Define Me Not

Define me not by morning's light;
A dawn broken sweet as tender breath
From warm, tender lips to your cheek is pressed.

Define me not by noontide's swell;
A graceful note, overflow'd and chiming clear,
Ne'er faltering to a mournful knell.

Define me not by sunset's calm;
Settling gently o'er the vale
Drawing you closer to sleep with its quiet aplomb.

If you must define my race;
From poetic desire or assurance of love,
Through melody, quality, or form of face,
Look no further than your own dear heart.

For we are a pulse that is beating as one;
A miracle more stunning
Than the rising of the Sun.

One

I am the Lord
The Lord is Me
From the rising Sun
To the distant Sea.
From the Shores
To the Moors,
Every Creature
And Tree,
Is Itself, and the Lord,
And part of Me.

A Writer Without Words

And did the man,when dreaming, die,
or suffer through the lashes?
I would ask him, that I would,
despite the ennui that catches;
but soft! And hark! And other frozen, long-lost words
have clattered into ashes.
So I sit and speak no more,
held fast by fingertips all worn,
to the somber window sashes.

Wolves

The beasts were howling, rending the night with their terrible cries of hunger and rage. I tried to keep my family moving, but the snow was deep, and the ice was sly. One of my children left a blood trail where he ran; too big, now, for me to carry.

They were not far behind us, and our eyes showed their whites; rolling in fear. My breath came ragged, its sound as awful as the creatures hunting us. Even as my son fell, with his entrails spilling out as a steaming mess onto the unforgiving snow, it was all I could hear. I knew he cried in pain as they fell upon him, but the sound reached only my heart, bypassing my ears. Crackling in and out, my lungs would fail me soon in this chase.

One by one, my family fell prey to the beasts. The cracking of their bones and anguished howls reverberated in my skull, so often and so loudly I felt my teeth would shatter. After minutes or years, I found myself alone.

I could hear the merciless beasts in the distance, rejoicing in their kill. They must not have noticed one carcass; my own, was missing from their gristly prize. I dragged my weary body, and broken spirit, beneath a fallen tree. The frozen body of this dead sentinel would hide me for the night.

I lifted my wavering gaze to the moon, and silently begged the Mother of the Night to forgive my lack of song. My heart was near bursting with sorrow that must be sung to the Mother.

I wanted to lament my family... but I wanted to live, too.

The Scaled Ones

Burning. The world was burning. Without opening my eyes, or inhaling deeply to catch the smoke, I knew. Only the flames are to be feared. I rose, calmly despite the panic electrifying my body; sending sparks up and out through my nails as they caught my cloak; my hair as it brushed my shoulders.

They have come.

The sound of wings filled the air as their feathers dusted the village with ash. The little school house was gone, and so was the church. I didn't stop to look for Gruvak Aaren. The sight of his burned corpse shining; molten in the firelight, would have been too much. I wanted to help the others fight. Instead, I ran towards the stables.

My bronze was still tethered, and his tail lashed fitfully against the stone walls of his cell. I always kept him at the far end, in the darkest part of the building. He was smaller than the others, but faster, and vicious. When I reached for his reigns, iron lengths of chain I forged myself on his hatch day, he whirled around, hissing spitefully. Even his simple mind could feel the fear. Mounted up, I rode.

A youngling was cowering outside the stables, his dangerously pointed strands of hair tarnished and catching the firelight.

Have you fought for your sires? Do they live?

His eyes were wide, and I saw the answer was no. I remember sneering in contempt as I grabbed his arm roughly, pulling him onto the bronze behind me.

You are no warrior and no whelp; hold your own. I will not stop should you fall.

His mind returned a bit; stimulated by my direct order. Within his fear, desire for survival had grown.

Yes, Erava-lah.

I did not want him, but to give me my courtesies in his frightened weakness gave me hope. Our people would endure. I spurred the bronze harshly, and he ran into the night. I hoped our enemies were too busy slaying our weakest people to notice the strong escape. I was wrong.

