perpetual decemberwould you give me your december? i am holding out my frail plywood wrists and begging you for something too heavy for either of us to hold[though you are somehow cradling it in your fractured celestial mind].would you sing december to me?would you play it in thirds and mold it into something i can see? i would give the dying bamboo on my window sill to feel you again[like when you cut your hands on raw selenite but they don't bleed].december is slipping out of our reach. she is slipping quietly out the door and i have my hands held high like sentinels of the sky and my eyes closed in patient rapture.but you
I Have Always Loved WinterI have always loved winterWith its caressing touch of icy-bright fingersThat stroke past my flesh with a tingle that lingersA crystalline splinterI have always loved winterShe was constantly coldHer skin was of porcelain, her hands were of snowAnd timidly soft into my hands they’d goBut her lips were more boldShe was constantly coldLike embers her kissesThat latched onto mine like a coal hotly droppingDown fast onto ice sheets without sign of stoppingAnd sputters and hissesLike embers her kissesBut I liked the cold bestThat bit of her most like a clear, frozen shardAnd it pleased me to see her grow palli
Of treesDeep ghost-groves of freckled aspenburn white beneath the winter sun,whisper hoary adulation,canticles for the Holy One.And in the trees, the spirits dancebetwixt the motes of starry snowilluminated by the lanceof lightning flash and candle glow.All lights within this place combine,reflect in splendour, white on white,and mingle in a trance sublimethat breathes in peace through winter night.The lofty heads of stately pinerear up and brush the lowered skyas if they could, by straightened spine,so please the God who built them high.Their incense needles, fragrant, fallin silence to the chapel floorand still a
Winter's Kissi saw winter dancingnudeso i grabbed herwristand pulled her in for a kiss.with a sweet, slowretreati swept her offher feet,and carried her down to summer.
MY WINTER EQUINOXFalling, slowly falling, snowflakes intertwinethemselves with the crystal maelstorm in my veins,I feel them melt the noisy grime from my skinmoonlight pale, sometimes I wish I could glaze mein the tears and haze of Spring's gentle unfurls-but Winter has always been more real to me, herbloodline pulses with the essence of Purity,and Eternity pine-scented, her snowflakes help meto find my tears as she melts me into an endlesskiss, but I still wish for the frosty Stars tosmile their light on my bruised lips and cleanseaway the blemishes from my warm white interpretations-then I would be free, I feel her compel my hurtto
to be born in the rainThe sky's cold tears fallmingling with the salty trails on my face.I am born with a winter's raincaressing my newly formed cheeks,stiff limbs taking first steps through puddles - tiny oceans gracing black pavement. So this is what it feels liketo b r e a t h efresh, cold air floods tender senses,tingling and full of a thousand new smellsconnected with sights and sounds.Birth is a cold, fresh, marvelous thingpulsing and swaying to the discordant musicof new life.
Frozen MemoriesBy accident,I found her tombstone.It lay buried beneath snow,encased in ice,under a canopy of white held aloft by the trees.I had been walking,focusing,as I often do,on the clouds of steam rising from my mouth,and what they meant to me,when my foot caught hold of the crumbling cross,and sent me tumbling down...down...down...I caught myself on hands in a sea of crystal white,flesh stinging from the cold,my foot aching in pain,burning hot in the winter wood.Why would there be a grave here?What poor soul would be forever lost in this hollow?Carefully,in the cold,throughout the fading light,and into a
December BuddhaDecember cracks open like hazelnuts,crinkled brown and brittle, dry from the fire,cold-crisp and crunching as needles of pines.As usual, wisdom comes just in time,reminder to hold on to my forest,to my stories, to make myself buddha.I am lacking, no quiet rain-buddha,born, as I was, a tight-curled hazelnut,but I do send roots into my forest,and in summer spread Colorado fire.I find that more and more I pass the timeamong the kings that are my totem pines.In North Carolina, December pinesnot for sun but for a softer buddha,a figure to remind the month that timeends not with January; hazelnut,it curls in on itsel
Winter PeopleHerethe skies are grey andsoft and soundless,the old hills rolling slowlyfrozen solid andimpenetrable,the trees bareancient bloodless fingersgrasping at the horizon.We move slowly and without precision andour tongues twist and turn and whisper secrets,our language a huge bright thingwe wield always like adull weapon.We are a winter people:the seasons shape us strangely, we becomeold ghosts of ourselves,thick-haired and lumberingthrough the darkness except sometimeswe are roused by circumstance or occasion,we catch a glimpse of the blue mediterraneanand feel ourselvescomewonderfully aliveour skin
Peace On EarthFreedom is not free Love, it never lastsForgiveness has its limits, We are trapped within our pasts.After all the bodies fall,After al
Santa versus AtnasAtnas the bad, mysterious, slyTravels the world on his sleigh in the sky.Santa's old friend, now inglorious foe,This age old story is something to know:They started out well, as partners in crimeUntil one Christmas when Atnas got time.Santa and Atnas were felons you see,They robbed, plundered, stole - things so dastardly.The plans were devised and thought out by Old NickAs getaway driver he drove oh so quick.The strong and fit Atnas brought life to the schemes,And there was the set up of our daring team.Their usual targets were the rich, banks and stores,"We have little money, you won't miss some of yours"This was
Christmas DollIridescent pearls slid alongsilken strands of ebony lockGarland and feathers enhancingThe fragrance of pine encrusted miseryA young girl sits, back arched,Hands clasped, nails preenedChristmas ruffles and bowsEncompass her small form -A merry little doll of seasonal fluffHer eyes, limp, with sullen poutHer smile a painted decoySanta looks down at the child,"and what would you like for Christmas?"The camera flashes; her eyes glinting - A seeming merry sparkle.She just asks for the picture.
