with and without

Posted in Poetry on May 8th, 2014 by D'jaevle

no, she said.
peace is not stasis
or silence
it is not an absence of experience

it is an agreement the heart makes
to have, without greed.
to love, without bounds
to be, without fear

without rest, without fear

Posted in Poetry on April 25th, 2014 by D'jaevle

I find I go through life
with either
great patience
or great desperation

I sometimes wait.
content to watch the shadows
stretch and retreat
beneath my window

and sometimes
I am overwhelmed by a great need
to move.
or experience a hunger
like Cronus had for his children.

I do not see the sense of walking
when I can run towards the sun
or stand still
and let the world
come to me.

in the direction of your pulse

Posted in Poetry on February 8th, 2014 by D'jaevle

There is a pattern to your breath, a morse code in your pulse.

Hands on rounded hips, lips part, a slyph shared in a kiss.

I pass her to you, a safe harbor for our burgeoning language; we learn, creation through motion – a thigh turned, an arm raised.

There is a genesis, a light.

This is how I tell you that I left the groceries on the counter but hid the chocolates.

This is how I tell you that I watched you water the roses and thought, ‘What color do roses blush?’

This is how I tell you that I did not feed the cat and she will likely follow you like an overly attached child, bumping your leg. She will not perish – she is quite fat – but she will act as if death is no far thing.

This is how I tell you what I know best. That the language of our bodies is the language of our lives. And that words – beautiful, amazing words – are poor substitutes for a hungry cat or a blushing flower.

sign language

Posted in Poetry on January 26th, 2014 by D'jaevle

My hand, a birdcage.

Inside, a wren.

I let her craft all of my best poetry.

(you know what they say: wren writing, wren done, wren laughing at a pun)

That first part is not true.

My hand isn’t really a birdcage: it’s a cave. Cozy, dark, closely fit to wren feathered wings.

She likes it there.

But it means I can never open my hand.

Not once.

ella

Posted in Poetry on January 22nd, 2014 by D'jaevle

yellow-pearled eyes, curled like a dark dandelion puff.
she sleeps
all the time
except when chasing her stuffed monkey
dropping it in my study
(she wouldn’t dare scare up a rat).

wants a place of warmth to rest (blanket, lap, expensive cashmere coat, my face)

hardly worth the trouble

except…

she always purrs when I touch her
doesn’t mind my cloves
sits quietly when I write
naps to the sound of rain with me
hardly ever makes a fuss

silly thing.

close, lightning

Posted in Crimson Writ, Poetry on January 2nd, 2014 by D'jaevle

And the thunder comes. On its heels, an exhale that asks the next breath to wait. Because that pause is where the world submits.

bruised knuckles and broken toys

Posted in Poetry on December 9th, 2013 by D'jaevle

a lion’s lost roar
a child’s forgotten sense of play
a surcease of dreams to cultivate,
and a laurel bed on which to lay

a lullaby, these words, to sleep and forget
that a lifetime of almosts is one of regret

the longer I live
the more that I find
the things I need most
are the dreams left behind

I don’t wish for peace or comfort.
complacent – too close to death
I crave the place I have to face
my desire to count each breath

not callous, not simple, not shallow or clothed
but bared and complex, deep and exposed

not careful, not quiet, not restrained or delayed
but reckless and furied, freed and remade

not counting the rings in the circles I’ve walked
but remembering the falls and the danger I’ve stalked

you can promise the solace of a path well traveled and tested
and I’ll show you my scars where the best have been bested

tell me what’s safe, what’s right and what’s true
and I’ll tell you my way is not the right way for you.

now tell me you’re listening
and I’ll tell you this:
a life that’s worth living
is too easily missed

what do you do

Posted in Poetry on August 6th, 2013 by D'jaevle

what do you do with a crocodile’s hat?
you could stand it on end or you could lay it flat
you could circle it in dance or give it to your cat
you could forget where it was (in the last place you sat)
you could throw it at a copper, because you ain’t no rat
you could shrink it all up and strap it on a gnat
you could place it on the floor like a really small mat
you could give it super powers by dumping it in a vat
you could love it enough to get it as a tatt
you could comfort it with a kindly pit-pat
you could block out the sun when you’re up to bat
you could call it a friend, well how about that?

or you could just wear it on your head

day one

Posted in Poetry on June 16th, 2013 by D'jaevle

what point
an egg tumbled
milk spilled.

what point
a dry lip
a sentence cracked
or a kiss dared

what point?
knuckling down the truth
remembering the trick to drowning

the other castle

Posted in Poetry on June 12th, 2013 by D'jaevle

I know not all the stories end
the way that fairy tales are spinned

but in the story of the heart
there you played the prince’s part