The Forest

forest!

The tired night could not sleep alone, without you
her thoughts of our darkness rest like weeds and rain
in a forest patch that did hide its secrets well.
You waited for the day to save her soul.

Alone our secrets hide in the darkness and weeds.
Tired without you, the forest waited not to sleep
well; her soul could patch its thoughts like rain.
You did save for her a night of rest that day.

Save our secrets of rain – patch the soul that weeds
darkness. A forest without night could not hide her,
waited alone for you and the tired day to rest in her
like its thoughts. Did you sleep well?

 

JS (C)

Without

seas broI wish I could imagine life without you,

that mornings spent alone were everyday,

that tables set for two were optimistic,

and pillow forts could keep the wolves away.

.

I wish your voice were more parts stress than calm,

or that its croon was less like lullabies,

but your sighs bring on their windless waves

a promise of your bittersweet goodbyes.

.

I wish that I could blame you for a sin,

or that you could commit a godly crime,

but He cannot absolve a shielded soul,

and you do not believe in the divine.

.

I know your coming like the rise of dawn,

the weight of footsteps on the hardwood floor,

how deep you breathe when peacefully asleep,

the weight of worlds you bear and always bore –

.

for we are cut from cloths a pond apart,

our slates, though blank, were not made to align,

but like a soggy puzzle piece, we change

to find our peace, imperfect and resigned.

.

Water did not bear my soul anew,

a renaissance was never destiny,

and while I wish the world would change its plans,

I somehow know that you are meant for me;

.

explain to me a life I lived without you,

and I will find a shore without a sea.

.
.

JS (C)

Halves

1537982_10152667684068248_5193889634419939301_o“I love you,” said pathetically sincere,

like drool that falls from numb and lonely lips

and stains a shirt, already dark with tears

and rain that marks the end of sinking ships:

confessions spake too late are never heard,

are never mulled by jury or by judge,

and while they may transgressions yet deter,

they claw the throat, and future loves begrudge;

our journey lasted longer than we know,

for particles entangled share a heart,

and while the universe forever grows,

each beat remembers start to end to start.

These ties that bind prescribe our epitaph –

alone we hope to find our other half.

 

JS (C)

Tourists

moon!

In Greek mythology, Ganymede, a divine hero of Troy, was abducted by Zeus in the form of an eagle to be a cup-bearer for the gods, because he was so beautiful.


The tourists on the moon are loud of late –

they cry of prophecies among the stars,

of gravities with lift instead of weight,

of colonies that give rise just to pause;

they flash their cameras like solar flares,

to capture beauty like an eagle’s greed –

pure perfection only gods could bear,

they steal her like her brother Ganymede;

these foreigners, they conquer space to own,

like water in the lungs that muffles prayer:

diamond rain that burns as we bemoan

each wasted breath of stale recycled air.

Saying little, speaking far too loud.

I wonder if they think their gods are proud.

JS (c)

Faults

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Pulchritude in pure asymmetry:
the placement of the eyes, the lips, the jaw;
Picasso could not paint so kind or free
the harshness in the lines of every flaw.
Each scar like stamps of artists and their art,
they carve out histories in skin and stone –
not so deep to doom you to depart,
but deep enough to pray you to atone.
For rivers mark the mountain’s breaking point,
and valleys where she felt too strong to rise –
your body like the earth and sea disjoint,
in hills of bone, and lakes of stormy eyes.
Foundations quake where strings of fate have frayed.
The faults in us are where true beauty’s laid.

 

Wilt

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A flower’s song in spring is soft and sad,

like sunrise memories of childhood,

the tune of bouquet promises is clad

in melancholy thoughts of what we could;

and as stems grow they reach toward a sun

that whispers songs of fire guised as light,

we yawn and stretch, but ere the day is done,

our fingertips are burned from summer spite.

Our love began as flowers in the spring,

but by the time it bloomed the color fled,

and as the summer comes the heat it brings

may burn us ‘fore our hearts can hold our heads –

but for the coming pain I feel no guilt;

I’d rather have had flowers, though they wilt.

JS (C)

Thunder

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Bricks cower from the Thunderbird,
wings like cracking paint
threatening forgetfulness, He carries
the storms on his wings,
whispers wind into currents;
He is life without breath
and death without pain,
He is the footprints of elephants –
gone but not forgotten.
He remembers.

He remembers the color of the dirt
before it was clay,
and the color of an unseen sky,
He knows the sound of lullabies
hummed to wet cemeteries, if not
for the tune then to save
the living from the silence –
they fear it almost
as much as He fears the thunder.

He cannot look at the ground lest He long to land –
the Thunderbird was born to the sky,
fused to his bones in the flash,
and when we search for him in the rain,
He hides in the hurricanes,
knowing if we ever found him
we would stuff his feathers into a pillow,
rest our heads on it,
and pray to dream of the thunder.

JS (C)