A screech filled the night when they descended upon us; the youngling and I. They had miscalculated and dropped down too close. My bronze bit into one's leg as it touched down. A female. I smiled grimly at her, and her eyes reflected my own scaled face as I slashed her throat with the blade she'd failed to see hidden beneath my cloak. Their arrogance could sometimes be their undoing.

I had seen another of the monsters touch down as I had laid waste to the first. I looked for it; whipping my head around; long hair severing a nearby branch when it bestowed on the wood the gentlest of kisses. What I saw surprised me; my first real surprise in at least ninety years.

The youngling had leaped from my bronze and grabbed a broken branch when the attack began, and now stood staring at the corpse of the other attacker; propped up in the night with a pathetic bit of tree straight through his chest.

They are soft, Erava-lah.

Yes. That is why they come in the night with fire, youngling. They fear us.

He had Jareviel blood splashed across his brow. It bothered me. Perhaps I was feeling tender, but as I used my own cloak to clean off his face and restore his mirror-like, young scales to their brilliance, I smiled.

Our people will live.

Decay

These fruits, sweet in summer,
Oft decay quietly
Until we find them; rotting, spent
In little used, ill-purposed, sections
of our homes.

Twin Angels

There once were two girls clinging to a cliff. Around each of their waists a rope was tied, connecting them together. The middle of the rope was lost in the heavens above them; a rock neither could see holding their rope. Each girl loved the other fiercely and unwisely. Both tried to pull the other upward towards safety. They tried and tried, each getting more angry at the other.

"Just let me fall! I'm stronger than you!" Shouted one.

"Let ME fall," the other cried "YOU have more to live for!"

The girls battered themselves bloody against the cliff, neither wanting to lose her friend, until they had grown so angry with one another they began swinging back and forth on their ends of the rope, hitting and cursing until the rope snapped; sending both girls spiraling down to what looked like their doom.

Neither noticed that the other had sprouted great, beautiful wings in the fall. They flew in opposite directions, tears in their eyes, each believing herself to be the sole survivor.

Sanguine

In front of the screen,

Absentmindedly tearing the skin from my lips,
I feel like I’m forgetting something
As the blood drips down my chin.
The filter of my cigarette
Soaks up the trickling river
Of things I forgot to remember.

The Escape of the Snakes from Sinister's Zoo

In the late, late night
By the light of the moon,
The snakes escaped
From Sinister’s zoo.

The big one said
“We have things to do”
But the little one wanted
Something to chew.

“There’s a warm air vent
Across the room;
Won’t you bask under the
Big, round moon”?

The big snake pleaded and wheedled
And conceded at last
To accomplish the little one’s
Desired task.

They squirmed under rugs
And wove around chairs;
They would settle for bugs
Before going back to their lairs!

But there! Sticking out from under a cushion
In the pale moon’s light,
The little one’s scales gave a shiver of
Hungry delight.

Some strange new creature
Thought itself safe from her teeth
So silently slithering
She attacked from beneath!

The big snake was sleepy from exploring all night
But just as he began dozing away
Something gave him a fright
His poor tail became prey.

While the little one lacked
The advantage of size
She had never been known to give up
On her prize.

With her unknowing teeth
Latched onto the bigger snake’s tail
He whipped the small snake around
Like a leaf in a gale.

“I’ll show this intruder
Just who makes the rules!”
And he shot out to consume her;
Eyes glittering like jewels.

When the sun shook the sky
To rouse it from sleep,
The Keeper returned
And heard nary a peep.

She found her snakes vanished
And a strange tear in the couch.
Down on the floor something glimmered
So she bent into a crouch.

A collection of scales
Caught the first rays of sun
Torn from their tails
When their little adventure had ceased to be fun.

No other trace of the snakes
Has ever been found;
Just a tear in the couch and some scales
On the ground.

It’s thought that the snakes,
So determined were they,
Managed to eat one another
In their misguided fray.

LESSON: Know the difference between an enemy and a misguided friend.