why i'm scared of ghostsdear ghost of christmas past,it's christmastime. christmas eve, to be exact. i can't look outside without seeing the shimmer of the snow, like tiny fireflies etched into each flake. glistening strands of colorful bulbs christen the neighborhood, like they're declaring us worthy of a little light. i'm shivering like i got caught in a snow bank, and i'm blinking like i'm hoping my eyelashes will tangle together and pull my lids closed. i was wondering; if dreams are so pretty, why do they shatter like sherry glasses against tile as soon as we open our eyes? maybe they aren'
Holiday TableauCrushed tinsel, sunkenspirits litteringthe melancholyatmosphere of theholiday after-glow - It does not shine.Torn garland, emptybottles strewn acrossabandoned partyrooms, reminiscentof the previousnight's festivities.Colorful wrappings,packaging tape, bagsstuffed with boxes andtissue paper - trash.Re-gifted rejectsleft behind, thoughtless.Filled coffee cups themorning after - warmthto replace fadingcheer. Resolutionsrevised, for the fastapproaching new year.
The Thin HoursI.Those of us here in this skeleton time,this time of the year when the nights are thinand dark, and dark with anxiety, peelingas layers of an oyster shell, brittle and effacedand somehow iridescent.When the bell tolls out the time the sound is thinand reaches into fractured air and softlyseeks the spaces between the atoms and misses the vital Os and CO2s in a lasting, failed pinball. The bell sound dies insome space between midnight and thereafter,and each tock tock of slipping cogs is a repeat and not a moving on. The air is filled with each dull sound,each tock a repeat and a repeat again. And theslip betwee
we should celebratei.i tried to think of pain as a flower,first it blossoms and then it wilts away.but i won't let myself disappearalong with it,i won'tgive you that.(it's not the agony that makesme scream, it's the flavor).ii.and you whispered softly"i'll rip your heart out and replace itwith a song,it's christmas soon, and we should celebrate". you've always used my scars as a calendar, as a way to remind yourself "today is tuesday and i still exist".iii.(it's morning now because i can seethe sunlightthrough my eyelidsand imagine
Phantoms Of Another UniverseLook.I'll tell it like it was.black. cold. wretched.Static clung to the airlike ornaments on a Christmas treeand we were graced with the odd arced lightning.Oh, it was cold. so cold. I remember not seeing, my fingers frozen off as feeling receded from themlike waves on a beach. how could I even be surethey were.still.there?the forgotten memory of a sunsetlay imprinted on my brain,and its absence made the nightemptier than ever.we waited.we waited for the moon to rise,for the clouds to shift,for the e-lec-tri-ci-ty to stop(like lost travelers stumblingin the desert waiting for anoasis mir
EnoughI'm holding on to secrets so tightly my hands start to burn.Winter has come full-force, wind sending the windows quivering against their panes and snow blanketing the Earth in an ivory sheen. We're all bundled up inside, pressed together for warmth to maybe give a bit of it to the not-still-living locked up in a metallic casket no bigger than a shoe box. The mix of flowers –yellow roses, her favorite– and the musty smell of the funeral home permeates everything, makes my nose crinkle up and eyes sting, spilling over with tears.The sea of nameless, faceless acquaintances part as I walk forward, cold hands on my back and muted, g
Stories From the Psych Ward (2 of 3)I'm so cold I feel it down to the bones, sitting in the dining hall trembling over my cup of tea. A huge Christmas tree twinkles merrily beside me in red, blue, silver, pink and gold. Patients huddle together outside to talk, but I'm forbidden to join them, trapped inside the ward on a category four. They're all strangers to me, I've spoken to no one. Smoking their cigarettes in faded pajamas, looking tired and worn down, lips twisting into smiles as the smoke curls down into their lungs.Nurses find me hiding from evil spirits in the cupboard. They let me stay inside, safe until the panic stops and the shadows disa
Sojourner III.The icicle crests of pine-needle tiarasHad settled onto the crisp craniums of paleRouge and foundation-frosted pinecones.The multi-faceted snow-tipped noses were openTo the hushed aria of breathing with undertonesOf whispers suggesting: sway… shatter.He registered ashen snow and Fibonacci sequencesIn the scales of the pinecone, in the evergreenNeedles, and in the steadily increasing flurries.At a stalemate for minutes past dusk and hoursUntil dawn, the evening's lunar fluorescence hadPeaked in reflective moonlight and begun to dim.Skyward flurries took of frost as he overtookDiminishing footprints; the soil
FrostbittenWinter is her favorite time of the year.It's beautiful. Silver and blue dance around with one another in a waltz of freezing passion as snow and ice douse the land in a blanket of boreal glamour. Glass windowpanes become easels for falling snowflakes, frost etching into the smooth surfaces in intricate and unique patterns.Winter has always been her favorite time of the year, and it always will be.It is not because of Christmas--no, even though she loves the holiday, it is not what sparks her strong fondness for the star-colored blanketing across the land. Her infatuation with the snow and ice and everything cold has to do with something
Sta.sh
