In wholly night

a path to a star
the desire to go
far beyond our
own burning sun

what sits atop
an evergreen mount
to beckon or tease
through the trees

a future bright
burning in the dark
that light may grow
and shine evermore

these heralds drift
through the night
with foreign voice
a known lullaby

in coldest of airs
a flickering flame
a vessel of star
from further than far

what will be born
the hope so near
far beyond our
own burning sun

what burns there
in coldest of airs
in unseen sight
in wholly night

Birthday butter

art was disgusting to her
when it wasted materials
that could be used elsewhere
to help the poor or
feed the hungry
or when it lost all
practicality and only
took up space needed
for something more

she realized this while
cutting a stick of butter
and reflected on a film
she saw of Tibetan monks
sculpting butter into
elaborate figures and
designs to celebrate the
birth of Lord Buddha
which made her think
of all the energy spent in
creating the same beauty
to celebrate the birth of
her Lord Jesus Christ

supposedly saviors she
thought to herself while
cutting the butter into
the flour for a pie crust
putting aside her project
she spied her pill box
she remembered she forgot
and popped open the cell
for the day, spilling the pills
into her cupped palm
the tiniest pill contained
both heaven and hell in
its minute chemical cosmos
but no nirvana was found there

Snow prints

these tracks

this script of travel

whose part to play

in returning

or never leaving 

in the first place

what has been gained

gleaned from these prints

left in the fallen snow

that lead off

and away

into the cold

why do they wish

for something that way

when here is okay 

at least indifferent

when all the world

is the same white

who calls to them

beckons in the frozen veil

memoirs of warmth

written on the ground

in their path

the remains

where is their home

when sweeps the wind

and the script is gone

will the story linger

teeter til the end of time

and then...

Wormwood's blink

the quiet chaos in the cosmos
fell to earth
stretched out upon the stones
the cold grey flesh

with motionless words amidst
the forest of brittle bones
the sky so white
it consumed the land

in unspoken form
the listless chaos blinked
when the world was torn
and the moon burned

a torch in the night
fell to earth
bathed in the silver seas
until none were left

feather words flew both
day and through the night
mocking birds were
they in fiery flight

their kiss upon a cheek
melting, pooling
upon the cold numb stones
offering for the grey flesh

the dying angel's pulse
fell to earth
winds sweeping frozen ash
over the pointless stones

incinerated words crumble
a powdery language waits
for tears, or rain, or lustful drool
the x in the equation

while the dazed chaos
sits in the forest of bones
takes a drag and exhales
"Damn, I missed it"

A firry perspective

their gnarled hands hunted

through the snowy night

tearing through the silent air

to sink their blade into

their unknowing prey

still, the victim standing

blind to the nearing threat

as the savage beasts crept

out of view with drawn blade

a sudden swing for metal

to savor the victim's limbs

and sweep after sweep

the ax sung in the silent air

until the final groan 

and fall of the victim there

onto the frozen ground

dragged away into the night

the gnarled hands patted 

the heads of their offspring's

children upon returning 

with the victim from the silent air

eyes gazed at the sight

on that cold December night

the body propped up in the room

in the candle light and calm

as the gnarled hands sang

O Tannenbaum

Wars we've worn

those wars we've worn
the claw marks lovers
wear on their backs
the pain of seemingly
crowded atoms in
space minuscule in
the echoing hollows of space

but what is shared or
fought over more often
is the fleeting wink of
a cat sitting at the window
a collision between
raindrops and pavement
a moment that adulterates
in pools of maimed memories

and the winks and
collisions and moments
are too numerous even
for those fingers that
sit and count infinite
and still we wear our
wars for grains of sand
which can never be held
in any one hand

Snow and window

spittle of frozen elders
dribbles down the cold
cheeks of the window
the glass remembers its
burning liquid youth
and fondly reminisces
while it sags in the
weathered sashes

the bones creak in
the walls and ceiling
as the building sighs
in age and cold and pain
northern nightmares
pierce the skin as
harpoons of Inuit
whalers dive deep
through ice shelves

the invisible beasts
leap from limb to limb
in the trees overhead
and rush the ones
that line the lane that
leads to the fields and
the fading horizon

Sown seeds

in porous earth the seeds have been sown

a winter wait to see what will grow

the chosen fruit not normally sought

to so easily ripen, too easily rot

the will will wait within the ground

in the freeze and shell be bound

a patience must for the time we wait

'til life emerges through a warmer gate

which leaves will pierce an April sigh

will they offer offense or be an ally

will their tendrils invade to creep and choke

a bane to all of what was spoke

will their buds blossom and be many

will their fruit differ to nourish plenty

the seeds are sown, the deed is done

time is fleeting in the southern sun

Bee a thought

if thoughts were bees
the hives would all be empty
that sit upon their vulturous shoulders
peering out into the desolate sea
they've created in their honeyless lives
with their empty hives

the monsters and bears
have licked the bowl clean
and demand more and more

down you paint your face
before the inflated giants
who radiate with chemical smiles

oily cake is all they serve
at their red born banquets
of which hogs will have none

what they won't sweep under
the rug or waves of  the sea
all they've milked of bee pee

they cheer their army of marionettes
into public squares or out their orifice
to overlook what now is naught
so soon the death of bees
the death of thought

Dear November

In case you didn't remember,
it's after Halloween.
We should have thrown out
all the rotten pumpkins by now.
It appears, however, that all
those October fears have
bled into your time
and still wildly roam free.

In case you didn't remember,
your time is for gathering.
It's for making food that
has been anticipated
during all the other months.
It's for taking stock in
what makes life worth living.
In other words,
it's for thanks giving.

In case you didn't remember,
those nightmares
should be behind you.
The ghosts and cobwebs
should've been all swept away.
We need to make room for
turkeys and cranberries,
even presents for Christmas day.

In case you didn't remember,
get over it November.