When she walked into the room
I found myself consumed
by an outpacing heat.
My heart then felt it soon,
falling into a swoon,
stepping to a military beat.
Electricity in her eyes
and razors for thighs,
she sliced as she went.
Her voice, a sweet lullaby,
that could bed the sun up high:
her words had me spent.
But the sharpness of her glance
and that neck-breaker stance
could not compare to her mind.
Straight through like a lance,
her thoughts slowly advanced,
as mine charged hers in kind.
She and I collided as two,
and into her everything I through,
until we were much like one.
Giving all I believed and knew
because then and there I knew
my heart and mind she had won.
Ex Tempore LXX
M.M. — 26-Nov-2013
26 November 2013
24 November 2013
"What was Her name?"
What was Her name?
She came robed in night with the stars in Her hair,
A whirlwind fever-dream that dimmed all the lights.
Breath sweet like death's deceitful grace and embrace.
Cold to the touch and yet a blaze in Her eyes
That burned through the haze that She wove.
No words from those livid lips; but a kiss, both ice and fire.
From me She took, or rather, to Her I gave my life and light.
And so now I will be dead by dawn; to Her a prize that She swiftly won.
And never will I know whom or what stole my glow.
What was Her name?
Ex Tempore LXIX
M.M. — 24-Nov-2013
She came robed in night with the stars in Her hair,
A whirlwind fever-dream that dimmed all the lights.
Breath sweet like death's deceitful grace and embrace.
Cold to the touch and yet a blaze in Her eyes
That burned through the haze that She wove.
No words from those livid lips; but a kiss, both ice and fire.
From me She took, or rather, to Her I gave my life and light.
And so now I will be dead by dawn; to Her a prize that She swiftly won.
And never will I know whom or what stole my glow.
What was Her name?
Ex Tempore LXIX
M.M. — 24-Nov-2013
20 November 2013
Synapse
I stand by myself inside myself;
disconnecting myself from myself,
coursing along the fibrous channels.
The colours are so much more alive with my eyes closed.
Electrochemical firestorm,
a synchronous, oscillating universe reflecting on itself.
How long the journey? how far the voyage?
The answer lies in the distance of the synaptic cleft.
Ex Tempore LXXIII
M.M. — 20-Nov-2013
disconnecting myself from myself,
coursing along the fibrous channels.
The colours are so much more alive with my eyes closed.
Electrochemical firestorm,
a synchronous, oscillating universe reflecting on itself.
How long the journey? how far the voyage?
The answer lies in the distance of the synaptic cleft.
Ex Tempore LXXIII
M.M. — 20-Nov-2013
11 November 2013
The 11th of November
Eyes that still tell so much, despite the glaucoma,
and that had seen too much.
Seemingly so fragile in that chair,
but back then a stone against the waves.
*
I ran into Death earlier today,
he was counting from his list by the wayside.
I stopped and said,
How goes the tally, my old friend?
He looked at me
and simply nodded in affirmation.
*
In the Davies' house in Rhymney
a photo of him stands at attention.
He was very popular round the village,
she says, with troubled hands.
*
The fields have long been overgrown in Flanders
and the air long cleared.
The earth holds in it memories, mostly terrible ones.
But there, by the autumned trees—
only the flowers have to suffer winter's cold now.
Ex Tempore LXXII
M.M. — 11-Nov-2013
and that had seen too much.
Seemingly so fragile in that chair,
but back then a stone against the waves.
*
I ran into Death earlier today,
he was counting from his list by the wayside.
I stopped and said,
How goes the tally, my old friend?
He looked at me
and simply nodded in affirmation.
*
In the Davies' house in Rhymney
a photo of him stands at attention.
He was very popular round the village,
she says, with troubled hands.
*
The fields have long been overgrown in Flanders
and the air long cleared.
The earth holds in it memories, mostly terrible ones.
But there, by the autumned trees—
only the flowers have to suffer winter's cold now.
