Can I stop off in your bed 

tonight? asks the moon

light, pouring through the window, 

thick and sticky-sweet like honey. 

The night sky is dark

and lonely tonight, not even the stars

are out to keep me company and I 

find myself running wild, running 

mad, running away

Can I stop off in your bed 

tonight? asks the moon

light, puddling on the carpet like 

the shadow of footprints. 

I'd be more grounded if I 

were wrapped in your arms, held 

in the close and heavy secret 

space between your body 

and the sheets; I'd be able to 

find myself there.

Can I stop off in your bed 

tonight? asks the moon

light, hovering by the door 

like a shy child. I find myself chilled 

and shivering, and I need your warmth 

to bring me to life again.

Come to bed, I tell the moon 

light. Come curl up with me, tangle 

yourself in the safety of my arms and 

my sheets. I'll hold you close and 

hold you here, spirit you back 

to wherever you last left your soul, 

and then I'll bring you home here again 

for my bed is also empty 

without you here beside me.

#moonlight #moon #lovepoem

The woods are lovely,

dark and deep, and the secrets

which its branches keep

are all the lies you never told me

I swore off people

after a while,

because all the devils wore

an angel's mask and I

couldn't tell the difference anymore

between them, so I got up

off my knees where

I'd been praying

in the center of the city

square, and I left. I left

the square, I left the city, I

left those prayers behind me

And I walked out to where

the roads meet the woods

And there I stood.

And there I stood,

at the edge of the woods,

the woods that are lovely

and dark, and deep, but I

have no more promises

nor secrets yet to keep

for all the secrets here are only

all the lies that I was never told --

So why, then, should I

be afraid of a lie

that has no power, when I

am armed with the Light

of Truth?

Keep your secrets.

Keep your lies.

I will find a path to follow

with my lantern light held high.

The woods may be lovely,

dark, and deep, but my secrets

are not its to keep. For I have miles

yet to go before I sleep.

They ask me:

Why don't you write love poems anymore?

And I look at them,

and I wonder

what they're hearing

if they cannot hear

the love within these words.

Just because I don't use

flowers and starlight and chocolate

does not mean this

is not a love poem.

Just because it isn't

soft or sweet or gentle

does not mean that this

is not a love poem.

Love is not, actually, gentle.

Love is not, actually, sweet.

Love is not, actually, soft.

Love is not flowers

or chocolate

or starlight.

Or at least, that's not

all that love is.

If I open my mouth

and all that you hear

is anger and pain and violence

then you're not

listening closely enough.

Because this is a Dragon's Love Song,

and that must be sung

in Fire and in Blood.

It is fire that lights

your way in the night;

it is fire that warms

you in the cold, that keeps you

going when everything

else around you stops.

It is blood that courses through

your veins, that courses through

my veins, that spills

on the streets

on the sheets

in our words and

sometimes we don't even notice

we're walking through it.

This is a Dragon's Love Song

and believe me it is for you —

whether you are the knight at the gates

the Damsel in the Tower

or the dragon on guard.

This is a Dragon’s Love Song,

and that love is Fierce and Strong and Unending,

because this love is Fire

and this love is Blood.

So, when they ask me

Why don't you write love poems anymore?

I respond with a slow, slow smile

and a long, deep exhale through the nose

that carries a small wisp of smoke.

I sometimes wonder

if this might be

a little bit like

how it might feel

to bleed to death –

– very, very slowly.

I sometimes wonder

if this might be

how a faucet feels

when there is a tiny leak

and the water drip, drip –

– …drips… away.

I cannot seal up the source

of this leak, no matter whether

it seeps blood or water. It is a slow

steady drain and I scramble

to refill my reservoirs but

I am attempting to resupply the well

in the middle of a drought – an exercise

too similar to madness for me to feel comfortable

with examining my own urge

to action – all of which simply leaves me

with handfuls of sand, and I am tired

of attempting to rebuild sand dunes.

I came to my mother pregnant

with a question I did not know how to ask.

It was the kind of question that

sits low in your stomach and rides hard

on the cradle of your hips, pushing

everything outward and upward

in order to make space for it.

I came to my mother, pregnant

with a question I did not know how to ask,

and she took one look at me and gathered me

close to her, cradling my swelling soul

in the shelter of her own flesh. She rocked me

like the child I no longer was, like the child

I had not been in for a long time, and as

she did this she gave me the only answer

that she had:

“I love you. I love you. I love you,

and you are mine, and you are more

than enough, more than worthy, more

than anything else. Be full, daughter, be

full of yourself and full of questions and full

of wonder and love and rage and power, and

when you are full to bursting then turn

and fill your own daughter when she comes.”

