learning to sing

Until you begin to speak
there will be no words.

The rumbling of clouds
as I am cast out
and lain
prone across a bed
an unyielding coma
from which I see out of
but no one can see in;
the mind open
but every muscle turned off;
you’re not so far
that I couldn’t reach you
but freedom is denied
as my body fights me,
biology a prison
every command
a hollow echoe
in an unresponsive machine;
the greater pain
than any other
is not being able to save you
as they call upon you
and I’m not there.

Until you begin to sing
there will be no song.

– matt at shadow of iris

last year’s rain

An iconic silhouette
and conically corseted
court dresses
of exquisite silk
and gentle patterns;
two ladies that have stolen away
into the early morning mist.

Powdered white faces
white as china
soft as cream
under fashionable wigs
dusted with flour
worn high in a roll
with rouge lips
carefully crafted
to convey
just the proper amount
of sensuality;
their warm hands had clasped
and their eyes had met
with such force
that words had been an excess.

They had thought the flowers
so beautiful
pink roses, scented with delirium
amaryllis, sweet enough to eat
cherry blossoms in full bloom
and irises, potent with message,
a gift of substantial meaning
from one tender heart
to another.

They had thought the flowers
so beautiful, that is
until the bugs had begun
to creep out
buzzing flies with bulbous eyes
and sticky tongues
that flit out licking everything,
droning bees that bobbled about
and grew angry quickly
when you swiped at them,
whining mosquitoes
that left just a drop of blood
on your skin
after they had pierced it,
and creepy crawling things
long and slender
with a thousand legs
each touch a prick
as they scurried up your arm
and onto your back
where they paused to listen
to the growing din
of insect noise,
a murmuring that said
to every organism
rhythm, form, and duration
varied expressions of thriving life
formed around
limits of an inward order
phantoms breaking free
from last year’s rain.

– matt at shadow of iris
[Inspired by the work of Ray Caesar.]

in time

In time
these poems
will give way
to stories
and those stories
to longer narratives.

– matt at shadow of iris

murmurs and shrapnel xxx

A crow in a hanging cage
shifts its weight uneasily
and drinks a little water
while looking down below
at a petite cloying girl
sitting on a plush divan;
she is innocence personified
dull and boring –
but the crow sees
where others eyes fail
he knows from outside in
she wears long sleek claw tipped
gloves of vermillion
that stretch into
a plush dress of silk
that glimmers
and is complete with a tail
that gently swishes
back and forth
back and forth,
there is the matching red cat mask
from which the femme fatale
and let’s the crow know
just what she intends.

Uneven progress
towards political
threatens to unravel
and then implode
as a new crisis provokes
a purge of allies
leaving old enemies
near to the hearts of the people
and the atmosphere

– matt at shadow of iris
[First verse inspired by the work of Ray Caesar.]

a thousand poems

I wake up every morning
planning to write a thousand poems
by the time the day is done
I feel lucky
if I’ve penned
but one.

– matt at shadow of iris