Ex Tempore LXXII
M.M. — 11-Nov-2013
02 November 2013
"Rain is falling"
Rain is falling upon their heads
They who fought but now are dead
With belief and strong will and heart
They stood together and yet apart
Women, men, children—one and all
Cold and lifeless under funeral pall
But once so full of life and steely sight
They all answered the call to fight
A fight for right, for life and liberty
To reseed freedom's fallen tree
And though it may seem all in vain
Yes, high was the price they paid
But the spring once more has found its flow
And embered hope regains its glow
The dead, they pass on to you and me
And all those wishing to be free
The courage and strength and will to live
For which everything I would gladly give
Ex Tempore LXXI
M.M. — 02-Nov-2013
They who fought but now are dead
With belief and strong will and heart
They stood together and yet apart
Women, men, children—one and all
Cold and lifeless under funeral pall
But once so full of life and steely sight
They all answered the call to fight
A fight for right, for life and liberty
To reseed freedom's fallen tree
And though it may seem all in vain
Yes, high was the price they paid
But the spring once more has found its flow
And embered hope regains its glow
The dead, they pass on to you and me
And all those wishing to be free
The courage and strength and will to live
For which everything I would gladly give
Ex Tempore LXXI
M.M. — 02-Nov-2013
30 October 2013
The Birth of Fire
When I first discovered the fire inside me I was ambling in the dark;
I was a man in the body and in the life of a boy,
a god confined by the reality permitted by circumstance or accident.
I could not foresee where its light would take me,
but the ignition drew me in—deep and deeper still—into myself.
I was my own Prometheus, but stealing the fire from myself and giving to myself.
The flames reveal the tracks that lead to a thousand and different ambitions and futures.
These, I know now, have always been there, but before were unseen with my infant sight.
At times I may lose the feel of the burning,
but it never extinguishes—every time it comes back to me its blaze is just as fierce as before,
or even more so.
The fire is everywhere in me:
I see it in my hands, my body,
in my mind, in my paths and ways.
It is everything.
The fire at the beginning was a mere glow.
But now? Now the fire is an inferno—and I aim to set my fucking world on fire.
Ex Tempore LXX
M.M. — 30-Oct-2013
I was a man in the body and in the life of a boy,
a god confined by the reality permitted by circumstance or accident.
I could not foresee where its light would take me,
but the ignition drew me in—deep and deeper still—into myself.
I was my own Prometheus, but stealing the fire from myself and giving to myself.
The flames reveal the tracks that lead to a thousand and different ambitions and futures.
These, I know now, have always been there, but before were unseen with my infant sight.
At times I may lose the feel of the burning,
but it never extinguishes—every time it comes back to me its blaze is just as fierce as before,
or even more so.
The fire is everywhere in me:
I see it in my hands, my body,
in my mind, in my paths and ways.
It is everything.
The fire at the beginning was a mere glow.
But now? Now the fire is an inferno—and I aim to set my fucking world on fire.
Ex Tempore LXX
M.M. — 30-Oct-2013
29 October 2013
"it was the eyes"
it was the eyes
that tried and tried
and finally pried
opened the doors
of the soul and all
therein, wherein
shadowy and timid
love simmered;
or thighs like scythes
that tower to heights
where in the sky
the kingdom's walls
fall to thunder, torn
asunder by a simple
kiss from a fount of
blissful waters,
cauterising the open
wounds from which
seeped through
breath, and in: death.
yes, the lips ripped
fear away, so that dear
life ran reddened once
more, forevermore;
in her mind as I in hers.
Ex Tempore LXIX
M.M. — 29-Oct-2013
that tried and tried
and finally pried
opened the doors
of the soul and all
therein, wherein
shadowy and timid
love simmered;
or thighs like scythes
that tower to heights
where in the sky
the kingdom's walls
fall to thunder, torn
asunder by a simple
kiss from a fount of
blissful waters,
cauterising the open
wounds from which
seeped through
breath, and in: death.
yes, the lips ripped
fear away, so that dear
life ran reddened once
more, forevermore;
in her mind as I in hers.
