Resurrection (poem)

petals drop, prune my leaves as some are
wilting,
some are dead
strip me here of all my yesterdays
remind me what's inside
I can't smell tomorrow
or is that the sound of decay
cloying like the petals I dreamed of
last night and tomorrow
peel, peel,
stab me with your adrenaline tongue
spark my language-making heart
revive my core to spark these wings to fly
or buds to bloom
or seed to burst
remind me who's still inside
out there tastes so much better than
the view from in here

if I'm under six feet
or over my prime,
still,
I'll learn to fly for you
I'll spread my bloom,
I'll raise my wings
I'll dive from this bed of thorns and death
to the sky I hear when I think of you

strip me bare
I want to breathe
as flower, moth, drawn to your flaming eyes
willing to burn for you
wanting to scald, scream,
smiling, cheeks hurting, arms throbbing from stretching to
grasp today
pluck my stem from the cocoon of dead petals
writhing 'round my frozen limbs
or were those wings?

strip me down
to what I think I knew
the taste of roses, the sound of butterfly flutters
in my stomach and the womb of what I'd
give to you
to remember how
to feel

twin flames--poem

do you remember how
your smile ignited her
and she would burn
brighter
hotter
spreading to blushing cheeks of hungry ones

she challenged them to control her flames
and they would burn for her

no matter how dangerous,
she would wave the red banner
and they would run
to burn with her, and burn through her

until she became small and ashen
and while still waving the red,
they would blow her away, ash by ash

she became lost on the very plains
she used to ignite

she retreated from fatal pursuits, collecting her ashes to
reconstruct a visage of cunning vitality,
frozen in a mask of confidence,
frozen in a mask resembling only you

then, naught more than a matchstick in waiting,
no more ones--only One--came along
He blasted open the tomb she created
and you and she were no longer two

we burned again, but with another,
with the only One who will matter
but somewhere in the flames we lost
the knowledge of how to kindle our flame

when He can see our eternal fire--
ignite it, harness it, and keep it safe,
why can't we do the same?
why can't we use what He sees
and melt she and you into "me"?

do you remember His mercy in breaking us free,
when He and I became We,
lighting each other, igniting each other
two flames burning as One?

storm

relentless: she's a hurricane

certain she doesn't know,

though certainty does little when chaos blots out reason

in the center she's a sage,

but when she spins the rage destroys

left in the trail, trailing behind 

stomp in the puddles, splash in the mud

delight in the mess one day, 

another drown

silver linings on zero clouds--just the white, fluffy, distant stuff

(sometimes grey)

(then again, usually grey)

(and white is just grey's dream for betterment)

losing the sun, forgetting its warmth, forgotten light in this labyrinth of dust

settling dirt into pores of tired skin, weathered hands, and leaden legs

disjointed thoughts trickling from the eye of rationality

connecting the dots of hail pouring from tear-tired eyes

racing through ash, apathy begging to conquer

resentment's hold on the flailing statue,

bending to the wind,

crumbling in the dark,

crumbled already--

scattered particles

lying comfortably on the aftermath, on yesterday's grave

too weary to fathom "tomorrow",

afraid to go to sleep

Read this and NOT cry? I think not.

http://www.theloop.ca/living/home-life/article/-/a/1981014/Feel-Good-Dying-man-s-final-wish-is-a-honeymoon-for-his-wife

God bless humanity.

sublimation -- poem

rising to the brim--maybe it's there already,
sloshing back and forth from the edge
waiting, craving release but uncertain of how,
from amnesia of overwhelm, forgotten faculties,
forgotten its form and purpose to flow when frozen in
moments
or moment, or then, here, tomorrow,
now

unable to recall knowing
how to fall
down into acceptance of its composition, its liquid state of acidic truth
instead, it yearns to burst through and over--
instead, it bubbles, and threatens to burn

how can it calm, strengthen, create
when unwilling to slip into
the darkness of resolve?

frozen, sitting blinded by white denial,
blotting out creation's brilliance

erasing the prism of choices--
left with sobering decisive

indecision


realization

broken and yet

it discovers fiction in the story of inability to make something out of its nothingness, the fiction of its vaporous state as it was provoked by when its substance has been fluid all along

RIP, Ebert!

Here's a nod to Jezebel.com for Kate Dries' exposé on Ebert's best reviews. Happy reading:

http://jezebel.com/5993693/roger-eberts-twenty-best-reviews