on a sunday afternoon
in a ripple of sun cloud sun
blue sky november
and i remember
how much i love to be here
heading straight for
somebody’s somewhere
with you hanging there
just west of a smile
guiding me through
orange cones and smashed
pumpkins
and i remember
when i thought i’d arrived
it was raining, you wore red
and smiled and waved
as i drove round
the quick hard curve
of goodbye
and the geese have chased the heron from the swamp.
i know this because he’s just flown straight through my line of vision,
looking angry and put out and reminding me
of something i can’t quite name.
it’s too cold to sit outside at dusk
and watch the sunset
but here i am
it’s that hour when the geese
fly in by the hundreds
to crash the party at the swamp
and i’m drawn outside
to the raucous sounds
of miles-traveled cacophony
a sound that will forever
make me smile
and in truth, i came out here
to sit myself down
and have a good cry
but instead
there’s this beautiful sunset
and my big, big smile
painted in place
by the calls and the haws
of this wild night party
thrown by nature herself
(and the theme
is always survival)
it’s cold tonight
too cold for
windows open
and whispers
to that bold sharp cold
half-moon
but in my dreams
the sash stays up
so i can hear
fresh goose gossip
and broken-wing
promise
tempered only by stars
and the dark ripped sky
of autumn’s
celestial rune
…
and live in the sky
.
he’s my best hero and keeps my eyes dry
the screech owl purrs softly in the trees beneath your belt.
a song of winter’s ending and survival’s lullabye.
we’re both quiet, nursing wounds, warming sounds by the fire.
i remember now
what I’ve been missing
these nights, trapped inside
these stars, this sky,
these ghosts all a-glitter
in the darkness of why
we’re both hunting, he and i.
not for food, but for solace.
the north star sits high just left of center stage
the only truth to believe in society’s cage
the geese are telling stories to the moon’s redundant scry.
it’s such a still night
almost forever
the screech owl serenades the darkness with his cry.
i have burned all the bridges
the ones you built and the ones you buried
none of them were sound
and besides
you don’t understand music
but even so
this isn’t a phoenix story
it’s a tale of smoke and ash
destruction disguised as romance
and filtered through deliverance
i don’t need a god to offer salvation
or forgiveness
i’m not afraid to stand beneath this sky
and speak my truth
absolution
just another false path to reprieve
…
i once told you
forward is the only direction
and then watched you walk away
what you took
was my advice
as i was writing words
to the story you were living
and i saw smoke without noticing
you were the flame
those bridges weren’t built for redemption
they were built to enable your game
…
in my hand i hold one last match
not meant for you after all
wasted time and lost permission
memory scarred by blisters
this one’s for the wick
of my own candle
i am fire
i am light
i am inferno
watch me blaze
…
