The Loss
Of my mother...
In the heat of July
you closed your eyes
for the final time.
You walked
with angels.
Your spirit divine.
(RIP July 16, 2006)
Of My Father...
He loved her too much
to stay away.
Heart profoundly broken
to repair or save.
The grass bearly grown,
only three months sown.
As now I work through the pain.
Cleaning my boots of the stain
the deep rich clay
the soil of another grave.
(RIP November 1, 2006).
Standing on the edge.
Watching the waves
as vocals soared
above.
Passions ignited
of the visions
insighted.
From the Fairground
that "came alive when she was
beautiful" to the
Sleep of the Wicked.
Betraying the heart
of love where the salt
of my tears mingles
with the sea.
The gulls drifted.
Contrasting
the midnight blue,
black waters
of this crystal December night.
The last night,
the last dawn,
of what was before.
© 2006 pixiestix
In a small clearing
in the midst of the wood
the ivory keys beamed
as the music stood
alone
there were no ears
to hear.
each enchanted note
took flight and soared
the most perfect of melodies
with just the right chords.
The trees swayed in the breeze
swishing slightly
lending voice to the wind.
and small animals scampered
and crackled
across fallen leaves.
a rhythm conceived.
A dove flew
called from above
attracted by the mystery
and reflected down
on the polished finish
of the misplaced instrument
she found. Soon others
joined her and gathered round
but left her solitary
still spellbound
in the vortex of sound.
In this hidden glen
the magical song
plays
again and again
as the dove is
frozen in midflight
by the breath
of twilight and
the voice of the wind.
© 2007 pixiestix
The Entangled Heart
The entangled heart
too many times
ripped and torn apart.
Painting the panes
posing as art.
Tied in a knot
side to side
front to back
stitches and patch
Wearing the scars
yet the shape still in tact.
Repairs are seen
in the threads that
weave.
It is the words
that bleed through
the gaps they leave.
© 2007 pixiestix
This year's harvest
moments of
joy and tears
finding a voice
and new friends so dear.
Of wine,
of life,
we need
many flavors and styles
to enhance and
accompany each
variety of dish.
The retrospect
still foggy as
I view through
the glass.
Hope rises to lift
the bittersweet mist
of firsts and lasts.
© 2006 pixiestix
I've wondered long
what I could possibly say
to my celestial muse
if I could greet her one day.
The eyes finally meet
locking softly and sweet
losing track of time
and the day of the week.
No words to exchange
as we gaze through the haze
of starlight and mist
in our midnight cafe.
It is in the depth of eyes
the loss of disguise
the reasons confide
the answer. why
am I so in tune
with my mystery moon?
© 2006 pixiestix
Cloaked in clouds
it's thunderous shout
seeps and bleeds
in apparent need
seering past and through
the blackened blue
shining to spot or search
for what was once knew.
And the black and blue sky
bruised
resistance of hiding eyes
lies deftly behind where
the sun can't shine.
Whistles blowing,
static frequencies squelch
in the sleep of night.
Yelping hounds howl
to the moon as they
sniff for sense
running in circles
landing upwind.
Sailing in and around
the camoflauged trail
of what they
seek to find
on placid waters
and pristine mountaintops.
The shroud weighs
heavy upon the
the race yet the
moonbeams
tear through as though
heirloom lace.
No closed drape
can achieve a seal
to ziploc inside
the distraction
of fate.
The refraction
reveals.
© 2007 pixiestix
Paper Chains
Strips of paper
looped and glued
strung high
for all to see.
Hiding it's nature
of fragility.
Dancing with ease
swaying in time
with the
lightest of breeze.
No metal weight
of constraint.
No danger of rust
to taint and dull
the colors of paint.
But it runs in the rain
dripping
rainbow tears
that stain
what lies below.
Spilling into puddles
saturating the seams
diluting the glue
of a bond
once knew when
shielded by
the innocence of dreams.
The ones that remain
are striped with the fade.
Drying different patterns
in the paper chain.
© 2007 pixiestix
The Poet's Tatoo
Ink stained
on parchment's time
alphabet scratched
into groups on lines.
Indelible images
set by prismed pens
printed or scripted
from beginning to end.
Scratch outs and edits
of the changing mind.
More suitable description,
perfecting the rhyme.
The hand breathes for the soul
placing pigmented pictures
painful to withhold
relief in release once
written and told.
Blotting up the excess,
the spill, with care.
Not to smear but console,
to filter the air.
Soothing the mind like
sipping chamomile from
a favorite mug,
wrapped in a blanket
all warm and snug.
Away from the burden
in it's grasp
As each freckled finger
stretches wide
to ease the cramps
of holding the pens
hours on end.
The cost of the craft
to append and amend
to appeal what I feel
Seeking solace
from cynicism
scenes surreal.
With this wand
in my hand,
it's tinge on my skin,
the language lingers
like parting lovers
as their hearts
engulf
the ticking clock
assuming
time's command.
© 2007 pixiestix
