#velvetblory

[notmorethings]

Pal

Grief has moved from a wave, a constant, ebbing tide, never gone  only receding, to a cold, small stone in my pocket. I put away my keys, my fingers brush against it. It clatters to the floor, as I upturn my sweater. I pick it up, smooth it,  and place it back again  in my pocket.  Always with me, the weight pulling, slightly, but not enough to hold me back. Grief, as a wave, overwhelmed, it directed me and my course. But as a stone, a solid, small rock, in my pocket, it is looked after. Sometimes a nuisance, often a remembrance, a tiny tombstone, to collect my thoughts on, to push to the bottom of my bag, or, to take out, and hold in the sun. My little companion and I  will never part, but  at least now it's portable.

[notmorethings]

Biding Tide

Grief is a wave underneath which little submarines are anchored to the floor when someone leaves a chain is broken a rope unties a ship surfaces a wave pushes them to shore

we acknowledge the dents in the sand we climb over the wreckage piecing together this site clambering up the bones the shells left behind exploring, pushing our fingers where the bow meets the brown sand digging through the ash scraping off the mud kelp stuck to the windows you scrape off with your fingernail to peer in You sit on top of the wreck your hood rests on your shoulders the wind blows softly, the sand gets close to your eyes frowning, you rub your wet fingers on your jeans you don’t jump down, not yet, you sit and turn your head to the sea the waves continue, always the graying of the sky continuous tomorrow might be blue maybe the cold might not repeal all you do is wait while your butt falls asleep your legs start to ache don’t get down, not yet the cast iron and the steel of the ship presses into you you’ll walk home and away soon enough but for now you’re alone that steady wave of blood in your ears like the seashell pressed against your head the sound of the ocean outside and in from your heart to the sea grief is a wave let it wash over me

[notmorethings]

Azure Heart

You. Pinch the soil, then palm up to the orange sky let the dust float away. Your hair lifted by the breeze the mountains of the valley in your sight Gold sugar cane in the setting sun breaks under your feet the salt of the air the earth the sweet taste on your tongue I want the wires from the catwalk to descend and twine around your back lift you with chariots of fire in your eyes. A wingspan of profound love will streak silver and purple feathers from your back A gauzy sheet tied around you As the pearling clouds roll and shift Steady, fast, and sure the setting sun the stars beacon-ed bright a red scarf around your waist All this just dust in the wind I imagine you. The rushing sound of an angel in flight the look of a deer who lifts her head to see the sunrise once more.

[notmorethings]

Go Fourth

Roman candles  shooting flames This will be our last summer Friends I can feel us moving on I can hear us talking loud We sang the national anthem  On the front porch The neighbors cheered when we were done We are so full of doubt and beer, we the young Our confidence, the lack of lighters for the sparklers Cigarettes and broken lawn chairs In the dark July night, we watched the glittering works shower down among the telephone poles I set my glass of wine down early, I didn't want to forget I wrapped my arms, embracing my own sunburnt shoulders. I rode my bike home, my shorts riding up and my feet blistered Spinning across the highway, this city knows my name Exhausted and aching, my back and my heart, I fell into bed The breeze will cool my skin, the night will bring the sun. I lay and hear the boom of late night bloomers light their works My mind left open for dreams to lead me home. The presence of the city, the people, the sheets, the breeze, the beer, the fireworks, the scratch of the match, the cheering, the singing, the pop of a tab, the exhale of a smoker, the hands of the lover, the pressure of ankles on straps, the need for each other, the unknown of the world, the birthday of the country, the ice in the cooler.... please press your lips to my forehead, I've got a lot to forget and remember for the rest of my life. 

[snitchingbuttgrabber-blog]

  Ne’er am I to see again

the morn’ mist that slowly drifts,

unfurling the bluebells from their winters sleep,

on the banks of the Loch.

  Ne’er the curves of the braes*

or where I know ye wait for me

at waters’ edge

though I’ll ne’er join ye.

  Ne’er will I see again

the lush of home; waters

fresh an’ sparkling of the Loch in the Spring,

when by the morn’ nicht* I shall be traveling

 the low road alone, but with head held high.

  Ne’er will I let them see anything in my eyes,

as I face the wuddy’s* grip, but my true love

and the banks of Loch Lomond.

  March did we,

across the mist covered mountains

with swords in one hand, and hearts in the other

in the wake of our Bonnie Prince Charlie*.

And I, my love, did see the Jacobites’ fall on our ain* soil

  But ne’er are we to meet again

while I wait for the dawning.

Come the morrow, the wuddy* awaits me

to still the last of the forty-five, and silence my longing.

  And as I sway in the brisk Scots air,

though I’m not to feel her cool touch,

unseeing eyes will rest upon the Morag*

fleeing his ain*, with a price o’er his head.

  Ain – Gaelic for ‘own’

Bonnie Prince Charlie –

Braes – hillside slopes

Morag – means ‘great one’ in Gaelic and refers to Bonnie Prince Charlie

The Forty-Five – The Jacobite rising of 1745 was often referred to as “The Forty-Five”

The morn’ nicht – Scot ‘tomorrow night’

Wuddy – hangman’s rope in Gaelic

[rareshbones]

Just Like You

If I was as pretty as you, I don't know what I would do. Maybe I would do up my hair a bit, Or buy a new pair of shoes. If I was as charming as you, I think it would help me see. That even if the smiles might come and go, You'll always be there with me. If I was as happy as you, I think I would want to cry. Because then I'd know that on the inside, You really just want to die.

[bocatt]

In cold early mornings

In warm embrace of night

we search for what is right

with fervent longing

With lack of reason or a rhyme

we came from far apart

to cultivate one beating heart

two souls intertwine

The crop grew strong

the harvest plenty

to love's warm scent

and immortal song

Winter came and passed

it returned with greater zeal

we tried to talk about how we “feel”

one always came last

we have had some times

and love's day is coming up

I want to say I'm still fine

but I can't shake the feeling you are getting more out of us than I am

[ululantes-blog]

03.01.13

Hold me in your devastating arms again Place of dreams, Of fiends, of Beggars and beauties It is hard to think of a time when life went quite that way The way that it went When I felt that particular Cold wind Bite at my exhilarated face and my frantic hands Searching through your hidden alleyways Or the way that it went When I felt that particular Red wine Pass through my wanting lips, In copious amounts, My wanting lips, wanting To be drunk with your romance and your roses True, my wanting lips were almost Always Drunk with your romance And your red wine and your river True, I woke up each morning Head pounding, Stomach madman rambling, Brain wild with enquiries What happened, who was I, what did we do Last night? But the one sweet thing, complete thing I always knew was Where I was.