Monday, September 23, 2013

the light and the dark

the sky
it darkens-
and nothing is left
but twilight.
and the world
becomes shadow,
the only lights in the sky
the bright, eager stars.
and though
the stars
are beautiful-
fabulously, undeniably, beautiful...
the thing that lights them?
is still
the darkness.

Friday, September 6, 2013

her head, she thought, had always been full of ideas,
just the way a lightbulb
might be filled with light.
it had always been that way, she thought,
and sometimes a something good might come out, onto the paper.
but it didn’t usually, 
and when it did, 
it was good,
nearly too good. 
they stared and oohed and aahed-
but no, she thought, 
they didn’t really get it,
but then, neither did she, only knew that it was 
big and peculiar 
and that it would always be there,
like a memory, or a photograph.
and sometimes it would work,
the thing,
and gears would spin and locks would click-
and when the words stopped coming,
she told them,
she read to them, 
and they would say,
oh, it’s so good!
but then she realized-
didn’t they know she wanted it to be more than good?
couldn’t they tell?
but she also realized
that the words would never stop coming,
so she came to a conclusion-
the words were all she had.

the light bled from the sky in colors-
because that was how the world 
expressed itself.
silhouetted against the twilight-
was a tree,
yet still there,
though totally,
darkness blankets
yet fast-
you could not watch it, 
yet it falls thick-
seeming hard to miss.
tiny winking lights
scatter the pitch sky
drawing unintentional pictures,
is the most beautiful kind.
a luminous bloody circle
is suspended from an invisible wire-
hanging in entire contrast
from the black-
from the black, that envelopes and sucks everything away-
the mountains,
the light,
the hand in front of your face,
the warm person next to you.
the world does not again return the land-
until the first paints
color the sky,
pinks and reds and oranges-
and a fabulous array 
of everything in between,
everything to beautiful to put into a single word.
this day is not a cold one,
where it begins with blues and grays and black.
this day is ancient,
the first day
and the last.
and once again,
there is a silhouette against the horizon-
a tree,
yet still there,