Writings

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Ekphrasis

Some put their art to canvas, still others upon a stage. Sculptors with caring hands, writers on printed page. Some work with sight and color, others create art in rage. Actors act in character, authors with words of a sage. Some use light and perception, others work with shape and form. Life begins at conception, art lives when a child is born. We search for the art in life, life, in the art of another. One drawn in an artist’s sketch, and one in the arms of a lover.

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Kardashians And Cadillacs

Watch boob-job and Botox faces melt beneath the hot Los Angeles sun while the poor live and die on slaughterhouse streets as hope hangs from a ceiling hook waiting to be butchered. Blessed are the poor: they forgo the riches full of empty people.

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Wordsmith

The flowing of ink shan't be still, lest thirsty paper drinks its fill.

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Zephyr

Strong are the winds that will strip you of leaf and limb — but it is your roots that are much stronger than the strongest of winds.

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Fire And Rain

Leave for me a flame in my heart and rain inside my soul – the ability to love with depth; for that, I’ve no regret. I’m like a gypsy spirit never finding the way home. Fall foliage now yellowing, fringed brown like ancient lace the same as I; weathered and waiting to be discovered. May my weaknesses be forgotten… somehow while my strengths praised for the remainder of my days. Tender is my heart that burned with some lessons that I learned – silent murmurings drop like rain – whispers now to my spirit flame under this ever-changing sky; another day bids goodbye.

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Tusk

Beast, is taught by man. Ivory, by ruthless hand. Slain, for home decor. Know, he lives no more.

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Spell Check

The difference between write and wrong.

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Old Soul

From Pleiades and Pegasus to Cassiopeia and Centaurus – our Souls are Seeds of the Cosmos, cultivated from all that is infinite. I am from the clay of ancient lands – sculpted by Viking, Celtic, and Saxon hands in forgotten times, forgotten history… long and long ago. From my longhouse to my longship, I sailed upon cold Nordic Seas ‘neath a procession of stars to navigate the night and drinking light… from the Moon’s immortal cup. I’ve traveled far to every temple, obelisk, and pillar of mystic stone where I bled and perished, and rose anew… paying passage for my homage with ancient gold coins stamped in the mint of my memory. Beneath the Celtic sunsets of amethyst, topaz, and crimson reds… I walked in tangled fields of thistle blue and primrose brimmed with dew… all of it veiled under every Equinox and Solstice and Midnight Star; they were the jewels that I wore. I’ve heard the murmurings of Saxon benedictions – as they broke my bread and heart; my head bowed while on bended knee in St. Æthelwold’s hall. I whispered in supplication – a prayer by candlelight dim… my shadow, humbled against the wall. The Ancients eclipse me ‘neath waxing moons, sharing their wisdom, like Oracle Runes – scattered upon my primeval spirit through the strands of years… brushing me, hushing me, shifting, yet whole… writes the poet, in sanctum, old soul.

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The Séance

I remember the candle burning – hands on a clock ever turning – sometime in the warmth of May – in the parlor across the way. The medium whispered very soft – next thing I knew, I saw aloft – a form that hovered in mid-air – with blue eyes and blonde hair – trying hard to catch my breath – watching her return from death – phantom passing through a veil– it never spoke and didn’t wail – circle of hands on the table round – hearing a noise, I spun around – to the floor, fell an old book – I saw the title, my body shook – I asked the lady in the trance – know the author by any chance? Looking at me while she smiled – and with gentle voice beguiled – “Turn the page and see your name – you’re the author, one and same – the life of poets is very hard – for the wordsmith and the bard – consider Plath, Shelley, and Poe – that’s the way these stories go.” Understanding what she had said – I soon realized that I was dead.

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Self-Portrait with Grey Felt Hat

That’s me— van Gogh. The quiet one. I’m the one wearing the hat. So many days blended unknown, people who come and visit can’t hear me speak, and sometimes I’m maddened by this stillness. Generations stop to give me the same blank museum stare of my life signs; suspended. A life brushed out on canvas… those abstracted attempts on my mouth that won’t be noticed by any but me. I put it there and I’ll be damned if I can’t talk now. First my ear and now this? And so— I hang in silence.

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Hush

Some silences have many eyes that see through many an armored soul. Subtle self-defense from life is what keeps each spirit whole. Some hold comfort in their shade, anointing all who shelter there—in hushed velvet serenity; sublime peace they all share. Silent sepia serenades, hang like old portraits upon their walls—until the world has disappeared—until the sound of silence calls.

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Stone has worn by river rush — stronger still, than any diamond.

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Take my worth and dignity, but my integrity is not for sale.

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The beauty of it all — is that you exist, at all.

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The mind will often navigate from the map of yesterday. Alternate destinations are yours to sail.

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The giving is easy — but how fearless can you take?

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Bound

In skin that binds me to Earth; hog tied, stupefied, modified, pure energy, movement, senses— I am spirit, compartmentalized.

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Shard Of Heaven

You are but a tiny shard of pure heaven - Hummingbird; darting, weaving the breeze, hovering amid swooning blossoms. Watch as they lift their skirts at your arrival, so you may sip their sweet nectar - and in gentle countless ways... carry their hearts with you into the sky of blue.

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Origin

We are more than a figment of a greater imagination.

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Afterglow

In depths of desire, an idyllic ocean of balmy ink sweetly lingered on the tip of a pen, waiting to write a kiss upon her ripe saffron lips. Foreplay of simile and metaphor, glide passionately upon parchment and eloquently, stroke by stroke, with delicate verse upon verse - the pen and the parchment made sweet poetry.

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Dirt

See me spread over landscapes of forest, meadow, and farm. I nourish the wildflowers and warm the roots of all you eat. I am the clay so that you may build bricks and sculptures too. I am the place you bury treasure and your loved ones. I absorb the air, water, and organics of Earth - fallen leaves, fallen birds, footprints, flesh, and bone. I am the beginning and end of many things. I am patient and durable; so often taken for granted. In my simplicity - I am extraordinary.

