Posted on by authorialintentions

Shards

 

 

I found a piece at the foot of the cherry tree.

Ever so slightly, the rounded worn tip peeked

out from the earth. The rest of it hid; nestled,

embedded and muddied by the soiled years.

 

I found a piece wedged in a concrete slab.

Buried deep in dust in a hairline crack.

I must have dropped it when I lost my fear

of the crane flies that danced drowsily

in arcs across the path.

 

I found a piece stored in the corner of the varnished frame.

Flush to the portraits flat back, pinned against the virgin wall,

trapped behind stained times. I must have saved it there,

when I fled from him, and raced up the stairs.

 

All these shards

scattered through

the years of the past.

I did not gather them up.

I did not reclaim them,

or take them in.

Nor did I devour them.

I left them there

in their shallow graves

where I alone

can grieve them.

I let them remain

and kept them safe;

like scars, like stains,

like sharpened bones

at home on secret,

sordid thrones.

 

Posted on by authorialintentions

Six Hours

In six hours, I have destroyed and devoured you, and bolted down my core from your rearranging ways. I have invited you in, only to send you away. I have cooked, bathed and blessed you; built an empire for two. I’ve ran my finger up and down your spine, countless times.

 

In six hours, I have waited at the front row, waited at home. I have been your devil at 3am, your lover all night, and the source for you other women advice. I’ve thrown some knives, and caught none. I have woken up next to you, in my mind, a hundred times.

 

In six hours, I have loved you for a lifetime, and left you a million times. I’ve frozen up, given up, and held you up to the light to check for imperfections. I’ve discounted you over and over. I’ve recounted your skin, scoured your bright surface for sin and found some, but none that dims the shine.

 

In six hours, I’ve written Fanmail, scrubbed out lines… said everything, and nothing, and rehearsed goodbyes. I’ve been yours, been twenty-five, been more your type, been the perfect wife, and seen that we’re nothing alike. I’ve loved in the face of your pain, polished your framed fame and burned in the flames of your fever.

In just six hours, I have thawed in seconds, melted in minutes, and evaporated into your incredible.

 

 

Posted on by authorialintentions

The Lie

 

Time does not heal a thing.

All those wise types with comforting

Voices in soft, sympathetic tones,

Declaring the magic of time.

Well, they lie.

Time heals nothing much.

Time is not magic.

It is what it is. An invention.

If the wound is scratched often enough,

Day by day-

How can anything heal?

The scab picked at, mithered over,

Almost healed. Pretending to heal.

Itching from underneath.

If you are lucky, the damage site does not spread,

You are left with a scaly silver streak that once wept

A blot that time only teases at.

A constant reminder, but mocking time.

Deceptive, aching, viscious time,

Does not really heal a thing.

Posted on by authorialintentions

The Bird Book

It was the colour of the kingfisher that I recalled most clearly:

the grainy blue-green hue imperfectly contained in frayed lead lines.

It came to mind when they returned its weight to me:

some swooping bright image, perched on a river-side stump.

And I thought of your bones, and this book:

all I had of you, heavier than the bones of you,

but really only just a papery ghost of you.

I soon felt the true meaning:

The only meeting place we’d ever had

was at the page where the blue-green

bird was sat.

 

Posted on by authorialintentions

Hour’s Up

Hour’s up.

 

That’s it.

Time’s over.

 

Shifting bones rise from dents in the sofa.

Remember where you are?

Then call back all those released

thought beasts, back to the cage.

Peel them away from the walls,

present and bold as before; restored.

Take back their freedom,

and slam the cage door.

 

 

Posted on by authorialintentions

AGL & DVL

 

Angles aligned as I was looking away.

Now I, returning to myself, find

a gravity, pulling at every part of me.

Even as the force of feathers stings,

Angels lean in, and sing:

“Don’t sin”

 

 

Denounce bright light, slip down, nestle in;

Enticed by the beat of blackened silk wings.

Via the dark path of the deadly dance, I’ll bring

immensity, intensity; the lover’s best scene.

Devils lean in, and whisper:

“Don’t scream”

 

 

 

Posted on by authorialintentions

Falling

 

I

see

no wood for the trees,

just limits and loss

and falling leaves;

falling for me.

 

You see

falling for me

as a mournful breeze

that cries at the cost

of the ultimate loss,

of me.

 

I see

an autumn scene

that tip-toed its trust

on the branches above,

for the promise of love,

and turning of us,

to we.

 

We see

well-seasoned lust

that sits on the cusp

as day turns to dusk

to dream, to greet,

the falling asleep

of us.

 

We see

no scene to believe,

no sign of reprieve,

just green turned to grief

as dying leaves

wilt under trees,

for us.