Acutely aware of the trembling hold
I lay claim to on that rickety Trellis
Two times my foot falters, my goal still unaltered
It's that window or the whip of the mistress
A moon just as tall as the good Reverend Paul
and as bright as the eyes of my pony
Mama says when its full we come straight home from school
While the housewives find courtesans for stoning
Spurts of jubilant laughter escape cherry lips
dripping down, sounding sweet as molasses
feet rubbed black with ash born of bonfires past
Stains stubborn as three pairs of jackasses
Rose bushes and briers cut my feet like barbed wire
Us grown boys don't mind them so much
Come morning me and Grace, we're both gonna be eight
And mama promised me peach pie for lunch
Slithering legs, lithe from boy's play
make it in two strides up to her bedroom
She straddled the sill, trussed in nightgown and frills
Climbing back down to prance with the moon
All night we ran just as young children can
and we conjured up pirates and treasure
Tonight's tryst was a secret,and we both swore to keep it
A forbidden and dangerous pleasure
She shimmied quick up those vines, just a nick before five
And i whistled my way through the forest
I'm officially eight not a minute too late
Cause I'm in love with that girl, Gracie Norris.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Blemished- ABBY
a gem of hidden beauty lying dead within herself, those memoirs of a life well lived sit dusty on a shelf. the foundation of a house well-built, the straining seams of time, a beauty nature calls her own with a touch from the divine.
farther from the thought of peace, than she has ever wandered, a haughty gaze and fallen tears have pushed her demons onward.
a weed within the garden that besides her shines perfection~~~and in the well of all things dying, she glimpses her reflection.
Rock me to sleep, Oh mother earth, for what more is there than rest? when the ones we gather to ourselves reject our open breast.
A throb of cut emotion and of newfound sight at birth, pride regained and joy relived as we bathe ourselves in mirth.
farther from the thought of peace, than she has ever wandered, a haughty gaze and fallen tears have pushed her demons onward.
a weed within the garden that besides her shines perfection~~~and in the well of all things dying, she glimpses her reflection.
Rock me to sleep, Oh mother earth, for what more is there than rest? when the ones we gather to ourselves reject our open breast.
A throb of cut emotion and of newfound sight at birth, pride regained and joy relived as we bathe ourselves in mirth.
Untitled- ABBY
Callous hearts that draw us in
to a place where all is broken
and pressing on into the night
our deepest wills are spoken
We have no hope within ourselves
except what we've created
and we bring our souls, in tune; as one
and find our hearts elated
And in this place so far removed
we set our demons free
and allow ourselves to bathe within:
a deep and bloodstained sea
A sea where all our sins are poured
and flow over at the brink
and with endless thirst we stoop to hell
and stop there for a drink
salvation chooses only those
who have something left to give
so here our kind are left behind
with no life left to live
a heart beat; still and shallow
in the hollow chest of love
grows fiercer in the darkness
as the soul is caught above
to a place where all is broken
and pressing on into the night
our deepest wills are spoken
We have no hope within ourselves
except what we've created
and we bring our souls, in tune; as one
and find our hearts elated
And in this place so far removed
we set our demons free
and allow ourselves to bathe within:
a deep and bloodstained sea
A sea where all our sins are poured
and flow over at the brink
and with endless thirst we stoop to hell
and stop there for a drink
salvation chooses only those
who have something left to give
so here our kind are left behind
with no life left to live
a heart beat; still and shallow
in the hollow chest of love
grows fiercer in the darkness
as the soul is caught above
Sunday Pennance- ABBY
a line between the pages
a word thats rarely spoken
a maid who drops her very soul
in the sunday pail as token,
for all the sins she can't erase
and the pain that she can't ease
hoping that her sacrifice
will earn her some release.
