Intuitively I knew to let it go before My mind fixated on it too much. Perhaps I could distract myself Entirely from my own insecurity that's Reaching it's clawed hand up From the pits of my stomach to scratch my Esophagus as though it's itching. Controlling the impulse is pointless because - Take that apostrophe and that space - I'm Perfect
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.
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.
This margarita Drank at a dozen a dime, Uses island lime
All the far places That the heart wishes to be Come with a price tag
I stood on a boat On an ocean oh so blue, Missing only you
I long for a break, End the mundane daily grind Just for a moment
We're Saving up Investing in sun, Sea, sand and frivolity: Us
Couples s w a y Waltz
Waltz C i r c l e Princesses
Princess C a p t i v a t e Ballrooms
Written in response to an Ampersand Prompt
We Got matching Tattoos And we laughed when they sketched them. The needles buzzed, But we didn't pay them any mind, We merely enjoyed their sensations. When the guns were pulled back Our hearts had matching hourglasses, But yours was half empty, And mine almost full. We assumed an artistic difference Nothing more And delighted gleefully, Content being forever linked. I didn't see that last grain, But it fell faster than mine.
My Dearest Armistead, I hate saying you were right, But you were. The smile on my face Was a temporary mask That has been peeling away Ever so slowly. My insecurity has bled through The white linen robes of my naivete And caused me to run to dark corners To bleach them clean before anyone sees them. Perhaps one could blame Our re-acquaintance; Nonetheless, I fear this feeling, It, would be dreadfully lonely without you. My eyes feel extremely drowsy, But they are failing to rest. My mind feels heavy and intoxicated By the recurring nightmare of emotion, It haunts my every waking hour. And my heart is too preoccupied With its' reminiscing Wo live with the rest of me. Armistead, You have trailed us back Through every corner of our suffering And imagined them feats of ink. Do you not see these moments Are open wounds? They are the episodes in our life That we wrap up in neat little stories To hide the scars they are transcribed with. Yet, for some reason, I have removed the bandages And allowed you to lick and To gorge at the fresh lacerations. That grief you see Sat upon my shoulders It is ours to share. Are you prepared to split the burden? Because Armistead, It will continue to grow. Lovingly, Armistead
My Dearest Armistead, What has kept you for all this time? Has the pen weighed too heavily in your hand? Did the words seem too fleeting to write? I hope you were happy. We shared such dark times before, Times that only a writer and their mask can share. Are we picking up where we left off, Broken and shattered? Or have some pieces been reassembled? Let’s hope this glue is stronger. I see your life is very different now. You carry more grief upon your shoulders. I worry Armistead, will those shoulders hold? And your smile, how long 'til it fades again? Aren’t you scared? We tend to bring out the worst in each other, Focus on the wretchedness of your life, And rip the last bandages away, Exposing the emptiest parts of your soul. Oh how I have missed you. Now, Armistead, Let’s get to work again, shall we? Regards, Armistead.
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 Poet Armistead 