Grey: A Poem


tumblr_oiwqofn3kj1r89gcuo1_1280

She possessed a certain softness,
a particular fleece of the soul––
the sort of gentleness that would open up for you
the way a great grey cumulonimbus
splits its blustery darkness
to make way for hot rain.
The wool of her spirit
was not that of the sheep––
it was sheered from a ram
in a lightning storm, woven
by Rumpelstiltskin into the semblance
of a turtleneck sweater,
concealing the howling electricity
of the wind and the crackle
of the lightning and the fiery scratch
of the hoof––indignant, defiant, newly naked––
against the crisp beige
of the long-droughted grass.

Advertisements

As the Raindrops Spill from My Lips: A Poem


summer-rain-on-the-flowers-hd-wallpaper-download-summer-rain-images-free

You feel the summer land on your skin
after sailing such a chilly ocean.

Which parts of the air breathe cold?
Is it warmer where the water has planted kisses
or where the droplets have left your skin untouched?
Is the sky most beautiful at its grey peak
or in the shadows beyond the evergreens?
Does it bother you when the rainy breeze
rushes with embrace?

Is this not the spot where, a blink ago,
you stared into the tumbling night,
and wondered which stars drifted in lightyears
and which in inches?
Is this not the same breathless winter moment,
the same unmoving movement,
the same stillness in heavenly butterflies,
the same ponderings of hot and cold?

You know there is no land nor chilly ocean.

You know this is the love I promised you.

Gray: A Short Story


IMG_20141212_042618The sky is like nothing else. It is gray; it is dark; it sinks low with an impending storm.

The same could be said about the hollow eyes of the boy who sits next to me on the couch. He says very little. Around a warm and freshly empty mug he wraps his chilly, colorless fingers: fingers I have known well. I have known them on my shoulder, on my cheek, embracing my back. They are poised, and posed: so very, very still.

I can hardly see him breathe, and hardly believe him to be alive. Only for those split seconds when his eyelids allow themselves to be heavy, does he regain his color. His eyes were a different flavor of gray, once.

It seems all of him is gray now, from his frosty lips and dry skin, to the pale, distressed hair he attempts to keep hidden. The bags under his eyes hold the only color on his person.

As his gray body concentrates wearily on the world outside, his mind plays with the thin slice of paper that sits in front of him, crinkling it and throwing it away. Words are asleep on that paper, words scrawled with skinny lines in a faint manuscript. They are words that will not wake again for a very long time; the eyes that were meant to read them have closed.

I move closer to him, inches at a time. Although my focus remains outside the window, my cornerstone is next to me, on the couch. He offers no response when my arm, cautious, folds around him, but he lets his head lean into mine when it lands gently on his shoulder. He is so very still, contemplative and drowning in an ocean I cannot know. My empty hand finds his fingers, pulling them away from the cup, which has lent them no warmth. With every candle in my soul, I try to burn through to him.

“I loved you, you know.”

He cries now the way he has always cried: slowly at first, and then like a storm. He is an ashen raincloud, dropping his elixir to tap on my windows, shaking me, bleaching the whole world gray.

Softer than the Rain: A Poem


mikki window edit

cool me

hush me

blanket the sky, every inch, the wind is your breath

 

i remember your cheek and my abdomen

your eyes, closed and soft

blonde hair, delicate lips

 

did you ever notice

how the clouds grow heavy and low

before they drop the rain?

 

you brushed my plush ribbed sides

with gentle, gentle fingers

the water tickled the window, a quiet rapping

 

you held me with your eylashes

caressed my collarbone

with your sleeping hush

 

did you ever notice

how it quilted the sky gray?

did it keep you going?

 

every note i took

was pressed into the chilly glass

we made a fossil record

 

infinite, boundless

deliberate

gentle, hoping

 

slow, careful, cautious

reaching, studious

exploring, exploding

Supercell: A Poem


The clouds envelop the sky

like a gaping mouth seizing prey

and make the world a subtle shade of dinge

that looks like blue

but is grey,

the lightning cackles from

a place miles from here and

turns the darkness back to day for

a fraction of a second.

I drink in the thunder,

and it fills me down into my toes,

and other parts where the sun rarely touches down

even pouring some of its heavy honey

into my eyes and

bringing out the definition

of the shadows on the pavement and on the leaves.

The low winds whistle on

their journey through the awnings,

leaving a hollow noise

to balance out the ripples

of the raindrops splashing in their own puddles

and the glare of the moon

is blanketed by sheets and sheets of cloud

that fold over and around themselves

like a dance

performed by endless numbers.

This is where I feel at home,

with the rustling noises, and the smell

of things becoming damp then

soaked, with the vision of

quilts of clumsy lace and horizontal

pellets, the feeling

of not knowing, of being

alone and afraid and in a cage and other things that are mysteriously pleasant,

the rolls of rumbling

filling and satisfying

to the last drop.

I am not a torment,

I am a misunderstood wave of love and

in a storm I find

that I am not so lonely in

being the way I am

and so I follow it East

kept warm by comfort

until the light filters back in.

clouded horizon


this is my front porch.

there is a little bit of rain

and it drizzles

down to the ground.

there are about

five of us here

and we are all keeping our

papers dry

by hiding under the awning.

there are sporadic

erratic

clouds overhead

like a few cotton balls

dotting the sky.

but combined,

and further back,

they create the monster

a thunderhead

booming in the distance.

i know that this cloud

will bring rain

and fury and might

but looking at it i can’t help

but realize

it is my friend.

the horizon is pink and gray

and not a natural

blue

but it is beautiful.

and i cannot wait for the nighttime rain.

but i must wait for the legerdemain.