Blood Under the Ice

Blood_Under_the_Ice

It is an almost dying
this mourning I do
a storm-rage pushing
come here and go away
It is an unfair living
this voluntary curse
a floating banshee keening
wanting be here and seeking away
diamond-like in its hardness how it grows inside
dark coal in the meat of my heart breathing out dust
 
My ghost produced a spark
in me once               there
                   where once       you stood with me
      held me            like the way         I learned to hold     a sword
                                                                            a God hollowed a world out
from deep inside     my blanket belly       rolled and rolled
     not once covered           the way you walked                 away…
 
It is almost killing
the watching of the way
everyone on the road before
shoving and moving and exiting, crying
It is an unfair dying
this involuntary blessing
born a baby light as air
seeking heaven away but stuck here
petal-like softness in its wanting attention
                                 and, oh, how it leaks the filth outside
                                 little pale worm in the mother’s flesh a-wash in tears
 
I am almost dying
reading you in words
you used to write so long to me
the lines grow longer to someone else now
spelling out the nine years of my absence as
the long over-due appointment I have with my coffin
I should have fell into it long ago the day you dropped me
in the lake, in the trees, dry tears, dry heaves, black lace in the leaves
 
I would’ve made a better corpse then
yet I am still caught in the dying
almost living, hanging,
waiting
for my
turn
to
see
what
I will become
when you come next
back into the widow’s garden
where the gossamer never fades
here the music listens to you and dance
is in the eye-lashes, sex in the halls and whispers
you would love to have me there and keep the secret tame
 
This ghost produces clouds
try and walk              on one        here’s one    and there     two
                   I’ll promise       nothing         no   not      a      thing
                                         will                come              come between us
                                                all only              but air
                                                         the wind that
                                               breathes along my sword
                                   the razor tip                   crossing out
                                                       the very mark
                                                           you once
                                                               made
                                                                    I
                                                                   …
 
It is almost dead
this shadow cast
over the streaming red
come here now and hush
It is only fair now
I say my falling prayer
for the blood under the ice
the streaks of rage spent
shining now like rubies under a sheet of turquoise
the snow white jasper, a warm, not cold, melting
dripping all along the tree branch…
 
                                               and in the deepest part of my forest
                                                your ghost finally appears, forgives
                                                no more time for slivers, shivers, cries
 
The prayer is said, the bell is rung, no sweetness on the lip
come the spring the blood pumps, the legs move, we begin to run
will you visit me?    will I visit you?    a mocking bird dare sings
feathers spasm with a gasp for breath and the request repeated
I look down at my empty hands, once again echoing from finger-tip
my frost-bitten bitter-assed sore-throated lament:
 
It is an almost dying, I am
It is an almost killing, you do
It is almost dead, this we are
                                     when it is decided separate we go beyond instead
                                     …and I head into death’s direction, facing dusk
                                     I walk into the sting of the last setting sun and
                                     that’s when I seek it, an end to the light at the end
                                     walking into the tunnel, never to come back
                                     because you never have.
 
 

~Just a touch of winter chill for the second day of August, because I am already anticipating fall. Already there is a chance for snow in my heart. Today I am feeling angry. I did not get the chance to “pal around” online like I hoped with someone tonight. So, off the top of my head, I wrote this poem about two dueling swordsmen who are two former friends — like in a classic story — forced to face each other, a fight to the death, but instead of pleasing their masters, they kill each other instead. The last one alive is not nearly as dead as the other. He has used his own heart as scabbard for his sword and walks into the western sunset. His companion is beginning his death rattle. Both are angry that all came to this. Metaphorically, nothing really to do with any of my friends, just over my love for swords and sorcery fantasy.

And simply wishing I could have talked with my friend tonight about adventure and heroism like I so long to all the time, rarely getting that chance to. Heart-broken, but only for the moment, I end this blog post to go back to my studio to draw, weep, draw some more, get to bed early… It won’t always be like this, I hope.~

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