Spirit of the Sprite

The day has too few a sunrise to explore
But the innumerous colours are counted
In ritual along the distant early skyline anyway. 
Beyond the principle of merely being, 
There's the principle of endless sight seeing
Fluttering on the delicate iridescent wingtip. 
Although all sights are born of intrinsic good, 
Reality requires a respite of recuperation
So the sprite may realign it's own energies. 

Wrapped in nature's most pastoral gifts
The sprite feasts on the bounty of true justice:
Nourished by the fundamentals of harmony
So it may be vibrant in passionate expression.
Though delicate to the lowly observing eye, 
The spirit of the sprite is bodaciously hardy,
Fearlessly inspired by the very air it breathes:
Time had tested itself, and failed to win battle
Against the ethereal protector of land and sea.

Breccia

A beautifully imperfect creation, 
Mottled in angst and frustration,
Capturing stray drops of sunlight
To warm you on the colder nights. 
The open evening air calls you
To gain that moment of solitude
Between the sediments of thought
Lined and calmed in melodies. 
You don't absorb or reflect
When bathing in the day's light, 
But refract polychromatic splendour
Through your fused shrapnel.
Each playing piece considered and
Placed within the web of fragments
Builds a mosaic of endurance:
A tenacious testament of truth, 
Boldly embraced through fractures
And acknowledged reality splinters. 
The weathered debris of survival
Formed you a formidable warrior
Encased in your own clast armour:
Sharply witted within awareness, 
Yet dynamically poised, prepared 
For metamorphic elevation.

Faithless Grief

I’m faithless and unashamed 
For God did not give us grief.
Love manipulated our trust
So that chance could gamble
With the futility of our existence,
Ripping the tense velcro bonds
Of hearts grown together.

I applaud it’s gamesmanship,
For it doesn’t laude it in our faces
By any means other than simply
Gathering the grim and gaunt
In coats of greyed gaberdine.
Long coats hanging as if empty,
Made black from the heart’s rain.

I am faithless and entirely alone,
But still gesticulating to the air:
An open chested final demand
To give back the gift of grief
That greeted me at this graveside.
Need I be a god-fearing glossolalist
To return this heartbreak?

75ml Measures

We got plastered on the mezzanine.
Giving even less shits than before
With cheap shots that burnt like kerosene

Splitting prescription amphetamine
Into servings of six, eight or four,
We got plastered on the mezzanine.

Supplementing lacking dopamine
Pretending we wanted to feel more
With cheap shots that burnt like kerosene

On the childlike side of something-teen
With store rooms of baggage to ignore
We got plastered on the mezzanine.

Steadily making more of a scene
Baiting ourselves to even the score
With cheap shots that burnt like kerosene

These moments dipped light in sertraline
Revisited in flashbacks galore
We got plastered on the mezzanine.
With cheap shots that burnt like kerosene

Having ‘That’ Conversation Again

My Dearest Armistead,


Is life a perpetual cycle? 
Because everything seems 
To be happening repeatedly. 
I found myself, again, 
Engaging in 'that' conversation. 

The conversation where 
I hold another person's life. 
The conversation where 
There is only one chance 
To do the right thing. 

I can only hope 
I made the proper choice, 
But I dread that with each cycle 
I am a step closer 
To getting it wrong. 
It seems inevitable that 
I will have blood on my hands 
From being unable 
To do enough 
Or get there quickly.

Every time I have 'that' conversation; 
I am left empty, 
Wishing I could have spoken to him. 
Wishing that I could have soothed him. 
Wishing that he was here, 
And it was all a horrid nightmare.

Why can't someone else 
Accept the burden for a while? 
Why does it have to be me?

Yours,
​Armistead.

The Woman Wore Purple

​I had spent many hours with her,
​Both young and grown.
I had grown beside her kin,
With a mother who shared her blood.
 
She was reckless in my mother’s eyes,
Wild as the wind that she flew on.
A woman who lived by no law,
But by principle of her own heart.
 
She near always smiled at me,
And she laughed at my cynicisms.
We drank several nights away,
At the bar, or on the step of a shop door.
 
Like many young, I fled the nest,
Spread my wings for lands afar,
Leaving them all behind me,
But visiting with growing infrequency.
 
On my return there would be happy reunion,
Drinks, songs, smokes, smiles, laughs.
Gatherings of the now grown and their young,
Besides our elders now older once more.
 
But time did fly by quicker,
And 15 months seems to blink fast.
And soon I am beckoned back,
Returning to see her again.
 
My mother, as always,
Holding the hands of my family,
As a means to hold their souls, their bodies,
And their strength, in an upwards fashion.
 