Someone,

somewhere,

is playing

a waltz

and I am here,

instead, in stillness

and in silence while

all around me the universe

marks out time as 1 – 2 – 3 –

Someone,

somewhere,

is playing

a waltz

and I am here,

instead, on the edges

of a cosmic dance floor

while all of existence swirls

around me in a show of

dizzying arrays and bewildering displays

of sound and taste and color.

Someone,

somewhere,

is playing

a waltz

and I am here

to learn to dance.

Keep pushing; keep

pushing, keep pushing!

Keep pushing -- push me, and

I will harvest your toes.

Your shin bones

will be forfeit, and

from your collarbones I

will make wind chimes.

Your shoulder blades will make

excellent throwing stars.

From your ribcage I

will build a planter for

belladonna, for nightshade, and

for oxblood; your hips will become

a cradle-sling to carry

my own child. The metatarsals

of your hands and feet

will be used to make

the music of a rattle,

and your skull -- O!

your skull! -- the hollow

of your skull will be

a nightlight, with the glow

of candlelight shining

from the hollow sockets

of your eyes and dripping

like fire from the empty

cavity of your nose and

between the holes in

your gaping teeth.

#poetry #freeverse #unusualviolence #creativethreats #boundaries #limits #pushingbuttons #emotionalpoetry

for all that fire

is beautiful

to the eye, you must

always remember that fire

is dangerous

to the touch

your flesh is not

made to withstand

the burn and

glow of flame

so when you reach

out to take

that flickering spark

within your grasp

always know

that you will only

come away with singed fingers

for all the danger

and deadliness

of an open flame,

it is the slow freeze

and deep chill

of creeping ice that

scares me most

fire is dangerous

and you know that,

it is not a secret,

and there is always

the instant flash

to remind you

when you come too close

but ice is deceptive,

and you forget that

it is not a secret

because there is always

the initial reaction

where your own body

holds off the chill

fire consumes, and

when there is nothing

left but ash the flame falls

in upon itself and dies

but ice — ice grows,

and creeps, and inches

forward until you are

the reversal of a frog

in slowly boiling water —

dead

— and you never noticed

the slow creep of it

until it was too late

(until you closed your eyes)

I am in an elevator

with the lonely expanse

of the distant night sky

despite the close confines

of steel walls and marble floors

there is still room

between the galaxy and I

quiet music plays overhead

from hidden speakers and

in this elevator, the lonely expanse

of the distant night sky reaches

out one nebulous hand to me

and suddenly neither of us

is distant nor lonely anymore

hand in hand, the night and I,

we dance somewhere into

eternity, between the steel walls

and marble floors of that elevator

the hidden speakers play for us

a music that ultimately ends

with the night sky and I

simply spinning madly in

each other’s arms as

laughter spills out from us

like the fountain-head of

the sprawling, flooded Milky Way

the doors of the elevator split

open then, unable to contain

the multitude of myself, the night

sky, and the cosmic glow of

our laughter and so we come, like Rumi,

out of nothingness, stumbling and spinning

and scattering stars like dust.

#poetry #poem #Rumi #elevators #life #dancewithme #dancing #stars #night

It is cold, outside,

in the early morning

in the early morning

when it is still,

and dark, and quiet,

I leave the shelter

of my warm bed

and make my way

down the stairs

and out the door

it is quiet, outside,

in the early morning

I stand there,

in the early morning,

in the dark stillness of

the lingering nightly chill

it is dark, outside,

in the early morning

I stand there,

in the dark

in the quiet

in the cold

slowly,

gently,

reverently,

I let my neck

and shoulders relax,

and allow my head

to tip backwards

there, in that moment and

that space, hung suspended between

the earth and sky—

the morning and the night—

the sun, moon, and stars—

time with you and time without you—

in those early morning moments

of still and dark

and quiet and cold,

I open my mouth

and slowly, longingly, exhale

as I watch my breath

rise and steam away from me

hanging thick and clouded around my head,

I pretend that I am a dragon

for if I am a dragon, then

inside of me there is always

a light; there is always

a roar; there is always

the heat and spark of flame

nothing in me, then,

if I am a dragon, nothing

is still or dark

or quiet or cold

and if I am,

in truth or fantasy,

a dragon, then each

billowing breath of mine—

in this early morning stillness

in this early morning darkness

in this early morning silence

in this early morning cold—

each billowing breath

becomes an offering

a way to warm the world

by some small degrees

to make sure that you,

my love, will not freeze

if I can take the fire

that flickers in my

dragon’s heart and exhale

it in long, slow, breaths,

then I will spend each and every

early morning standing, barefoot,

in the still and the dark

and the quiet and the cold

it does not matter

that my feet are bare

upon the sidewalk, or

that my fingertips are blue

I am a dragon,

after all—

even if only pretending

and only for a moment—

there is no danger to me

that I cannot chase away

with a fiery heart, and

maybe, just, perhaps—

perhaps, somewhere, you are

pretending to be a dragon, too