flowers that will bloom again in spring

so wise I’m selves aware.

[snowymantle]

COMMENT JE SUIS || WHO I AM

il me manque || a hole in me

un vrai esprit || no soul that's true

ce qui me manque || that's what i lack

c'est joie de vivre || what i can't do

esprit de qui || the soul of what

mes connaissances || of those I know

personne n’en a || they will not come

y'a pas de sens || and i won't go

[snowymantle]

Cœur d’Hélène

maybe it’s the maker,

a little piece of the creator,

a vitamin that couldn’t sate her,

on her own, Hélène.

peut-être ne l’a-t-elle reçu,

jamais, ni n’a-t-elle créé Jésus,

parmi les jeux et tous les fous,

elle porte le cœur d’Hélène.

if she stumbled into view,

by playing games when opportune,

and supping up the common stew,

then hearts could turn again.

si, une fois, le roi est vu,

ce que personne avait reçu,

adoucie et ténébreuse,

deviendrait-elle la reine?

the little piece of her slots in

the labour of the constant din,

between the loops and seams of sin

she holds and lifts her pain.

ce que les spirales ne retiennent,

ce qui est toujours au levain,

elle espère être une fontaine,

les attributs du cœur d’Hélène.

[snowymantle]

JURY DUTY

I saw a verdict, by cowardly night,

delivered inside of a burning-bright white,

the pews full of people sat out of my sight,

the censer uncensored,

the candles alight, with the hooks pulling down on my face.

Walking the aisles of a temple for more,

I brushed my hands past the shelves of the store,

hosts of coarse linens pile up on the floor,

almost on purpose,

but what was it for, if the dust still ends up on the case?

While others were saddled by rubies and stars,

I got in the trunk of my broken old car,

the tires all shredded and covered in tar,

the engine was warm,

yet I didn’t get far from the lot just outside of the place.

The next time I entered I walked on the roof,

now seeing the reasons that covered the proof,

the columns and scales could still hold up the truth,

but what holds the pillars?

and what do you do, when the echo adds up to disgrace?

I fell from the chapel, the arc of the apse,

Content with the verdict, and watching it lapse,

the water was running, but not from the taps,

in drowning I found out

my final collapse was the rubble that sank to the base.

[snowymantle]

IN A NAME

My Grandad had three daughters

but no son to carry James,

Half estranged from his own father,

his three daughters did the same.

It’s not hard to see the reasons that a person is a name—

all the little quirks of spelling

and the letters that they change.

People borne of desperation,

an inheritance of pain.

But my mum, conceived in arrogance,

chose heart, and made her claim.

She makes her claim—

in almost every single way,

every laugh shared in an hour,

every smile she makes each day.

Her name means love:

Jaime— “J’aime”, and also James.

Pushed against her father’s shove,

a ginger touch her pain came from,

she sets the world aflame.

[snowymantle]

STYLE

I am not depressed,

Disregard my clothing please,

worn from yesterday.

MEMO

Today, classes end.

Yesterday, my lights burnt out.

Don’t make it poetry.

[snowymantle]

LITERACY

Every person writes a book, fiction or non-fiction.

It can be a novel, a journal, a list, or something unfinished.

They can be the protagonist, the narrator,

or only the hand that writes.

We also keep a library of other people's books.

Some are treasured and reread,

some discarded to make room for more.

And as librarians and authors, we are always either

finding borrowed sentences or penning new ones.

When someone dies, they stop writing,

and leave their work behind.

I imagine they take their bookshelves with them—

if given the choice, I would.

So when my loved ones die, I reread their book,

and wonder whether it's the last copy.

I want to live preemptively,

to run to my loved ones and demand more pages.

But forcing it doesn't deepen it.

We hide from death like it burns what it touches,

and sift through the ashes for pieces.

We take the pieces, the soot and the ashes,

to mix up some ink for more books.

[snowymantle]

O

when mum dies id want to talk to her

when dad dies id want to talk to grampy

i dont want to watch my father cry again

mum has tears im used to seeing

[snowymantle]

ON OTHER MATTERS

wake before the autumn dawn

begins to break the sky

socks and talking on the phone

mum is laughing, i know why

rhythmic, calloused fingertips and feathers that can fly

sometimes singing, sometimes giggling?

something hard to write

skipping every other stair

up on the terrace in the light

both amused and well aware

that someone stayed up late last night

stolen seconds half awake amount to a goodbye

slowly syncing, quick rethinking

something hard to fight

[snowymantle]

NOTHING [ ] TO SAY

Silent, in my own way.

A common but unknown way.

Stark against the violets

but still dull in a half-grown way.

In a tired to my bones way,

it's a go to sleep alone day.

A "call me when you get this

leave a message at the tone" day.

Between the written lines are all

the nothings left to say.

[snowymantle]

STALLION

wake up. run.

another day of sun

the roaring of the bleachers

and the sounding of the gun

speed up. now.

like only you know how

the winning horse is whipped the most

the broken one put down

[snowymantle]

was it whistled, through my teeth?

