Tag Archives: poem

Antique

I collect old things,

For there is something about holding items

That have lived far more than I.

Books barely refraining from blowing into dust

To swirl in the air with the dinosaurs

Wood so ingrained with history of conversations

They echo voices in my room

Emotions embedded in figurines of ceramic

Cracks in enamel like topography

Boxes that once house diamonds and pearls

Their impressions left in velvet linings

The jewels themselves reflect ghosts of the past

Faces shining in every facet

Because all of these items are haunted in their own way

Their lives as much a story as their owners

They have, by being, encouraged

Love, friendship, and all forms of passion

To arguments, hatred, and crime

They have stood as silent witnesses

And they take their secrets to their inevitable end.

Storms

If I am silent

It is because there is thunder growing inside me

Filling clouds with striking electricity

It is the quiet before the storm

The church’s warning bells ringing.

If I am silent

It is because the tide pulls back from the shore

Before it crashes in tsunami waves

It is the drought before the flood,

The fisherman’s knowledge of superstition.

If I am silent

There is no tranquility behind my closed mouth

My complacency is a crumbling facade

It is a dangerous thing

The calm amidst the encroaching chaos.

The Mother

She gives life,

Her wind blowing breath into every cell

Her branches are a warm embrace

Her roots, stability

She is old as time and young as a seedling

Ancient and new

Wise 

and unforgiving

For she is cruel as well as kind.

Her power shakes the very mountains she has built,

Crumbling summits and felling forests

Covering civilizations in smoke and ash,

Scorching beasts with flame and frost alike.

Uncharted and unexplorable

Her vast and hidden beauties intrigue,

Inspire 

Driving men mad with longing for her.

Steady as the stars above,

Burning her fire for thousands of years

Yet fickle

Turning summer into storms.

Through plague and fire,

War and death,

After man’s maliciousness lays

Decomposing into fertility 

The Mother will remain;

She who is Maiden, Mother, and Crone, 

Dread Morrigan 

And Goddess,

The great Mother will endure.

Cycle of (Un)love

Love starts with drops of honey-nectar,

Spilling from heated cheeks

To feed the butterflies

Fluttering inside my chest.

Slowly, nectar turns to morning mist,

Beat into hurricanes by butterfly wings

Swirling, twirling, a nauseating dance

Settling inside my belly.

Mist begins to morph into an icy wind,

Blown into my nervous system

Fibers brittle to the point of breaking

Freezing blood and bone marrow.

Ice melts into briny rivers

Running down your cheeks and

Dripping down to drown the butterflies

That once fluttered in my chest.