martinspired {working title}

in the hollow of the hazel
cellar cedar copper silver,
slivers broken on the shore
of burnished vespers, evensongs
tipping fulsome, ever twirling
off to moments caught in breathing,
we exhale blooming cartridges
of scented pure thought.

i never shift a single stone
in building what we stand on,
though i hold up open palms
in soft and silent wishing wanting.
we drift through silly seasons
full of keeping, hoarding, hiding,
till not a single stone is standing
where it was when we were starting.

i tremble at the terror taught
by tiny forms afleeting,
learning late what really matters
as they shuffle from the coil.
little fists a balled in desperation
of an easy birthing,
never meant to grasp whatever
little life was to be given.

between the splendid mess
of coiled cables, tubes and vials.
all the terror of the miles of words
unwinding weaves away.
what is left is all the essence
artistry had sought to circle,
left to rollick off on wings
lifted high by summer storms.

often early times are held
in sacred raptures golden aura,
shining solemn in the darkness
of our own days vain disgrace.
though peering any closer sights
a cracked and splintered seeming,
the holes of which are leaking
hazy molten copper hues.

so to grasp the understandings
we elope to times of dreaming,
where spirits set to dancing
catch a cadence of themselves.
in that hollow of the hazel,
cedar cellar, copper silver,
slivers brake there, on the shore,
of burnished vespers; evensongs.

you know that feeling when you miss place your journal or some such thing, one of your creative repositories, yeah, not good.

i had to go through one of the hardest times of my life to get this poem, and even though it was only temporarily missplaced i was jolted when i found and read it again, god i hate to think if i had lost this, until they invent digital fire i'll just be putting these things here...



there's a little mouse hiding in my top pocket.
and every time I see you he shrinks and hides,
curling up to nibble nervously on a kernal from a sunflower.
he trembles and he draws in closer,
until he feels the beating of my heart,
regular rythym lulling him
to sleep
and with a mouthful of dry seed
he drifts into dream.

in this dream he lives under our couch,
in a house with no taps, where we are together once more.
he watches us come and go,
watches us argue
and make love
and sob into our pillows
til our heads ache.

and when he wakes up he's choking on the dry food in his mouth,

but he listens,
and the calm, steady rythym of my heart lets him know,
that everything is okay.

and as he begins to drift once more he's struck by the thought,
that once,
he did live under a couch,
and he can't remember if the dream

was actually a memory?

but he's too tired


and he can't remember



and he sleeps




and he dreams

and forgets...