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Posts Tagged ‘light’

Going

She ran.
Pathways weaving like a seamstress needle
below and above fabric.
Under the lights of the gently bending street lamps
vision became unbearable
just long enough to be plunged back into darkness.
Alone with her thoughts
and her headphones.

Music in these times
is useless.
It makes her long for
skipping records again.
Like the scratchy heart beat
in her chest.
The way the arm claws at
a dark worn groove
only to hop back again.

If he could see her now.
Keeping beat
with a loose necklace
bouncing against her chest.
How he would laugh
as she ran
nothing but a silhouette
pressed against
the river banks.
The moonlight
catching on its
cold ink surface.
He always laughed at tragedy
and when she would cry.

She ran
until she saw the bench.
Her old dirty friend.
Falling like a fig into his arms.
Not to cry, but to laugh
and to skip stones
against the worn black
grooves of the river.

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On Wakefield Street
the skyline
is a landscape
of earth thrown
at the sky
dotted with constellations.
Ursa Minor
is Main Street,
the north star
is the old church
where State Street
intersects it.

I go to point this out,
but her finger is already
dancing. She says
the fireflies are lovely
tonight as they surf
the darkest edges of the city.
How the arms of their swarm
curl like a galaxy
around the gravity
of the old church
at the corner of
State Street.

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The light that reveals
is blinding.
The reflection in the glass
conceals a hive of
workers dreading every 9
and clinging to every 5.

The homeless man wears
shades because
he is either blind
or pretending, but
at this hour
when the sun crests
over the tallest talls
he is all the better.

The sad droning of an
idle car exhales exhaust.
It is late and tired.
Its bumper stickers
are outdated political
statements and smug
declaration more
befitting an ignorant
college student than
a suit and tie.

At night this is hidden
and the nocturnals
spread incandescent wings –
a more gentle light
that only reveals
a select area
and conceals the rest
by contrast.
I usually smoke
my cigarettes
with the boys outside
so the whaling saxophonist
is less tempting.

I look forward to rain soaked days
where blues are smeared
with pinks in the omnipresent
reflective puddles tucked neatly
beside the curb like a child
in bed. It is too dry and hot
in this light. My clothes
cling like a new skin on me.

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The Queen’s Last Edict

The Queen sits
on a stack of books.
Gray eyes scan,
Years of green looks
having stolen
their blue away.

Through thick glass
those aged seers
follow long royal fingers
as they pass
unclear words. Her
digits fear the end
of turning.

Her people are outside.
Terror in its infinite softness
forces them to choose.
They cry like children
under darkness.
Gray sky replacing
the days of sanguine blue.

She doesn’t want to be
their mother, or their sun
She is a symbol,
the image they want to take away,
and in her eyes
there is no comfort
nor any solace,
only what is right
and what is true.

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It is too dark to see.
Headlights illumine only road.
No stars. No sky above.
4 tires bear the load
of a junk car in the darkness.
It’s so dark that tree and horizon
all blend into the hole
above it all.
Yet I can still feel the water.

Somewhere to the right, to the left,
there is water.
I can barely float
I could never swim,
Yet I know it so well.
I know its there.

As a child my mom would bounce me
up and down
left and right
from knee to knee.
Excitement
as I bobbed up and down
watching the horizon
jump around.

Above me
the incomprehensible
whole that I arrived from –
two deep eyes
two fragile hands
brushing thin strands
of midnight black hair
away from a face
of radiant light.

Yet somewhere inside her
I know there is water
unseen, invisible,
but there. Undoubtedly.
Amidst the light that makes
sight impossible
there is flowing water;
a flood dammed.

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Previous Entry found at: http://veritasexlogos.wordpress.com/2008/05/20/stories-told-to-be-forgotten-vi-clothing-makes-the-man/

Lights struck each particle as it hung aloft in the air by unseen breath. Each miniscule, insignificant remnants jerked unpredictably, as if by its own will, either falling or rising. Countless others certainly existed where curtains cut shadows on the floor, but they couldn’t be numbered or known – only those graced by the light could be seen. This common phenomenon struck Elle for the first time as her head hung over the edge of the desk. The upside down world outside the window had not pulled her from rest for an entire morning.

So it seemed her unknown lover was no more than one of these specks – one that came in and out of the light. Their intimacy would remain intact until she finally removed herself from atop the desk and got on with her life. So she waited, not for the sake of him, nor out of any self-pity or loathing, but for the sake of reverence as one sits in the pews long after a funeral without crying. Such was the necessary action she took to remedy the world outside the window that currently had trees for sky, and sky for ground. Her eyes darted back and forth around the room of books and antiquities and then back outside. A tree then a bible. A sword then a cloud. Grass and then an ashtray. The globe, then a face. Then a face.

Elle whirled from off the table spilling whatever books clung around her form. Desperate hands found an old newspaper to cover her body. Outside a foppish looking man was covering his eyes and stammering inaudible apologies through the old thick glass of the window. Elle quickly grabbed her clothing – her sudden recognition of the previous night’s sin having filled her ivory body with red patches. Luckily by the time she reached the back entrance she was clothed enough to once again find the foppish looking man averting his eyes.

Various half-syllabled words left her mouth before a shy ‘sorry’ followed. The young man’s gaze nevertheless counted blades of grass.

“I was just sunbathing.” Sunbathing? Her mind rebuked.

“Sunbathing?” He spoke as if a mind reader. “In my father’s study?”

“Your father’s study?”

“Well his former study.”

“Why former?”

“He is very dead.”

“Oh dear.”

“So I came to collect some of his stuff. I didn’t know he kept things like you around. He was more into books.”

“Oh dear. I am not…”

“No explanations necessary. Mother has been dead for some time now, in case you were worried. I am actually proud of the old man. He vowed chastity after she died. A little old fashioned for our times though. Such is life I suppose. Can I come in?”

“This is your house.”

“Oh. Right. Well then, please come in. Make yourself at home.” The odd man half-pushed Elle out of his way and into the house behind her. She was stunned. She had thought that the old man had simply vanished. She hadn’t seen him since she was a girl. The house had begun to all but rot away – hence the late night break-in. Now an apparent heir informs her of his death and all she can think about is her unnamed lover and how she would never see him again. “Come in. Come in. I’ll put on some tea. We can sit and chat. I would love to hear how you became so acquainted with my father.”

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Chains

The rising light shining through the chain
made it appear broken.
I fell asleep outside the gate, despite the rain
after we had spoken.
Light breaking steal, morning breaking night
it’s all too absurd for me.
All this sobriety makes me feel alright
despite my humanity.
For a moment its all just image, its all just story
to chain to paper, to throw away
But then I felt the light burn my face with glory
and I knew that moment was more than poetry.

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