have vision you have yet to fathom
and they will bleed
as your mirrors shatter.
know
that i hear your whispers to yourself,
that dishonesty is louder than truth
that lies
even to yourself
have scent and color.

i think i would prefer to be blind
than to see
right through you.