I hate the part where you wake up

and it’s right how you expected.

past suicidal is acceptance,

on a necklace, in a pendant,

charming little melody,

silent little wreck—

I miss that part,

where you wake up,

and it’s exactly how you left it.

[snowymantle]

0.1.143b

drawing out apostrophe

and dottéd i’s

and crosséd t’s

in between the dits and dashes

place these things on high

as if a break amid a breath

a detailed way of being none—

send them over castle walls

when three words whispered

tell you one

and when they break

or when you do

expect the fall is like the rain

loose the cannons o’er it all—

and if you fail,

again.

[snowymantle]

MOURNING GLORY (3/3)

I didn't ask you to say sorry

I'll still let you run your fingers through my hair

Twist and tangle in a hurry

Worry that I’m hanging onto something bare

Can't help but wind and climb

Can't help but choose which ties

So much getting cut makes you numb to the scissors

and healing can hurt when so many things wither

but running or lying would just make us sicker

we're spiralling out but it's made our net thicker

The sun has broken the horizon

Is it really rising, are the colours coming out?

The skies believe us that we're trying

Crystal lattice wiring while the bloom is not around

Could this be open light?

Are we just twisted vines?

It's okay when things are darker

We both spiral out sometimes and close up when we're scared

These things last when things get harder

Reach a little farther for the glimmer in the air

Soon we'll spin up to another story

Closer to the coming morning glory

[snowymantle]

BONSAI (2/3)

You say that you love me,

that I'm your number two

You lace up your converse,

I tie up my boots

The soft amber glow in your eyes says that it's true

But love,

will I always be waiting for you?

Remember the distance,

the wind in your hair?

The unanswered question,

the warm summer air?

September emboldened the touches we shared

But love,

did you think I would always be there?

If I was senseless and lost my defences,

accepted my scars and all your apprehensions,

if I forced my love to be slightly less endless,

would that help me fill up this hole in my chest?

I say what I feel 'til I'm pushed to the brink,

I don't understand why my heart's out of sync,

I've tried giving more, more or less, and I think,

I'm bending so far that I'm starting to shrink.

I know that you love me,

you say that you do.

I'm wearing your sweatshirt,

you water my roots.

The way that I reach has been chosen for you.

But love,

do I grow at the rate that you do?

[snowymantle]

QUIET ROSE (1/3)

Here I am, crammed in pages, 

shoved in cluttered places,

gaps and spaces

that you have no way to cross.

My room is so familiar on my knees,

polish over hidden stains,

and still you bring me in,

pull me in like I was never even lost.

You scoop me up.

I had a hard day,

body begging for a hiding place—

and there you stay.

You still call me sugar.

If it were before, 

I'd lock the door,

look behind me even more,

count the steps and tiles on the floor.

I'd bury the reasons I eat,

bury why I'm medicated,

still there, wrapped in silence,

only coming out

when everyone is sleeping.

Though I haven't risen yet,

it's no longer a life of extremes.

Amidst your whispered melodies,

I can trace the tunnel light,

catch one last glimpse of sun

before the coming burn.

I was tired of climbing upwards, 

but a minute here’s enough.

[snowymantle]

ECHO (of a palimpsest)

It’s not a game to me — not sparked by thought

or stirred by rough emotion.

Is this where I belong? 

Is it wrong?

I entertain the notion.

I see the snake behind the fruit,

cursed with wisdom that no hands 

can ever set in motion.

Am I an artist or a whore?

With my paint now dried and crusted,

My easel, old and rusted,

in a building labelled "once,"

another relic on a shelf that's not been dusted?

It's love that you lost, friends you forgot.

The bastard you forgave—

or the teacher that you trusted.

You are still the wind.

The empty love for which I've lusted.

[snowymantle]

DEPEND

I never had the naïve desire

To leave the shade of the willow,

Where wind rarely gusts and leaves billow,

Nestled among the branches — circumstances out of my control.

Having leapt from the boughs of the sallow,

As fledglings are wont to do,

I have landed down by waters broad and shallow, 

And now face a different metaphor: sink or swim.

They stole away the life preservers,

They took the boats and ropes,

Yet snidely deride us when we lack the means to strive for dreams or hopes?

I never had the arrogant desire,

To strike out on my own,

To worlds unknown, far beyond the comfort of my home.

By now, I've had to go;

I bear this burden of choice,

Nestled in another framework — different setting, selfsame tone.

I cling to a sense of jurisdiction:

That I'm the ruler of this kingdom.

But with every decree there is a fine degree of imprecision,

And that cuts me to my bone.

A false sense of freedom is bound to this.

Though I'd rather say I'm independent,

Every independence of another makes me ache,

And it takes, and it takes, and it takes.

I am burdened with too much,

So with every ache I let it take.

I let my will be spent and spent,

As I am forced to

depend.