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Gluttony & Greed

They eat their food amongst the starving, then ask for seconds.

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Ecclesiastes

As our years hurry on and seasons change – a small part of us will always remain – like the fragrance of roses long after they’re gone – we’re caught in the embroidered nets of creation. It is a time of pause… a silent space between the seasons and each breath we take – of some greater majesty unseen goes beyond to infinity. Early Winter clouds – the cathedrals of sky… make no sound as they go slipping by – when Spring saplings emerge from the navel of earth – hummingbirds kiss the lips of hyacinths. When the sun peeks between Fall leaves jeweled with raindrops – they slant radiant light upon scent-brimmed cups of daffodils nodding and winking with painted petals and the blue sky pales to saffron yellow as Summer sun bids a horizon goodbye – twilight fades – another day dies. Stars hang thick in the sky – as the sickle-shaped moon rides – canopied high in the arch of the night – with silent sparks of fireflies play– a night bird stands on tiptoe – listening to the scraping sounds of cricket violins. The seasons in their sacred communing – are the minstrels of change and of promise.

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One Soft Ray

One word more, gentle verse, a ‘morrow – thoughts sifted o’er bleeds heart bare in wake of yesterday departed; memory nods the piercingly silent ladened air as if today had already dawned and left, one more day dropped and lost the way – haze marks itself upon an empty shell – yet sun and soul linger’st one soft ray.

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Ghost Of Avalon

Tremulous sound under hooves of beast – the equine ghost, now finally released. His freedom found, after war of kings – in battlefields of crimson red scenes. He gallops and pierces past misty veil – on greater quest, since the Holy Grail. Unbridled and swift, his nostrils flare – with withers, and back; saddleless bare. He visits the resting place of his Lord – a Knight lying silent next to his sword. His Master killed, by soldier from Rome – is left alone now, to find his way home. This Ghost of Avalon, shall never cease – after long battles, a well-earned peace. Home; the greatest treasure now sought – a return to green pastures, his Camelot.

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Covenant

On all the empty pages - stone, blood, tears, or ash; I write for you.

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Potter's Wheel

Wreath of thorns – forehead burning – with a heavy heart – in crimson hands – clay is spinning – on a potter's wheel – sacred sculpting – in tears conceal – sacrifice of man.

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Nirvana

There are no boundaries in this cosmic kaleidoscope – only limitless expression to be experienced on every level and through all realms of space and time. Emptied of distractions – to rely on inner focus, instead of eyes to listen with heart, instead of ears. This place is… just is. We are the masters of our journey to complete synchronicity where no other may navigate on our behalf. Here, we reclaim and become sum… having nothing... yet having everything.

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The Raven's Lair

From the nightmare ere the last, locked within the shadows cast, unfathomed are the reasons why, he who glares and lingers nigh. His eyes obsidian, fixed on me, in pensive thought, so silently. He’s a mystery cloaked in night, from betwixt the dark and light. “Oh! What secret dare’st he keep?” Asks the poet deprived of sleep! The key to this lives e’er there, buried beneath the raven’s lair!

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The Crows

A tree cloaked in black, folded wings, eyes shut - silent; a murder sleeps.

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Spare Change

Nobody sees us two, I know. Our world weighed with woe. People walk by turn-face, our lives not worth a trace. Not always seeing our pain, our hearts, a scarlet stain. Whatever our crimes may be, I only ask you stop and see. Life battering a dog and man, more than we thought it can. Wondering, what went wrong; in this cold, for how long? Life, once sweet simplicity. Just survive, now, futile be. Asking modest comfort blest. Spare change to eat and rest. Beneath some blankets might... warm a man and dog tonight.

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Paper Dolls

Playing dress up and pretend, cutting out a new best friend – folded twice, and then thirds – missing mouths spill no words – paper fibers weave and tether – hands that are bound together.

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Emphatic

The fewer the words – the louder their message.

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Violin

Play me… for I am the strings that tremble under your bow. I am the crescendo that swells and the aching vibrato that drops off the end of each note. In the quietly delicious pause before the notes rise and rise again, I’m the sweet melancholic stroke, just one octave above bliss with pitches high and purring lows. I am the words that can’t speak but only through your hovering touch do I even have a voice. I’m the ardor lifted until my song at last released in ebbs and flow as my tears surrender with every reverberant cadenza. You’re my virtuoso that plays with euphoric burn and passion yearning with each low and fragile tone, you kindle and play upon my tender strings. I was tuneless in dusty neglect until you lovingly removed me from my case and raised me up. Now cradled in the hollow of your heart, lift me to your chin… and play me.

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Sometimes When It Rains

When everyone flees in clamor to shelter dry, only the birds take wing despite pouring rain; vibrant tones, droplets upon the windowpane – are far sweeter to me, than the sun-drenched sky. Sometimes when it rains, I am the bird.

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Moonstruck

Unfinished watercolor, a masterpiece framed and silently hangs - brilliant æther haloed orb blemished by ancient chasms, and stars surround her like fire opals — the hyperborean trajectories dart and dissects twilight in this cosmic gallery knowing from here, I am but a speck when viewed from there.

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Words are a blank canvas; write your masterpiece with meticulously chosen hues.

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Words are the flint and fire that sets me ablaze.

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A lifetime is not enough to be perfect, but it is enough to influence the world.

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Bless the ash for once being a fire that warmed your night.

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Cradle of birth and of death, past, and present, ebb, and flow, ancestral spirit; kindred old.

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Dogs are proof of God to me — and that is enough for me.

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Everything I've ever felt is on the tip of my pen.

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Fantasy versus reality — Where the unstoppable meets the immovable.

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There are no boundaries in this cosmic kaleidoscope — only limitless expression.

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There is always something where others believe there is nothing.

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There's no one else I can be, but unapologetically me.

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The threshold is yours to cross. The only obstacle is unbelief.

