Oz-inspired Poetry

All poetry strangebedfellows.populli.net.   Do not reprint without permission.

 


 

SURRENDER

It seems to me
That when he left his ties to earth behind,
When crouch met coil and leapt aloft,
Icarus must have known.

Perhaps what mattered most to him
Was not to bear his own full weight
Or make it to the sun,
But just the wish
Borne on the wings:
To know the width and span of dreams.

Burning in or burning out
Seems almost incidental,
Considering.

If I had met you first,
I think I would be tempted
To build my wings with wax.


ORPHEUS DESCENDING

I remember the green book --
Its spine frayed and curling, it was
heavy, like the weight of a hundred
sleepy bedtime nights.
Her maple-syrup monotone
whispering "Quiet,
so he doesn't hear."

She read of Mount Olympus,
of thrones of gold encircling the clouds,
Apollo and his chariot
or Hades and his hounds.

I remember the clanging of the bars
heralding my fall from grace.

I remember you splayed out before me --
Your skin taut and wanting, you were
Heavy, like the weight of a hundred
sleepy bedtime nights.
Your rough-and-tumble rumble,
whispering "Quiet,
so they don't hear."

I spoke of softer things:
Of love, and other godlike miracles
Of freedom from this fear
and life without locks.

I remember the clanging of the bars,
Ascending into long-lost light.

Your painful parting words:
"Don't you look back."

 


REDEMPTION

They each stood in a cell
Of one kind or another
At one time or another
Needing me

Clinging to addictions,
Hiding from their demons
Closing in and walling out,
Desperate for a god.

I liked the way it felt to save them.
For a while,
It made me More.
And then
(when it just didn't),
I left, 
Less.

You stood in a hell
Of your own sick invention
Wanting no intervention,
Needing me.

Clutching your illusions
Hating my intrusion
Sucking in and striking out,
Destined to destruct.

You hate what I must do to save you
But I, too,
am desperate for a God.


DIRTY LAUNDRY

I have dug ditches in the desert of denial
I have sculpted sand at the holy shrine of shame
I have been the coil and spring,
the jester and the king,
And I have slit my own throat open
to be able to sing.

I have walked the path of my nightmares.
I have stood on the grave of my own love, shedding red tears.
I have a hundred lies to tell from my journey.

I have lain, stifling, in a darkness
barbaric in intensity.
I have screamed, and pounded at the walls,
Confined to a maze of a thousand stark halls.
I have shattered the glass of my own delusions
into ten million pieces of what used to be me.

*

comments | home