The Queen of Hearts

I could feel the cracks,

Like I, myself, was some piece of thin glass

So I outwardly attacked, to avoid the self-reflection

But the pane mirrored my hallucinations and I was forced to see

The world tuned topside and turvy,

as if I had dismounted from reality,

and arrived in the psychedelic forest of Wonderland.

The Cheshire beast kept watching, kept smiling,

making me feel uneasy;

I questioned either asking for help or taking a small toke, he offered,

you know, to calm down?

The point on the path seemed like an invulnerable start

to a destination like most

Beginnings, that always continue with stories of journeys for listeners to investigate;

Led by the wordsmith in a hat,

who is guided by deep thoughts that drive him mad,

so he sings

My Grandma Alice warned me of his rants, as if

he and her had

some sort of scandalous past,

or was it me?

There isn’t anything that I wouldn’t believe, being forced to awareness by the Queen;

A devil to worship, as the keeper of thy heart

Dressed in fine linens and flowers that trailed loosely down

through the curls in her hair

Her rosy cheeks, that adorned the most innocent face I had seen yet,

a perfect angelesque figurine

But it’s a face that you could forget; that’s what made it different

Pretty, but not memorable; a disguise of one of the smartest fighters;

Apart of the liars of secrets that are unimaginable.

And the Queen was a pleasant peach,

Giving grandiose gestures of gentility

She offered a life of happiness, one fueled by greed

With everything at hand, to fulfill every need

The Queen, in all of her beauty, made one small mistake

A tiny slip of truth that made me see

As with every shark, they can never hide their teeth;

the most prized part of their being.

The Queen is smart, appealing to the fairy-tales that narrate inside of

each of us

Waking our desires, our wants, and

clouding what we believe;

Shading the light that fuels how we breathe;

Offering immortality for only one simple thing.

A piece of flesh that a god-like creature never needs

She is a romantic of disease,

who feeds off of anything that beats,

even remotely like a heart.

In that moment, when she stood over me, waiting, listening

A slight curve of her stained lips spiked up at the corner,

she assumed that the battle was over;

that the backhanded compliments with

the buried insults escaped me;

I just didn’t rise to the occasion, a few breaths I didn’t want wasted

I looked into the Queen’s eyes and requested my sanction

I knew my life was mine to give but that anyone could be tempted

Baffled, the Queen demanded an explanation,

I think she needed to hear how I could walk away from what she was trying to give me;

As if she had never experienced love,

Or even understood what it means.

Suddenly, my heart wept for the Queen of them all, so blinded by her lust,

that she could never feel any love

As a fiend, addicted to the taste of some cheap drug,

The aphrodisiac of a witch’s poison; a sick sorceress’ juice for the ones who were chosen and fallen.

I could only ever answer, what now sounds like part of a cliche piece of rhetoric:

“There could never be a life for me

without a life of love beating

from the foundation of my heart.”

The Queen seemed to believe, as if that sentence was the only

statement that I had said that contained any meaning

Her eyes wandered off for a few seconds,

Minutes of vulnerable memories and temptations,

as if the Queen was daydreaming;

Thinking of images and past lives without all of the empty feelings.

Scorned, numbed, drained of everything that was once good,

And then I realized that the Queen of Hearts is the justified victim of

life without a love at Home.

I am grateful for fairy-tale stories. ❤

The Box

I see a clear cube, outlined in a cold grey

No color, no warmth, and most importantly, no life

It’s a sleeper’s nightmare,

to be shut off from the colors of the world

To miss the pounding heartbeat reverberating from the ground.

This place, this cage, this figment of my mind

That traps me inside of a transparent coffin,

Where I can only focus on the tiny scratches that scatter the plates that shape my walls together;

is it plexiglass; impenetrable?

Could the mental bullets, shot from the fire of my eyes, even crack the surface?

Is there a magical word,

a clever,

an ironic,

a romantic kind of word,

that opens up our eyes to the skies?

To the gods who shape the boxes to control; to hold

They insert in them, the fears of us all;

To land inside,

to feel yourself die,

your soul cries,

no matter how hard you try,

you still find yourself inside.

And the madness takes over in the words derived from the scattered thoughts of your endless whisperings,

Repetitive words that shape nothing;

that do not create sentences with meaning

But then I see a full page

And I awake from my one god’s dream and discover that the box is gone.

 

I am grateful for surprise moments of freedom. And good music, currently listening to the song “The Uprising” by Big Gigantic. ❤

Twittering

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@Muse_Writer

I am grateful for community. ❤

A Singer of Love

There’s a voice I hear
Crystal clear and pure
A singer of love
A magical soul
And I wonder when,
The day we first met
Are there memories?
One reality?
I am impatient
Tired of waiting
Looking for changes
I keep listening
To uncover you;
Some truth from the man
Or, someone to love

I am grateful for singers and their gift of written sound. ❤

Little Black Bird

I sat in silence, maybe it was more like contemplation

When I saw a black bird flying all alone

He was a little fellow,

Flying close enough to show off his tricks

Somersaulting onto the telephone wire, making it hop.