Me, smiling through, as taught,
Showing that the living are not afraid.
I hold her hair 'twix my fingers,
And braid in flowers as we laugh.
 
I roll her smokes, before my own,
The legality of them questionable,
As she waves between here and there,
Jittery with fear of being wedded.
 
I paint over the hollowing skin,
Lighten her sunken eyes,
With a mixture of tones, pigments,
Creams and powders, brushes and sponges.
 
The clocks strikes and the camera clicks,
She grins as she is wheeled along,
I press the button as she makes vows,
Promises to be short lived and kept.
 
We drank, we smoked, we laughed,
I sang, for she couldn’t any longer,
I walked for her, towing the chair,
And navigated with care and fear.
 
Family gathered, united, strong again,
Smiling at the simple pictures I captured,
Wondering at the beauty of her,
Of her soul, of her love.
 
The woman wore purple,
As a bride, draped in purple and white,
As a mother, through waking night,
As my aunt, when hugging me tight.
 
The woman wore purple,
And when I saw her last, she wore it still.
Though I’ll never see her again,
I know the woman wears purple.

The Guitarist

He stands upon his stage, 
Guitar in hand. 
With no introduction, he plays. 

Fingers perform a double speed foxtrot, 
Teasing notes with finesse. 
Bouncing harmonics with flare, 
As he cascades the frets. 

He stops. pauses. Soaks in applause. 
He changes his tuning, 
He changes his presence, 
Encapsulating his audience softly. 

Without warning, a palm-muted strum
Races against the previous timing, 
Deep, trembling chords shake 
In between the rhythmic pattern, 
Tattooing their sound in the ears 
Of all those it teases. 

Then, without a strum, 
The notes stream down the mountain, 
Quenching the thirst of the dehydrated. 
The second hand joins, 
The current ebbs in a new direction, 
As the intensity builds. 

Serenity concludes this piece. 

He takes a seat upon the stage, 
Looks upon his worshippers, 
Momentarily. 
But then dedicates all attention, 
To the curved bust on his lap, 
Trails his fingers along her elongated neck, 
Tempting new notes from her strings. 

The double handed caress, 
Leaves her trembling melodies, 
Harmonies, scales and patterns. 
Her wooden form obliges, 
Becomes slave to her master, 
And ensnares all who hear her pleasure. 

The sound reaches its climax, 
Leaving a room full of onlookers, 
Satisfied, sated and desiring more. 

The guitarist bows, 
And says 'thank you '

Over Coffee

Come on in.
Tea? Coffee?
Ah, coffee, good choice.
I'll just top up the cafetiere.

Your pictures,
Serve you but little justice,
You're attraction,
Is in the eyes,
Not the red reflection.

Your mannerisms,
Most enticing,
And the level of ease,
The flow of conversation,
Magnificent.

Over a coffee,
I learned you,
Realized your significance,
The role you play,
In my small life.
The options you open,
The knowledge you offer.

Over a simple coffee,
We laughed,
Smiled together.
Enjoyed the bliss,
Of casual conversation

Internal Anguish

For so long I've formed pain,
Held it within my four walls,
Within the structure of myself.

I learned this to be unhealthy,
Destructive to my personality,
So I believed expression was key,
To let it all flow freely,
Unfiltered, from my lips.

You encouraged me to talk,
I reciprocated such action,
Believing you willing to listen,
And knowing my ears are open.

As I learned to open up,
Began to find release,
I faced judgement, more pain.
You couldn't deal with what I held back.

I'll be no fool again, like this,
All previously thought progression,
Now clearly regression.
So I apologize for my blindness.

I'll not let the world know my pain,
I'll keep my internal anguish,
Even if I crumble inside, then out,
It must be less than external hate.

I'll retreat back to myself,
Keep in my bubble, where I'm safe.
Never to be scolded again,
By a fire that others fuelled.

I'll embrace my internal anguish,
Understand it as my only companion,
Never to be betrayed by tongues,
Relaying information untrue,
Or turned, or twisted, or even honest.
People cannot cope with my pain,
So I'll no longer seek advice.

Divorcing Deceit

Where does the honest value lie?
You measure it with paper,
The weight of metal in your pocket,
Disregarding the real appraisal.
Happiest to assign digits to all things:
Interaction: reduced to a number,
Friendship: summed up by addition.
You see price tags above our heads,
Exploitation in our situations,
Yet opportunity in our kindness.
To give and give freely,
Is not possessed in your nature,
I'm almost certain of it.
You miss the enjoyment of value,
When mercenary needs control,
To take and take greedily,
Is to abuse the true treasures:
People