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From Where I Stand

For all the love I’ve chased — a collection of small tragedies blinding me, as love will do; and all the life I’ve lived, some was a waste made in haste — and the sun never waited for my good senses to rise, much to my surprise. And so, lessons learned — a shoelace snap back to reality. There have been so many times when the brightest thing in this room was the lightbulb that glows a Van Gogh yellow — and my temples would often scream like dog bark echoes in an alley; obsidian shadows climbing the wall, with sleep a step or two behind — as though it limps like one with an ingrown toenail. Standing at the window now, as it mocks my reflection — here, a moth on the sill… dead on arrival, belly up with snow angel powder wings, so beautifully still; this cold coffee, I drink with a wax museum stare. From where I stand, I think.

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Forsaken

I poked the hornet’s nest of religion once — and got stung mercilessly.

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Immutable

Clock chimes rusted; still somehow — the mournful bell tolls.

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Misfits

If we happen to fit in, it is purely accidental — because life counts its dead in whole numbers; as though the odd ones never existed.

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Poetry is Killing Me

I’ve died a thousand deaths before, but this one will surely be my demise. Just when I think I get a break, in my sleep or before the fog lifts, during that first cup of morning coffee— it returns with a bloody vengeance. “Screw this!”, I say – but instead, it screws me like a starving whore on a Saturday night. It thrusts through me wrapping its dead arm around me and with a wagging finger, it taunts me. The beauty of decomposing— is that even for a moment, when taking on just the right lighting… it is truly mesmerizing. Only when I’m dead— will poetry stop killing me.

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Epoch

Our Genesis bears us from the womb. Our Exodus abandons us in the tomb.

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Effigy

The mirror on the wall hasn’t said a thing in years, as I gaze at the reflection; like old wounds ripped open. I recognize parts— but not all and so… I look twice, thrice; because one must be sure to remove all trace of doubt. It was then, I realized that we have nothing in common.

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Tea with Sir Walter Raleigh

We sat on the veranda of his hotel room and sipped some tea while he lamented about the continent, he had just crossed. I asked him how Elizabeth was doing and if she was still a virgin. He replied— “She lost her maidenhood and I, my head. We don’t get around much anymore.” — He talked, while I listened and sipped my tea. Nostalgia—comes with the smell of tea, you know.

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Jesus Wore Shades

He wore dark shades as he passed me by on the sidewalk the other day on my way to work. He carried a briefcase full of rusted nails, fairytales, and contradictions; no doubt, on his way to work too—as we exchanged obligatory smiles.

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Shine

Those who steal your sun cannot make it shine any less — for we grow from the glow of the same light.

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Æthelred’s Massacre

Old wound scarred over one-eyed Odin and Tyr who had lost his hand; they witnessed the Valkyrie in her gilded chariot as she took her warriors to Valhalla. With long swords still sheathed, the Danes drank mead as their throats were silenced in slaughter; no longer able to sing their Sagas. Over a thousand years ago – the field lay of dead warriors as roots of elm pushed through ribs and skulls. Blossoms thrived above in spring — while in winter, snow pressed weathered bones deeper… and deeper into the earth. They rest in soil diminished and consecrated from journeys they once undertook – Now reposed without pain, all that remains, are sword-nicked bones in the field of their demise.

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Disconnected

Monotone dial tone, gave a quarter got a dime off the hook no second look listened — but never heard. Disconnected. Spent all my change and it changed me.

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Ablaze

Life can be cold, and poetry, so hot — our words kindle within a multitude of flames. Do not be afraid to stand in our fire and burn.

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Mask

They grimace behind their mask — amalgamated, inseparable, like serpents unable to shed their skin. Narcissists — egos rage like a tempest, cold as carp without eyelids; their soul pickled and embalmed in venom, barren, ascending pinnacles of their heart. Manipulators — intentions twisted; coiled like a ram's horn. Tongues loiter; stammering in absence of integrity, trapped in the stench of their own breath — they consume their prey with a side of entitlement while it worms its way through their hollow selves.

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Savant

Captive clouds inspired da Vinci, myriad hues; opaque shadow light on a ceiling of time-frozen skies in crushed crystal constellations luminescent angel wings; ethereal breathed through smudges of paint brilliant mind, codifying machine visionary masterpiece of a savant.

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Elysium

Naught else is worth the having, let me hear thee again, silence — abate the impertinence of sound, whence clatter darest not utter. © Roxi St. Clair

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Lunatic

The ledge insanity awaits like an altar as yesterday stains tomorrow’s light. Life gnaws our souls within our walls — asylum where mind and reason fight in reflections of us, just so you know. Padded room mirrors easily outstare all those things we thought were real until our resistance is no longer there.

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Mummer's Midnight

Skyclad dance around fire — her partner: the flames dressed in amethyst and indigo sways to, fro, tap tap tapping of rhythmic drums — the sister of the season and her fire; moonlit soaked in this, the mummer’s midnight.

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Perseverance Of Mirrors

One after another we face our mirrors — reflections of subtle torments, truths, and contradictions.

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Silence To Keep

As I shade my eyes from the moon that's never been so bright — I have silence to keep and words to write.

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Narcissist

It is a serpent that slithers upon the saliva of conceit, hiding grudges beneath its flicking tongue.

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Thaw

As Winter's fingers lace with Spring — the two lovers lie silently together.

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Soul Of The Sea

'neath the clouds, the sun went to sleep watching as the ocean drank the day - her arms, embraced earth, air, and deep and waves lapping to quench every last ray - she kissed the horizon as the evening came reflecting upon where the sea mist distilled a sphere of beauty where water meets flame with each salty breeze, my silent heart filled as the canvas sail sighed after the storm; I plotted the course for my life's design in wake of cold journeys, surface now warm as the soul of the sea enfolded in mine.

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Consider The Rose

May their beauty always rest upon the windows of your eyes, as they perfume all your days in an opiate of a drowsy murmur — and press their memory into every fold of your heart.