and from the grave of one i loved
a whisper breaks the glass,
between the present, where i sit,
and the childhood of my past
it takes me back
to a time in life
before i fell for him
before i sacrificed myself
on the alter of his sins
and i recall
with growing clarity
the things that i have lost
and the countless times ive nailed my heart
to a self inflicted cross
and reminding me of endless nights
where death has drawn me in,
enticing me with offers
of forgiveness from within.
and as the breeze draws nearer
and the bloodlust fills my eyes
the brazen scales are lifted,
and i finally realize;
that the world to which im shackled
is a lost and empty place
and there within the shadows
sits the haunting of her face
a word thats rarely spoken
a maid who drops her very soul
in the sunday pail as token,
for all the sins she can't erase
and the pain that she can't ease
hoping that her sacrifice
will earn her some release.
and from the grave of one i loved
a whisper breaks the glass,
between the present, where i sit,
and the childhood of my past
it takes me back
to a time in life
before i fell for him
before i sacrificed myself
on the alter of his sins
and i recall
with growing clarity
the things that i have lost
and the countless times ive nailed my heart
to a self inflicted cross
and reminding me of endless nights
where death has drawn me in,
enticing me with offers
of forgiveness from within.
and as the breeze draws nearer
and the bloodlust fills my eyes
the brazen scales are lifted,
and i finally realize;
that the world to which im shackled
is a lost and empty place
and there within the shadows
sits the haunting of her face
The Weaver's Loom- ABBY
In shades of quiet solitude,
'neath the shadows
and the shimmering slivers
of the palest moons,
and the sweetest remembrances
of rose-red blooms,
inflaming the hidden garden
where she sits entwined at the Weaver's loom.
And the Weaver's loom so sweet to behold,
is a snare so tenderly laid;
and maidens fair for ages past
have spoke their pennance there.
the smoothe stone of the path i meander down
bids me reliquish my clutch on life;
and to find my soul at the Weaver's loom,
at this thought of paradise.
the sleeping sunshine awakens
with a bold grin and open arms,
bathing all who behold his jubilance
with a warmth so long awaited
the world seems to stop
and bask in the fulfilment found in the bliss of one small moment.
'neath the shadows
and the shimmering slivers
of the palest moons,
and the sweetest remembrances
of rose-red blooms,
inflaming the hidden garden
where she sits entwined at the Weaver's loom.
And the Weaver's loom so sweet to behold,
is a snare so tenderly laid;
and maidens fair for ages past
have spoke their pennance there.
the smoothe stone of the path i meander down
bids me reliquish my clutch on life;
and to find my soul at the Weaver's loom,
at this thought of paradise.
the sleeping sunshine awakens
with a bold grin and open arms,
bathing all who behold his jubilance
with a warmth so long awaited
the world seems to stop
and bask in the fulfilment found in the bliss of one small moment.
Strawberries- ABBY
I was a small strawberry once
in summer shade
deep shadows of sleeping cats, watchful of
rose white and rose red, both sandal footed
and cold grass frolicking, issuing to the backyard
world a summer-girl chirrup succeeded by one
toothy boast and one shy smile.
I was a small strawberry sometimes then
a summer dress made of me, a scarlet fruit
clothed in berry hued and seed-studded
white dotted fabric frocks
i twirled and orbited a small space
like the same true fruit in cool soil
among chastening berry blooms
in the small, silent garden
the strawberry and i
plump red, sweetening in summer sun
laughing at the distillation of time
and the absence of memory then
in summer shade
deep shadows of sleeping cats, watchful of
rose white and rose red, both sandal footed
and cold grass frolicking, issuing to the backyard
world a summer-girl chirrup succeeded by one
toothy boast and one shy smile.
I was a small strawberry sometimes then
a summer dress made of me, a scarlet fruit
clothed in berry hued and seed-studded
white dotted fabric frocks
i twirled and orbited a small space
like the same true fruit in cool soil
among chastening berry blooms
in the small, silent garden
the strawberry and i
plump red, sweetening in summer sun
laughing at the distillation of time
and the absence of memory then
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