Never Give Up

Never give up.
When your endeavors are crumbling,
And your dreams have lost their will to soar,
Walk on.
Walk on through the dark and
The uncertainty.
Walk through the broken-glass shards of your optimism.
Wade through the sweat and tears of your unrewarded hard work.
Walk on, brave soul, though the way is long.
Never give up.
When the world mocks your courage,
Calling you naive, a child in your hopefulness;
Never give up.
Let your passions raise you far above the clouds of their doubt,
And of your own,
And you will persevere.
Strive ever higher, and you may yet touch a star, strong soul.
Never give up.

I, Myself

Endless nights of sound and fury,
Clawing the nerves of my spine-
Stopping briefly to compress my breast,
And bone, and sinew.
Eyes wide open, glazed with voices.
A shivering creeps to the four winds
Propelled by the breath of my lungs,
of my body, of my soul.
A mad light fills my mouth; overflowing.
A grim smile splits my lips and my face
Tears through the lie
And reveals the feral beast in its natural habitat.

The Stars are in Our Eyes

Soaring on high, through the zephyrus expanse of sky
Heart singing in harmony with the drumming Earth
I am one with my home, and at peace with the Great Mother.
Above, the cosmos dances wildly as we raise our voices in praise
Of life, and of the sheer joy of being here in this land;
Our sacred space carved out of stars and spirit,
Lush and forgiving of our paltry trespasses,
And loving us from the soles of our feet, to our wondering eyes.
I touch down on the mossy ground,
Inhaling the breath of the land, letting the planet fill my starving lungs,
And crouching down, the ground has more stars than the sky.

The Flight of The Morrigan

And from the hearts of men,
Bloodied and glorious as Cú Chulainn,
Sprung daughter of Ernmas,
The Morrigan.
Raven-black wing swept,
The battlefield trembled beneath amber wolf eyes,
Souls of the fallen rose up to lift her wings,
The Babd, The Nemain, and The Morrigan.
The warrior falls to the flash of the blade,
And screams his last war-cry; his call is her name.
Above him she wheels, she dives, and she soars,
The Anu, The Macha, and The Morrigan.
As the sun bleeds its last o’er hills and the heather,
The souls of the dead have dispersed in the ether,
And the whole of the land hears the wings of
The Morrigan.

Matrix Random

I could change my name to Matrix Random,
And I doubt the world would care.
Amalthea Nightwalker,
Ashwood Sky,
Polaxia Greenbriar,
Sylvia Phry.
A name is just a label to tell you briefly of a thing,
The most worthless beggar has one, as well as any King.
Hexia Roanoke,
Octavia March,
Nikki Rono,
Belinda Larch.
Our parents give us names meant to last us all our lives,
After family, friend, or country (and oft for wishful hope).
Miranda Wright,
Cassandra Day,
Or Augustana Pope.
I could change my name to Matrix Random,
And it would fit so well,
It would improve my life, make me unique, and cast its own sweet spell -
But I would change it in a week,
For I’ll be different then than now.
Morrigan Walker,
Arian Tremain,
Vivica Vaulkner,
No name reflects who I’ll be again.

22V22 : I Envy the Girls

I’m jealous of the girls.
The ones that live in pleasant pairs,
White apartment walls dotted with color straight from their hearts.
I’m jealous of the girls with steady, girl jobs
New cars, and new clothes, and matching dishes.
I’m not ones of those girls;
Eager to grow up and spread out.
I’m jealous of their flings, and heartbreaks, too -
Life isn’t all candy, but I’d down the bitters just like you
To be anyone but me.
It’s not my torn clothes, old car, or crumbling brown walls.
It’s not about me, and never was.
It’s about you, over there in the light,
With your life full of things I can’t touch.
Your lack of choice that gives you a choice,
And how I see you choose to soar.
Although you cry and go to bed alone each night,
I envy even the silence of your bedroom.
To for once have something wholly mine;
To choose…
That would be a novel thing indeed.