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Cause and Effect

Why is morality begotten, and then long forgotten? The entitled, entombed, and greedily consumed. As preachers sin at will, the sheep tithe the till. As the mass media chase, the politician's disgrace. There's hungry homeless, and adipose, with excess. The wealthy acquire all, while brave soldiers fall. The criminal is freely armed, while the innocent, is harmed. And I wonder with pause, for this effect, the cause.

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Seedling

The tiny leaves emerge — tinted with hues of inexperience.

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Iceman

His ancient presence, an echo between the alpine summits — footprints on glaciers ago never to see the sun again, as well, are his bones… weathered, honed, shrouded in hide — crimson-stained from mammoth lain by his side; died in their prime, both frozen in time.

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Blaze

And with every goodbye you learn, better ways to make bridges burn.

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The Divide

We barter ourselves as the Left and Right maneuver to conquer — nostrils widened with rage - motives oracle and secret as rhetoric and reason choke one another like anacondas. Deceptions multiply and grow fat like garbage-can maggots — Distracted. Abstracted. Media instigates, as the parties debate — while passive ballot boxes stand guard watching silently, as we trade pots for kettles and the lesser of evils.

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Life

You flow into me without changing the essence of whom I've become, but I am more than I am because you merge into me.

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Nature Wakes

Delicate buds stretch at last, as the shadows slope and cast. The living blossom of the sky, landing on a flower... a butterfly.

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Requiem

Hands lay folded like origami cranes, eulogy and accolades, a solemn procession in mourning; the funeral.

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Kismet

Our past will sit next to us as our final companion.

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Salem

The moon waxes in the gallows – burning pyre – the hour witching shall cease to be.

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Waiting To Exhale

Melting their own marrow from inside out; brittle winter bones asunder spring moss—sun exhales æther in silent recollection.

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I Am Not A Writer.

My words vomit from my soul. Gut-wrenching agony out-of-control and not for sale. I am too unpretentious to call myself a writer – but I’ll keep vomiting my words again …and again until they die. Or I do. Whichever comes first.

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Capitol Hill

Deaf bastards stand frozen; stoic in ear-wax museums who hear the cries of the masses but never listen or care enough. Politics rests upon a foundation of cigar bars, prostitutes, bribery, and handshakes.

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Spring Cleaning

They sit on my bookshelf – still and silent – wedged between a porcelain sparrow with periwinkle wings and a kaleidoscope, “Made in China. An array of beautiful colors.” – or so the worn sticker on the bottom says. Not a word is spoken between us – as I dust off sparrows, kaleidoscopes, Plath, and Poe.

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Ghosting

I’d rather you tell me to, “fuck off.” Because there’s nothing worse, than nothing at all.

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Unsaved

I could never be saved in the common verity of salvation – I am too uncultivated for the sophisticates of Abraham and his cast of characters as I watch them drown in the gravy of a world gone mad.

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Mannequin

I stared at him and he stared back – entranced by nothing as if I, a tombstone with no epitaph. I asked him if he likes his job. He replied, “It’s stifling.” – He hasn’t spoken to me since.

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Most Days, Poetry Happens. But Not Today.

This Place: my decompression chamber — emptied of all ambition today as my muse; dead on arrival left a note in the kitchen somewhere between the fire-engine-red toaster oven and my beloved rack of Starbucks coffee pods. She wrote, “I’m sorry, but I need to take the day off.” — The bitch! She’s taken with her: all of my adjectives, verbs, nouns, and my absolute favorite 15-ounce Grumpy Cat coffee cup that captions, “I went to Oregon once. It rained.” — Coffee without a cup. Poet without a muse. What a tragic and shameful waste of insanity my words won’t be today

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The Futility of Powdered Moth Wings

Some fathers are like moths — full of vigor; as they fly while tapping out morse-code messages against the fragile glass panes of life; until one day, they fall upon window sill deathbeds. The futility of powdered moth wings: fail some fathers with cancer, and others, with war.

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Hung To Dry

That place – where good hearts and senses are slapped in the face like phantom laundry in the wind; there are surely better places to be.

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Glow

Firefly and Moon – Illuminating night from the inside out.

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The Elders

Eyes smile with life with the sentiment, blue ink runs through their veins beneath skin fine as parchment upon which they write their story – our fragile, but endearing elders; precious jewels with snowy crowns.

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Purpose

I live to create. I create to live

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Whimsy

Laugh without hesitation — at the constant folly of life.

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The Grudge

Let go of resentment — unclench its shaken fist.

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Venus de Milo

With longing eyes, preserved in time, looking back from the eons sublime, in her polished porcelain, ivory mask, opulent lips, from centuries-long past, quiescent, silenced, a patient dignity, immortalized in grace, lady antiquity.

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Heron

Gentle breeze going west, the heron; wings weaving like a web in sky suspended in graceful flight just above as water unfolds - reflection plowed from its depths. He drifts below a sun-sheathed cloud through rifts in a veil of the morning mist - solo flight, alone, alone, e’er gliding forward.

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Itinerary

Each poem is a new destination like typing out an itinerary with some nouns, verbs, and sometimes rhyme. While drinking wine from old jelly glasses — I follow my rusty compass reservations and navigate with wrinkled maps. My life: just mismatched luggage, as sight-seeing years pass me by... one by one by one.

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Message in a Bottle

Above my head; the sky where the moon goes to nest at midnight and sunset leaps the void, at last, to make a single beam of light upon the water. To my right; the sea where she silently curls up on pillows of white briny foam glowing with phosphorus. To my left; the wall where barnacles and urchins cling desperately to the rocks despite the waves, wind, and storms. Below my feet; the sand where the vibrations of the sea can be felt and every grain has a story to be told of others who’ve walked here before me. Before my eyes; a shooting star where the palpable soul of heaven is a witness to the last breath of twilight and the first shivers of dawn. In my hand; a glass bottle where I place the shooting star and launch my wishes that remain whether in dreams or reality to be delivered by the sea.

