What Once Was Beauty…

from within the narrow tunnel
the howling paroxysm
of the sunspent sky
cunvulsions of hail & lightning
& all that had been, so subtle
so touched with that fair tip of
summer’s brush was blown wild & wide
with gaping seams torn, jagged gentle agonies tossed about like refuse
common became the corpse of such spendor

we sat, ragged & a little beyond,
in the netherworld, waking, but still finding the nightmare
lives & breathes, on & on


(Below, a small clip after it felt safe enough to return to the main floor after waking the kids & taking them to the basement) 


Our neighbour is a little wrecked up and that was the worst storm I’ve personally been in. Was super loud & super scary. Brief. But scary. Other parts of the city didn’t even get rain, while at our house it was so loud between the hail, the debris, the rain, and the wind I wasn’t sure that it wasn’t a tornado at the time. I was definitely concerned the willow would blow over. Had to get the kids out of possible harm’s way. Better safe than sorry. Made last week’s wind storm look like a sweet tree balet. I’ve never seen the trees bend that way. Wild weather these days. 

Not Once Was I…

Let me linger a moment, there in the pain of you; your lips trembled with a deep torture; your eyes fighting but losing the battle of loosing tears; your heart, I could literally see it dripping out of you, coming up your throat, sputtering & choking; the skin of you was heaving, barely remaining upon your bones; your mind had become a loud roaring hum of near obliteration; and not once was I healed by your pain. Not once was I skillfully, miraculously cured of my own agonies or my own sadnesses. Never have your tragedies made me triumphant.

Foreignity

watching this light—it is mine, this quality of ownership invades me & spirals out, encompassing 

I’ve no interest in this is your & this is mine & im foreign & you are native & this was theirs & then I stole it & then they lost & then we won, & ive no interest in stars or stripes or leaves or colours or ownership beyond a moment, the one now, where the trees have this particular sway, in this particular light, & this moment here, in this place, this is mine, this is mine, forever, this. is. mine. 

So Much Sun & So Much Rain

This constant equalizing
how it fades from one to the other
just to find itself in the other
the light pushing up the clouds
just to empty, just to shine
just to flood
like heaven & life & love
& the strange things of lore
rising storm to sky
to heart
like warmth whispers
to heat to sweat to
mist…& i’m not certain if
the cloud is beckoning or frightening
i’m not certain
but i know this heat
& i know the feel of wrinkled skin from just the rain, unsubmerged but entirely saturated
just like the colours that drench the inner walls of my soul, screaming,
light & dark
whirling…

Curing Angst

what soul doesn’t scourge itself
with slow sips of angst & butchered sadness,
gripping life a little white knuckled
fretting moments open
like littlw torn wounds
sitting hunched
eyes slanted to a ‘v’—a
well deserved pain posture
as we live on & on

the morning robins bursting
forth—a million echoes of what sweet short time remains
& then that small slice of dawn as
they hum down to a hush
how lovely, how lovely
as all the world forgets for a moment
the impossibilities of humanity

Deep Water

These warm wedges—from life’s hot turbulence
Super compressing the little bones
Until they’re eeking black & poison

To syphon it up & ooze
To explode & become the fire upon the water, unquenchable & hissing
Tongues licking out & breathing under the
Thick smoked sky

This is death’s door, wide & welcoming
A seat given to every venturing soul.
How we wish life were so welcoming, cool & smooth & luxuriant, & so so sweet, kissing us as in we come.

Realization & Agony

the warm echoes, they travel, spine to heart to mind
sense makes sense
& lips hold hope as sweetly as
they do kisses & embraces
of kindness & compassion

soft souls, sponging love
from off the floor, where sadness
could have blossomed
joy bursts forth

it is the last razored edge
that all birthing women know—that
last breath, barely keeping control as the pain waves harshest
the dread feeling of coming death
before the realization of life