Screen Saver

Hundreds of thousands of pictures
Girls, women, smiling; the sun on their faces.
Eating ice cream, wearing high heels or sandals
Basking in their youth.
Together, inseparable.
Tattooed skin kissed by the breeze,
Sweeping their careless hair off their perfect brows.
And here we sit, in the dark, with computer screens
Lighting our faces, turning us pale blue.
We are glimmering faeries here in the shadow.
I am blessed to be in the dark with you.

Partner

I am battle-worn,
Scarred from my straight black hair
To my scuffed, dirty shoes.
And as I stretch the scar tissue in my hands
Reaching out to hold yours,
Fresh skin rushes out through my veins
Enveloping my flesh in a mask of strength.
The only scars I see are yours.
When we touch, our soul-tight cloaks
Rip apart; thunderous, and our scars
Strike out through our fingertips,
Devouring each other.
Criss-crossed blue ropes of half-healed pain
Encircle our hearts and throats.
Coughing weakly, we talk about our day.

Someday

1,300 boxes
Stepping into each one is a memory.
My bare feet crush tea-coloured carpets,
And the floors creak with secrets.
1,300 boxes
Every one used, filled up, and stained.
In this box, over time;
Two desks, a bed, a chair, a puppy’s favorite hiding place.
My new chair sits where others once slept.
1,300 boxes
I take pictures of them all.
I want to show you, little one, where I lived when I first thought of you.
Where your mother cried and laughed and sang
When she was half a child herself.
1,300 boxes
Some are splattered with blood,
Some always clean and untouched,
And they feel empty today; each one is quiet.
Our breezes are made by open windows and clicking fans.
Our mop is a rag and cramping hands.
Our furniture is old and worn; we hardly have a thing that’s new.
But I hope, someday, that I’ll have you.
And you’ll grow up in a nice white house,
Wide windows, clean carpets, walls that aren’t broken and could hold up a shelf.
I’ll say goodbye to my boxes and start over for you,
Just as my mother once did, until someday in the far distant future,
You will crave something less than the hope you were given.
You may find a boy (or a girl, that’s fine too),
To help you build boxes away from the nest.
But I hope, oh I hope, that you do better than I -
If you must have your boxes, your tears, and your sighs,
Don’t let any old person put their mark down inside;
Those boxes are YOURS, and you should look at them with pride.
You stand in each one to look out at the rest,
And promise me, little one, you’ll give it your best.

And in that moment, We Saw

The one that always complains is just lonely,
The one that never complains wants to cry,
The poet’s dreams are of bloodshed,
And the metalhead dreams of the sea.
The young one wants to be older,
The older one wants to be free,
The quiet one’s life is a trainwreck,
So where does that leave you and me?
We float in a sea of redemption,
To reveal or to hide as we choose,
While we strive for digital perfection
To be judged, disregarded, ignored or abused.
The scars on my arms and the pain in your heart
Will fade, or perhaps fester, in time
And all that we are at the end of each day
Is an imperfect and incomplete rhyme.

Forgotten Wife

I clean a house that no man sees,
Scrubbing the dirt on my hands and knees.
Washing the linens and sweeping the floor,
I don’t want this life of mine no more.

I’m cooking these dinners I eat by myself,
Pulling my spices down from the shelf.
I’m a fine cook; I know that’s true,
But I miss those nights I broke bread with you.

Now I’m folding these clothes, and
Sewing up holes,
Walking the dog,
And scrubbing out bowls,
And I find myself saying “I just need a rest”
So I sit myself down with this weight in my chest.

I clean a house that no man remembers,
And I fear I’ll be here ‘til my fire is embers.
Locked in my house where no man must know
That I stay here inside ‘cause I forgot how to grow.

Rhymes for Little Girls

Lady-Bird, Lady-Bird, run away home;
Your heart is on fire, your self-image will burn.
All except one small thing,
It’s name is Self-Harm,
And it makes itself known by the marks on your arm.