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Opinions

Caught in the throat of reason, I could never swallow them all.

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The Write Way

I write what I please nonconforming to meter or iambics – for to do so — is as close to artistic death as I can get.

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Pandemonium

Amidst the fury and pathos laden with cataclysms — each revolution of our existence unravels and evolves; because time… let’s not forget time — how it counts the seconds in whole numbers ever moving ahead with indifference as minutes brood a moment or more behind while the pendulum hangs on a whisper. This is the sum of our years.

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The Calling

Being a poet is not a choice — it is poetry that finds the poet.

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Parity

We stand parallel like fence posts — too singular to realize our sameness.

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The Sovereign

Beloved tree, alone in your dignified repose, you tower in the distance with graceful persistence. Patient through rain or sun – still standing when the day is done – beneath natal stars that bloom – like springtime flowers – or loitering gloom that winter brings – and summer eves when sparrows sing. Deeply rooted, older, bolder, veins burn within the blood of the seasons and rings bear age yet unresigned – while holding the robin's nest cradled in your limbs. Whispering breeze, you quiver to tell your woe and when air throbs with wings, you shed your tears in leaves that so lavishly dost pour. My humbling tyrant, lifting your arms high, you filter amber sunshine through your branches while an eagle gives you respectful downward winks from the heaven above. Upon the soil of truth and right, your deep foundations lay. Sentry, here your duties lie wherein you live and quietly die. To the earth, you give your roots. To the sky, your air. To me, shelter whether my heart is with hope or sorrow tremble. I, who in your shadow sit as twilight nears, I listen to thee. You are the sovereign and I the apostle. Please carve your name upon me.

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Apéritif

Love is like wine — As we drink this intoxicating spirit, our utopia comes not from the grape, but rather the suffering toil of the root and imminent growth of the vine.

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Koi

Luminous fins, the water unfolds — leaving a rippled wake.

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Fade To Light

Sometimes you must stand in darkness and solitude; detach from your senses into absolute nothingness — this is where your path to enlightenment is found.

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Literary Remains

The world must have us to feel its pain and write of it – giving it life with no lust for fame. A litany of words our veins bleed ink – faint concepts of life, death, love, and the way we think. Our flesh and bones will eventually decay – but words stay alive however allegory… in some small way. Hourglass with no sand, immortal for a price – similes, analogies a sum of all tears in sleepless sacrifice. Our world ends when its metaphor has died – never really belonging to the paradox of life – but at least we tried. Tears, ink, blood – things leaving stains – our pathos now spent – bequeath tendrils of literary remains.

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Shrink Wrap

We clothe ourselves in it, from the inside out, trying to keep it together. Protecting. Preserving. Preventing. Confining. Compressing. Constricting. Our path futile – from there to here, from then to now, potentials never to be fulfilled, lest we disrobe our perceptions.

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Kintsugi

Our lives do not go backward nor tarry with yesterday – for every wrinkled line is a road map of this journey – and every scar, a solemn decoration. It is a perception that writes timeless poetry upon flesh and mind with a quill dipped in golden ink… creating art despite the breaking – for that is when true beauty emerges.

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Victory and defeat are not external; they are secured within the mind.

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We are all valuable, or none are.

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We are each a single thread woven into the tapestry of humankind.

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We are the masters of our journey: to complete synchronicity where no other may navigate on our behalf.

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We are who we have become; a blessing that is denied some.

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We must appreciate her for all she's worth. In her heartbeat, Mother Earth. The throb, the ache... for our sake.

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Where my heart and thoughts collide; words do not exist in this place that I am.

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Seeking Wisdom

Once upon a place in time, from a distant forgotten land – there, upon a mountainside, dwelt a very wise old man. I began to search for him, it took me many years – walking amid ancient land despite my growing fears. So when I had found this man, my questions began to flow – but for every question asked, he answered, “I do not know.” I replied, “I’ve searched for you! Seeking wisdom without end – a journey that took me places, I otherwise, would not transcend.” – “I faced dangers beyond belief, but somehow, made it through – I often fell, only to rise again, on this endless quest for you.” – The old man said, “Wisdom? From the beginning, and ever been – comes not from any land afar, but a destination from within.”

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Boutonnière

She’s a white-dressed lily so fair, who waits in garden sunshine there. This beautiful bride in full bloom – worn over nature’s heart; the groom.

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Dust in the Wind

Wind curls around the corner of nowhere as I lie here while the grit blows against my sun-bleached bones – dead without dimension, and leaving no mark for having wished too softly and seldom – I was patient too long and trusted too damned much. Now sand creeps across the land – wedded to the cleft of yesterday. I am a shape without space as air flows through me – decayed from the inside out – offering myself in a last desperate oblation – as my words, like the wind, intercepts their meaning – saying it without nouns, italics, fury, or pathos – uncomplaining and unbound upon this parched dry ground – until at last... an end of the end... I am merely dust and settled again.

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Garden of Zen

In our garden of Zen, to plant ever again, we create the source, of our cosmic course. With intent, we sway, how karma will play, by the stones we set, shifts what we beget. Arranged by our hand, ripples in the sand, it repeats... it repeats.

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Nature’s Law

She is the law that rules us all. Engineer of all things green – claws, fur, and feather – all the wildlife seen. She is the sea and undertow – tidal ebb and flow – the movement of cloud – sand, earth, and sky clapping thunder – falling rain… and deserts dry. She is purple of pansy and velvet of violet – rose petals soaked in crimson – the lullaby breeze through – forest trees and birds… swift of wing that flies in between. She is the predator and prey, the air that fills our lungs, soil that fills our grave. She thrives, despite us all.

