Little Cassiopeia
Stare up at the woman
who hung the moon for you,
at the man who whittled out
stars for you to chase
into the sky. It was a game,
they said, but really
they wanted to teach you how
to swim in stardust currents,
which was your birthright,
but neither one knew
what to do with comets or
nebulae, for she was a fish
and he was the lesser dog of two.
But they did their best
and showed you all they saw,
and taught you the names
of every pinprick of light,
and sent you flying out
after those stars, laughing
full of night and the sense of right
particular to children
who know where they belong.
Go out, little diamond, little Queen,
go out! and settle
wherever in that darkling tapestry
it pleases you to shine.
Directions to Dante’s
Take a left at the willow tree
follow the road round four bends
keep right at every fork until
the scarecrow in the fallow field.
At this fork take your left.
Here the dirt road crosses a path,
a broad swath of white gravel stones
that should gleam by the moonlight
(if they don't, run away) – park.
Get out. Walk the moonstones
as long as it takes
to recite any poem by Keats, and stop
upon the final word.
Wait there in the dappled clearing
in the copse of corpselike birch
and cursed yew and witch-elm.
Wait there while the wind whispers
To the underbrush and murk, a council
of night assembled to try you.
There await their somber verdict.
There await their strictest sentence.
Move not a muscle, nor utter a noise.
I'll meet you at half past.
an evening
i seek refuge from my thoughts,
my doubts,
my insecurities.
there's something about,
soap and suds,
with a wet sponge.
the clattering of glass,
against metal pots and pans.
there's something about hot water,
wearing gloves because if i don't,
my skin will crack,
and that makes me,
well,
not think.
my mind does not wander,
nor does it contemplate,
all i focus on is the task at hand.
or in my hands for that matter.
it numbs me to an extent.
i don't enjoy chores.
and most of the time i loath it.
but for some reason,
when i don't want to feel,
or don't want to question,
i head into the kitchen,
blast the radio on,
and wash the dishes.
Only given...
Her face is a poem,
stops men in their tracks.
But her piece of art,
is defined by its cracks.
She worries and races,
throughout her whole day.
No one stops to think,
about the price she must pay.
While others want from her,
to her family she gives.
Her freedom must die,
so their hope may yet live.
Then one day she meets him,
recognizes his power.
He begs for her trust,
and bears Bleeding Heart flowers.
Her eyes tell him the story,
of the way she must go.
He respects her decision,
about their love yet to grow.
Her heart is a puzzle,
and by her mind it's driven,
It can never be taken,
it can only be given.
Hairloom
“You have an obsession for women’s long hair,” the psychiatrist rephrased his patient’s words. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it. There are a lot worse things in life!”
“Well, sometimes I sit in the mall for hours just gazing at girls with beautiful glossy hair. My fascination is beginning to take over my life,” confessed the young man slouched down in his chair.
“I can either medicate you or we can try counseling sessions,” the doctor said in a bored tone. But why is it bothering you so much?”
Putting his head in his hands, the man sobbed, “I have no more space in my bedroom for the swatches of hair hanging from my ceiling and my basement is beginning to smell of rotten flesh. How can I continue in my passion if there is no more room?”