It bounced up and down, the wire with the little black bird,

As if he was dancing to some invisible rhythm,

To the song that I hear inside of my head, it always sounds like my past;

Hauntingly: familiar.

An offered dance by a sky flyer; just another wandering soul gathering another stranger’s stories;

and relating to them through the knowledge he seeks.

The black bird peered at me from his perch; I think I heard him call out my name

He waited as if he expected some sort of response, but I wouldn’t

His fiery gaze locked onto my heart, my soul, and I watched him dissect me.

He clawed apart the boxes of displaced unhappy feelings,

Leaving torn pieces of cardboard to shuffle through; trying to decide what to save and what was lost.

The black bird saw in me, in a way that no one else could;

As he ripped out the tender moments that I find so endearing, like the song with the pathetic piano melody,

that always makes me relate to understanding;

Or, some of the various treasured stories I remember with my families;

the little black bird thought he found a few things that were interesting.

His eyes penetrated into the thicket of me

Cutting down limbs and moving all of the scattered debris

He worked until he trimmed the forest, he didn’t bother to burn it down.

I couldn’t hear anything, I could only see the demon above

Hovering, like some symbolic message or meaning

He smiled, his yellow beak opening as I hoped for a moment of truth;

but he just yawned and flew away.

As I watched his shadow fall into the darkness of distance, I remembered one thing;

Your eyes and the story I see.

My only thought; the “thing” to give me life.

I once worshiped you out of ignorance of being blind, so now I speak.

But the little black bird is a sneaky beast,

Making those he touches suffer the life of endless numbness.

A thief worse than the greedy monkeys who rule the world with fake money,

Their bills of Blood bounded together with the rubberband of us all;

a stretch, but we can draw it as a circle of light, life, love, laughter.

Where we can write down each memory one by one,

As a connected group of force to control the greed; they’re weak; we seek.

I want more than what the little black bird left me.

I snapped the band on my wrist and was shocked into remembering it all…

I am grateful for my treasured small comforts. ❤

Dreamer of My Heart

There is enough hate
So, I would rather be kind
Wouldn’t you agree?
It’s not hard to change
Love is, and will always be:
A powerful tool
My heart is open
Unlocked and warm, defrosted;
Welcoming new friends

But what happens when
I can’t hear the music here?
Do you see the truth?
A muse of my own
A wanderer of the sky
A man of all words
The profound message
From a boy in a rose shirt,
With a crooked smile
Dreamer of my heart
Guardian of an old soul
Save my restless mind

I am grateful for all of the noise that drowns out the constant chatter. ❤

Cicadas

I prefer white wine
Out, under a summer’s moon
Mid the cicadas.

I am grateful for peaceful memories. ❤

Death of a Siren

It penetrated

The bronze dagger dipped in blood

Siren, nevermore

 

I am grateful for the sea. ❤

The Forest to the Sea

She sat at the pane, her breath catching on the glass

Longing for the world past the tree line, the forest that she couldn’t see

Beyond there, lived a boy past the mountains in a small town by the sea

A gifted soul, beautiful in its own light

A compassionate being, he consisted of everyone

Much like the One, we all have memories

Yet she is ignored, maybe forgotten?

Wandering blind with no one to follow

Her vow of sacrifice could be life, to prove to everyone of his existence

His memory of the history

The stories that time made her forget

But her soul remembers

It feels the vibrations that she should be thinking

And she would give it all away for him

A life of hiding, flying, away forever

He could help her find her wings

Those picturesque layers of feathers that feel like silk to the touch

He remembers and yearns for their warmth

He fights to wear his mask, not knowing that she would give him what he wants

 

 

I am grateful for every second of random inspiration. ❤

Swans

 

Walking hurriedly, as most Modernists do

I focused ahead looking for familiar landmarks

Stranded, no exploring, the mainland of my family

Centered in the city of my mother’s blood

I came upon a tall stone wall

Which is not uncommon for the local wanderer

But the wall opened up and bordered an accentuating view of perspective that made me pause

Not a single breath escaped while I was absorbed in the timeless enchantment

Completely hypnotized by the sheer beauty of the swans

Fascinating, majestic flyers who share their wisdom through their eyes

As I watched, I imagined the poor children of Lir and shed a tear for the fate of a love’s deception

As if I walked into the fairy tale pages themselves

And overheard the narrator describing some minute detail about the color of the water

But as a character, my fate was written, so I chose not to listen

Instead, I inspected their freedom of the blue expanse of territories and I imagined that,

Any creature dressed in feathers painted all of the pink shades of a pearl,

Has to be touched by the most merciful hand

A moment of memory in Galway printed on a photograph, circa 2008

I am grateful for the copy of “Irish Fairy and Folk Tales” by Yeats that my Grandma gave me. ❤