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Night Watch

Ten past sunset, scythed moonlit sphere – ‘neath; a tyrant, which hath no fear. Roosting on a branch with stern glare; wise feathered sentry in nature’s lair. He nods with a wink; bidding ‘morrow sun – Now dark! How dark! This day is done! Steadily embraced, in arms of his tree, duty beckons at midnight, perhaps three. Which side, the darkness, night watch lie? When the dead arise or the living die? Scarlet stains; an earlier hunt, now paled whence talons swiftly caught, then impaled. Suddenly vanquished, by a bird of prey – foe mortally wounded, breath fades away. Nature’s rule dictates, as above, so below – this; cycle of life, for both prey and foe. Silence breaks, with creatures conferring – throughout the trees, a scattered stirring. A curse to them all, with forbidding glance, those hastening in wooded happenstance. He is the guardian of the night, and forest keep – until dawn when even, the owl must sleep.

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The Kraken

A beast awakens every century or so when stirrings begin in depths below. He lurks in the darkness of briny seas – as a hunter, he preys... he’s deaf to pleas. Ripping bows, keels, compass, and sail – while harpoons fly and tall masts flail. The monster snaps their vessels in two – Sailors meet demise in water blue. Unblinking black eyes; slithering grips – the Kraken lives in a graveyard of ships.

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Karma

It is like mist that hovers the ground then rises and gathers into the cloud and falls down like rain. It becomes a gentle shower or torrential downpour. Our choice. Our rain.

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Sanctum

Wave once more, distant sun! Cool air shivers the evergreen, shoulders bare, where rays of light now flinch afraid; lichen grows, in veiled nooks of shade, where woods, are clad in April leaf, as the day ends, her time now brief. In the night, lone here, sometimes I can hear nature breathing, even sigh; ferns brim, this trail along the way, while the deer, lingers nigh and stay, and rock, where green moss will cast, nods ‘neath, with drowsy lids at last.

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Fresco Heaven

I want to sit next to you, Michelangelo – beneath your painted-ceiling heaven and muse at the secrets of life, death, and creation – for this is as close to heaven as I’ll get. Let me make wishes upon your painted stars like long-distance calls to God until He judges and disconnects – while little painted angels roll their eyes at me. I am only a soul, dressed in skin; an innocuous sinner who stings with life – looking for my place in your fresco heaven.

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Durability of Stone

I am a stone steadfast in rushing water smoothing and honing year after year. I watch the future come and the present flow around and behind me stately, and still, I have been witness to the seasons in all their majesty – Fall leaves in topaz orange and brilliant reds – Spring lavender fringed with morning dew and moonlight shadows on the Winter snow. And oh, how the evening breeze sighs in the Summer. On the bank over there – to the left of me, is a flowering tree… I’ve witnessed lovers kissing and initials carved inside a heart – never was there love so fair. And every June, the blossoms return, along with all the lovers. I have been here since the beginning of time – steadfast in rushing water... I am a stone… and can never die.

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Synopsis

What I write, says a lot about me. What I don't write, says the rest.

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Nautilus

In the chambers – five hundred million years of history flowed within. Not hastily – for there was so much time from when the sea was yet unnamed… spiraled by infinite beginnings and endings. In sacred geometry, it held much wisdom from eons-long ago… then swallowed, swallowed by tides in foamy waves – uncurled by seaweed fingers and taken to depths where only echoes remain.

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We Stand On The Edge

We stand on the edge as the tides of life direct us on this journey… this place and time... waiting... for something new to begin and something old to cease – and the things that shall be... will be. We stand on the edge reaching out to grasp – waiting for that feeling of one so near… yet far... we hope to touch just one other soul… encountered or not – we hope. We stand on the edge wondering who we are waiting for... that knowing what it is, was, and will be… our purpose dearly sought... while our lives drift ahead – for we are merely shadows of one another as we stand.

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Precipitation

In life, some rain must fall – from eyes; a few tears too. Both are gentle showers quenching the thirst of a greater need.

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Lotus

Detach from the senses; enter deep nothingness... breathing with the flow and rhythm of the Universe. Disharmony fades among the white-petaled lotus; for silence and wisdom are two halves of the sum.

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Echo

Nature sings with her chorus of choice, giving each creature their own voice. So I pity those with deafened ear... who cannot hear. Who cannot hear.

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Tour en l’air

Dancing at dusk... a trance upon the clouds... I stand and gaze at what can be seen... from those heights contained within – the boundaries of heaven... as they blur the earth... and blot the sky – the starling ways are free... as are the wandering clouds... that float gently by. They have kept the freedom... that Nature gave them... sundown splendid... and serene... oblivious to the observer... as they freckle the sky like flurries of snow – ribbons of movement through morphing nebulas... wings against blue... yellow and orange too... and winding passages nimble, circling, soaring, swooping ever so lightly... drawing the air of heaven in every breath. I watch their beauty with a peaceful eye... knowing that their souls are free as they silently flutter their sable wings... wavering here and there... wordless and wondrous through tranquil air.

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Sound of Silence

It's the 3am in the arms of a lover, and the pause before the kiss. It is the sun swallowed by the ocean, and the moon rising in solitude. It is the thought before the prayer and the canvas before the paint. It is twilight falling upon gravestones and the clock that ran out of time. It is the butterfly that lost its wings, and the rainbow that pierces the sky. It is the star before turning to dust, and tears that are wept in sleep. It is the feather that falls to the ground, and the lamb after the slaughter. It is the sound of a snowflake melting and the taste before the swallow. These are just a few of the things I hear.

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Minimalism

In simplicity, we have plenty making more of less.

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Time, sometimes, stretches her sails to catch every spindrift

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Universal harmonies don't bend to hear — for the soul is the knowing ear.

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Wisdom comes when you're cleansed by the rain of humility.

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Birth

Contractions toward life’s benediction, we’re propelled by distressing eviction.

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Drift

My words come to life one by one — starting in the upper left-hand corner like the sail on a boat… drifting in no particular direction until words greet verses like long-lost lovers.