Пустота

You taught me to be ugly
Many years ago.
I’ve tried my best
To act just fine
And never let it show.
-
My waist is too wide,
My hair too wild,
My hip bones won’t show,
With the face of a child.
-
I know you were wrong
I know I look alright
But your repetitive song
Keeps me up at night.
-
You don’t look like her,
As you clearly should want,
My mind is a mess,
My stomach in knots,
There are tears in my eyes;
My face strangely hot,
As I step on the scale - oh please let it lie!-
To step off again and, in earnest, cry.
-
‘I may have a problem’,
I say to myself,
As I put my first meal of the day
Back on the shelf.
-
You told me “be pretty”,
You told me “be sweet”,
And your definitions
made it harder to eat.
-
I stumble and trip when I get out of bed,
Just to lay on the floor
With your voice in my head.
When I had finally achieved
What you wanted to see,
My biggest flaw, you said, was that
I was me.
-
So you left with a girl as thin as a twig,
A comparison resembling a rose with a pig.
I didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, and I hated my life-
I managed to live;
Become another man’s wife.
-
My tears break his heart
When I cry on the floor
And tell him that I don’t feel alive anymore.
‘I might never have been’ is the secret I keep,
And I still feel your judgement
When I finally sleep.

Weaver

I know not how to sew a dress
Nor mend a net, Nor knit a shawl.
What I know is how to weave;
I’ll weave us fields of beauty
With adventures great and small.

The reds and gold are bright and bold;
A thousand crimson roses.
Blues and greens are finer things;
The streams and skies and mosses.

Of amaranth and lavender,
I’ve woven you a gown.
Frail as hope and strong as truth,
In which to dance upon the downs.

My fingers fly, but never snag,
These wispy twilight dreamings.
Bare-back rides and moon-pulled tides
Voices echo in the vales, adrift in sunlight streaming.

Fear

  And when I let the fear drive me
Down the treacherous highways
          of Life and Death,
it found me,
     grim,
Continuing to cling harder,
              and with such laborious ferocity,
that it quietly,
   and without malice,

Let me win.

The Kingdom

Within the realms of Time and Space
We find a plethora of worlds and words
Left floating; seas of character.
Small outposts, moving letters and waste;
A village full of toxic beasts
Whose flesh could shift the mortal coil
Its citizens die at their toil.
Twin countries made of smoke and air;
Home to dragons minute and sizable both.
Ruling City-state,
Lush and moist,
The hot currents of its rivers feeding
Life-force to the lesser vales.
And on Heavenly ascent we find
Grey mazes; twisting ether,
Home to by-gone philosophy and dead dreams -
A boundless archive of Myth.

Keyboard Defense

Ten were marching down the lane,
When five began to feel the strain.
They looked to their right and saw with shame
Their brethren did not feel the same.
-
“We could use a rest,”
Left’s leader cried,
“Our smallest soldiers’ all but died!”
The Right said nothing, just kept pace,
For them the march was a pleasant race.

Commander Right moved his men along,
Ignoring Left’s insistent song.
“You’ll never make them strong, Commander Left,”
He finally growled at Mid’s behest, “Perseverance is the test!”

Left gathered his men
and sat down for a smoke,
“I don’t know why he’s in charge;
Such a gruff sort of bloke.”

Downpour

The sky fell down upon my head,
And with it came the rain.
I sank into the carpet; cold,
Filled with creeping dread.

I raced and ran around the world,
with towels, rags, and lashes
To dry the rivers, plug the cracks,
And tie down all the hatches.

Wherever I had been a second past,
Another repair had gone askew,
So down I sat to catch my breath
To rise and try anew.

Warrior

Although I’m running,
Never forget the monsters I defeated,
For that is what allows me to run.
I may be crying,
But I’m laughing, too.
Maybe where you can’t see it;
That’s ok ‘cause it’s not for you.
And when I’m fighting,
And the blood runs down my back
I am truly happy
In the abyss so deep and black.