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Silent Knight

He led men through fields of flower and fruit, now a war-torn place where death’s taken root, with the purest of hearts, so serene and kind, he cried for friends that were now left behind. With scarlet wounds from battle, fire, and blade, the Knight knelt on one knee whilst he prayed, solemn words merged, with blood like an embrace, head bowed, eyes closed, tears streamed on face. “O Lord of Heaven, most Holy, I am but your Soldier, lowly with honor, I serve a throne to King who’s flesh and bone this battlefield, quiet grave to the men, we could not save sacrifice for Majesty’s crown to death, ne’er backing down – I pray You bless every Knight carry them now, into Your Light.” – Golds and riches, he sought none, these things having no interest in the stronghold of kings once boys, now grown, these men marched together flag waving high, like an archer’s arrow feather. As horses charged forward like thunder drumming drawn swords, the men knew, their fate was coming some with a wife, many with sons and daughters the young men fell victim to crimsoned slaughters. A voice from Heaven spoke to him, sounding sweeter than any hymn – “Son, I saw the sweeping of swords, husbands of ladies, men of lords, battle bound for a throned nation, shall merely lead to devastation, man waging war and blood release, shall ne’er find everlasting peace. Love, stead harsh words and hands gives freedom to a thousand lands.” – When the words from Heaven’s tongue hath falled, one must ever pay homage, this Knight recalled, for life is a gift, and cannot be bought or sold, one should honor love until our days grow old. With scarlet wounds from battle, fire, and blade, the Knight collapsed and perished where he laid. A final breath merged with blood like an embrace, now silent, eyes closed, tears streamed on face.

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Equinox

March seedlings arise from the sowing; Sun and Moon; talisman timekeepers, Butterflies; already yellow with April.

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The Shore

At eventide, ebb, and flow, like reunion and farewell, sea's broad bosom soothes restlessness of the sand. A quenching, rolling wave, brings sea glass and shell, from depths; gifts of love to the beloved, the shore.

Roxi St. Clair

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Enlightenment

When you find unprejudiced awareness — only then, will you know peace.

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Songbird's Blessing

May daisies and jasmine surge up in the wake of your very first flight and your journey from tree to tree be playthings for your passing hours and your days be glad without measure. And may your songs be sweet... may your songs be sweet.

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Invisible Ink

It’s when the lyrics of life disappear, hands of time slows more each year – our pulsing heart pauses, then dies as ink in our pen, fades and dries. Pens without ink, solitude bestow – gone to a place where words forego. Poets without ink, can’t write as deep, hushing them ever, in wordless sleep. May our verses remain immortal will – so perhaps, somehow, we linger still.

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Conduit

We are all just ripples, on the surface of something vast.

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The River, She Flows

Her melody, a gift, the wind carries adrift, where all may hear, her message is clear. Drink from her bowl, quench thirsty soul, her wisdom ancient, and lovingly patient. Beyond those ways, past reckoned days, her reflection glows. The river, she flows.

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A Better Place

Let us, for a moment forget — a world of strife, toil, and fret. And may we linger as we will, with a calm heart that's ever still. Touch another with a gentle hand, embrace souls from every land. Rise above intolerance and hate, destroy weapons that annihilate. Collective cause, one human race, making our world a better place.

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Medusa's Rage

Upon the temple floor, she wept, reflections in water frigid now. Pegasus sired in Poseidon's lust, jealous Athena, casts her curse. Unsheathes rage; flicker tongues, venom spits from serpents crown. Malevolent hatred, burning pyre, Medusa skips these men of stone. Across the deep sea, as Sirens sing, silencing relics of Mythos lore.

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Quintessence

There's no one else I can be — but unapologetically me.

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Speakeasy

In the basement, a distinctive scent, tobacco-filled room, whiskey, and perfume. The music rhythmic, dance cataclysmic, glasses that buzz, that’s what whiskey does. This magic space, another time and place, bold moves, brass horns, fading rose among thorns. Here’s to you, 23 skidoo… in prohibition too. The moonshine and fine time, tommy guns, everybody runs, while sirens raid, the music played.

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Dummy

With sawdust saliva congealed on your lips - your silence is deafening.

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The Path

The night was with child, that birthed a new day, when I, as dawn wakened, began my way. I walk accompanied by a hundredfold soul, finding wisdom on paths upon which I stroll. For countless echoes from this journey springs, hangs of life’s single, and silken, fragile string. I can rise and ponder beyond the knowledge of man, and defy limitations set by time’s second hand. Poets share these secrets within written words, unfolding them like wings of sleeping birds. From the bounty of Nature, these secrets unlock, among listening trees, the hushed path, I walk.

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The Fawn

Softly, the rays of sunlight finds passage through a maze of evergreen o’er moss and dew, where primrose opens anew. A White Heron or two – glides hello, then goodbye, with widened eye where down below, curled, on the forest floor, as her kindred’s done many times before… like a bird in a nest, she is at rest. Born at dawn – the fawn.

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Lineage

When the old rears the new, no door can remain closed, and none can be a stranger. We live, love, and finally die. Cradle of birth and of death, past, present, ebb, and flow. Ancestral spirit, kindred old.

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Dream Catcher

They go on their way, each dream, adrift they roam — winking back, ever hopeful, that soul touches soul, where questions find answers, and hearts find home.

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Reflection

The world is just a mirror. What we reject in others — is what we are unable to integrate within ourselves.

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Eyes Wide Open

I've become more keen, to know what really is, cannot always be seen.

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Repose

Let the past find death — for it has already outlived its purpose.

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Until You Return

I was once a stray dog—and I will wait for you until you return home to me. You found me at a time when I was cast to the side for pure of breed and past. I always sheltered my heart so it could not be seen by cold eyes and cruel hearts when I was abandoned, then imprisoned — my cage door rarely opened. People walked by daily — barely noticing how I wagged my tail for them… until one day it stopped. It stopped… when I saw friends leave — some to new homes and families, while others were put to sleep, never to wake again. I wondered, always wondered — when it would be my time to sleep. Then one day you came — I remember it was a Saturday… and you saw in me something more precious than any jewel or coin. Your eyes were not cold like the others — you smiled at me and then I wagged once, then again as you opened the door to my cage and sheltered heart. That was the day you became my world… I remember it was a Saturday. I was once a stray dog— and I will wait for you, and wag for you again.

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Captive

My prison was built upon the expectations of others. They were the bricks, and I, the mortar.

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Nerve

If you want answers — brave the questions.

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Gargoyle

Frozen on the tower roof, a stone-faced guardian peers down into the seething shadows of life below. With stiffened claws, he grips the ledge between his still-folded wings. The cloud canopy covers the fierce despair of twisted limbs and glaring eyes. He waits and watches the bloodshed far below… far below… hearing the screams of humanity as they slay their very own. His perfect justice would destroy us all, were he truly alive.

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Mantis

Gazing at his own reflection in the water, contemplating the depth of his camouflage... he counts his moments, not months, before sunrise when birds will surely feast.

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Return To Innocence

When our faith has frozen upon roads we’ve chosen, for every hope that’s gone, we continue to journey on. Passing wrecks among graves, washed by treacherous waves, as life storms cast us down yet, still we do not drown. Determined with our might, we forever dare to fight, with courage, senses wake, for this is blessings sake. We choose faith or doubt — what’s to believe without? Fear won’t rise or quicken, no matter how we’re stricken. The past may leave its trace, despite moments we chase. The four winds of our world, forever remaining uncurled, live in wonder, like a child, in our sum of years compiled.

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Cemetery

Weather hones, silent bones. Still as stone, but not alone.

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The Vikings

Lured by greed for silver and gold, they journeyed far, like Sagas told, against bitter winds and salt of sea, that rocked their longship endlessly. With flaxen hair and bearded chin, blue eyes soaked new horizons in, they walked on the soil of foreign land, to claim the prize, at their demand. With battle-ax and bloody sword, each took their share of Viking hoard, war of Northmen and Kingdom throes, with both sides losing, this story goes. Voyaging home, a gale storm sprung, capsized their boat, iced water stung. The Vikings sleep, ‘neath sea and sand, their swords forever, clutched in hand.

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Stonehenge

Beyond the moonglow, there... a star, floats on a fold of space afar. Between those open arms of stone, embraced pagan, druid, and crone. From north, south, east, and west, seasons change on the solstice crest. This is the chalice of the night and the cradle of sunrise light. Still eclipsed in yesterdays, marking the passing of ancient ways. Above, center, and below remains, great mysteries upon these plains.

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Poignant

I want to write poetry so moving, that it would make an onion cry.

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From Where I Stand

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Who am I that matters beyond me? Perhaps nothing. And that's what sets me free.

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The Value Of Lions

Majestic under the canopy of Heaven's sky in sovereign silence, he can be found - guarding the throne of Eternity from which nothing vanishes or becomes expendable. The tracks of his pride, now imprinted and sheltered deep within his heart beyond the horizon of his lament when hunts on Serengeti Plains were replaced by a caged and exploited existence - always obedient to his master... displayed for profit while pacing a mimicry of life until his final breath. What price must a beast pay for homage?

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Thirteen O’Clock

Time is blinded by cataracts clenching a second hand and ticking its tongue... speaking untruths.

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Drinking Poetry

I am unable to Poe and thinking of Plath as I listen in darkness to Longfellow’s serenade, drinking absolute torch and Twain as Ayr’s bard Burns, like Dante’s Inferno sliding down… down… my throat ere a chilly Frost, while daring to walk on The Road Not Taken with Tolkien’s Hobbits running Swift and Wilde… Sexton coughs, “Live or Die!” and Cohen croons, “Hallelujah!” until the night is over and Donne.

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Geisha

From the scarlet Sun of the distant East, she’s an almond-eyed porcelain goddess - draped in fabric slowly spun by five-thousand silkworms. Rice paper fan clutched in gentle hand, she postures for her Miyako Odori - a graceful cherry blossom dance. Groomed for this moment since childhood, she’s the perfection of etiquette. In the centuries of old, her ancestors danced as concubines for the Emperor - virginity on sale... to the highest bidder. Out of respect for them, she dances in their footsteps - daughters of fallen cherry blossoms.

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Rainfall

I am, by nature led, to listening with ready ear, its whispering faint undersong.

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Same Old Song

The lines of age gently map my face while silver strands tease my hair. I try to remember the chords of Stairway to Heaven, never forgetting the young years when I wanted to change the world but instead, it was the world that changed me. With hands, older now, I strum six strings from my youth up and down on a neck of the wood. Unfettered and lamenting, riffs remind me that the music within has never died.

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The Fall

It is difficult to fly with the wings of transparent malignancies — making me pause to wonder: from which opaque grace shall I fall today?

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Song Of The Sea

It’s a song that journeys in the wake of the wind. Maritime psalms — amid spindrift's rolling waves; the ballads from far and far away. Minuscule shards blanket the seabed — honing and smoothing the sea glass; treasures of eloquence. Starfish pulsing and tracing their fingers in the sand — saltwater bathes those living below in pink coral caves. A sacred communing — urchins, crab, barnacles, shrimp. In a sapphire depth, the dolphin ballet — there, they pirouette, whistle, and click. Octopus newlyweds entwine one another, ribboned tentacles spun — here, are ancient souls; whales in tribal pods serenading the sea with their melody of the soft refrain. A kelp forest; sea rays with long white wings, gliding over canopy — beneath; seals, otters, sea turtles, jellyfish too, dancing to the song of the sea.

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Epithet

Confine me with your notions — and I shall lay lifeless at the bottom of your cage.

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Communion

Each day, I drink my wine and break the bread of life, and realize some things of this world are indigestible.

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Roxi St. Clair

I live to create. I create to live.