To Live, and Tremble

Gratefully weeping,
Tears nourishing my cracked skin;
Stinging pleasantly,
Reminding the cells that they live.
Though grey and wane,
I stumble on,
Gorging myself on the pain.

"Gamer"

Jeff is sitting at his Gamer Console 6000X, playing the Game. Most of his waking hours are spent playing, like most other people his age. It is a very respectable quality; his parents are understandably proud of him and always make sure he is well rested and has the very best console whenever a new one comes out. A lot of his friends have less than adequate Gaming rigs, so they never win any prizes at Tournament.

He has been playing the Game as long as he can remember, and winning just as long. In the beginning, other children laughed at his creations because they couldn't understand how they worked. These days, no one laughs. Other Gamers look up to him; even the ones that play for different Factions. Jeff's Faction is the most prestigious, and has brought his family a lot of respect. Scientists have studied his brain and told his family that he was born different; exceptional. Jeff feels that he was born to play the Game.

The Game has no set rules. Gamers are responsible for creating the most astounding things they can imagine, and at the end of each year, the best Gamers are called to Tournament to present their most amazing work of the year and receive prizes. Jeff's Faction is Life Forms. In his Faction, prizes are awarded for sub-categories such as “Difficulty of Environment” and “Highest Number of Life Forms” and “Sustainability”.

To date, Jeff has created three hundred million different types of Life Form; more than any other Gamer in history. At the very beginning of his Gaming career, he also had to create a sustainable place for his Life Forms to live.

Jeff chuckles to himself, remembering the look on his father's face when he saw the colors Jeff had chosen for the Life Forms' holding area. Father had blustered about the unnatural colors, but Mother whispered in his ear that it was beautiful.

Ever since Jeff beat the record for most creations, he has been refining his Life Forms; only creating new ones when he is struck with inspiration. Mostly his new ones are Destroyers, made to help control his other creations. His friend Moira, who plays in for the Celestial Faction, always turns up her nose when he tells her about his newest Destroyers. She says his Faction is too violent, and too sad. He likes Moira, but accepts that her mind just cannot comprehend the beauty and elegance destruction.

Today Jeff is testing a Destroyer he created to show at Tournament this year. He has created Destroyers like this one before, but since they do not fit into the Life Form parameters, the Indexers have never noticed them in his creation. No other Gamer has created anything like it. Jeff feels a bit desperate as he pulls up the Arbitrary Selector menu. He doesn't admit it, even to himself, but he is running out of ideas.

The Arbitrary Selector has highlighted a file name. Trembling slightly, he runs the program for his new Destroyer.

Charlene is dying. The doctors say that her tumors have spread throughout her body; into her bones and wrapping around her heart. She doesn't have very long, they say, so she should get her affairs in order while she still has a little strength.

Charlene has no affairs to put in order. She didn't even know she was sick until a few months ago. She doesn't understand this cancer. She knows everyone talks about it, and millions die from it, but she can't understand where it comes from. Doctors don't seem to know either. They tell her scientific things about cell growth, but dumb it down like she's some overgrown child. It doesn't matter; she feels like a child. If she had ever known her mother, Charlene suspects that she'd want to hold her hand right now.

Charlene is going to die, and hardly anyone knows she even lived.

Jeff sits back down after his light lunch. He left the program running while he ate, so now it's already burned through generation after generation. Jeff smiles; relieved. His new idea worked. He doesn't know why he doubted himself. The Tournament Judges, the Scientists, and his parents have been telling him all his life that he's the best there is. His new Destroyer is perfection, and he sends a message out to Moira through the game, the little light she Created for their communications zooming its way across the Viewer, hurtling away from his Life Form Holding Facility.

He runs the program Moira made to follow the message to her work space, enjoying the scenery at a distance. His facility is unique. No one else had thought to make one blue and green... or covered with water, for that matter.

Jeff's smile extends and is the embodiment of His world, His Game. He will astound the Tournament Judges again this year. He is the best, and He sees his work as perfection.