Ex Tempore LXIX
M.M. — 29-Oct-2013
28 October 2013
The Rider
The rider came from beyond the dawn
With a body weary but a spirit strong
And with him the day's morning song
On sable mare he had travelled long
To wherever his heart was flung
Where clouds and fear lowly hung
A sword bright as light to which he clung
Fatally known to those whom it had stung
Unsheathed with still unmistakable hum
But the rider's end had finally come
All debts were paid and all deeds done
His recompense, his requested sum:
To rest forever in the morning sun
Ex Tempore LXVIII
M.M. — 28-Oct-2013
With a body weary but a spirit strong
And with him the day's morning song
On sable mare he had travelled long
To wherever his heart was flung
Where clouds and fear lowly hung
A sword bright as light to which he clung
Fatally known to those whom it had stung
Unsheathed with still unmistakable hum
But the rider's end had finally come
All debts were paid and all deeds done
His recompense, his requested sum:
To rest forever in the morning sun
Ex Tempore LXVIII
M.M. — 28-Oct-2013
24 October 2013
Running Away
There are times when just running away and disappearing from your life is an all too real temptation. This is semi-fictional: the account is made-up but the feelings behind it are genuine.
I remember I was sitting out on the porch one late afternoon watching the life of an uncommonly heavy storm play out. It was one of those storms—you know, like the ones in the autumn where it just rains and rains. I was on my own at the time; everyone else was in the house busy with preparing for some gathering. But this was fine as I was enjoying the temporary solitude. At first I wasn't thinking about anything much. The storm was mesmerising in itself, transfixing me with the pattering of the rain, the rumbling of the thunder. In a way watching this deluge was the most cathartic thing I could ever think of.
But then I started to reflect, which is never a good sign. I came to realise that there was a strange dichotomy in the storm and the life within the house behind me. Out in the storm things seemed to be much simpler. There was fluidity and dynamics to the storm's life; nothing was constrained and events were always in flux. In essence, a type of freedom was inherent in it. The life in the house—my life—was a leaden weight on my chest. I had been so restless then. A million million thoughts and worries ran marathons in my head and there was no end to them. And I think the crux of the problem was that I couldn't figure out how to make things better because I didn't know what was wrong; not really, anyway. It just seemed that I was a growing ever larger in a cage that was getting ever smaller, and maybe this had been of my own making or maybe it hadn't. What was certain was that the pacing and the restlessness was spreading me thin.
I eventually found myself fantasising about just getting up from my chair on the porch and just walking out into the storm and not coming back—at least not for a while. I wanted to just walk and walk, smell the rain, feel the water fall on me. There was something out in the distance that I was searching for; I wanted to find it, whatever it was. I had been waiting for something, or nothing—I don't think there was a difference, not one that mattered: I simply was not whole and badly needed to be. How easy it would have been to do it, to just leave. I felt in every part of me that my life was meant for more and how I hungered for it. It would have been completely irresponsible to have just left, yes, but the idea was undeniably tempting.
That was some time ago. Where do I stand now? I'm still looking out into the storm. I'm still looking for something (nothing). There is a peace that is out there I have yet to reach. The only difference between that autumn stormy afternoon and now is that I am much less afraid of the thought of running away.
I remember I was sitting out on the porch one late afternoon watching the life of an uncommonly heavy storm play out. It was one of those storms—you know, like the ones in the autumn where it just rains and rains. I was on my own at the time; everyone else was in the house busy with preparing for some gathering. But this was fine as I was enjoying the temporary solitude. At first I wasn't thinking about anything much. The storm was mesmerising in itself, transfixing me with the pattering of the rain, the rumbling of the thunder. In a way watching this deluge was the most cathartic thing I could ever think of.
But then I started to reflect, which is never a good sign. I came to realise that there was a strange dichotomy in the storm and the life within the house behind me. Out in the storm things seemed to be much simpler. There was fluidity and dynamics to the storm's life; nothing was constrained and events were always in flux. In essence, a type of freedom was inherent in it. The life in the house—my life—was a leaden weight on my chest. I had been so restless then. A million million thoughts and worries ran marathons in my head and there was no end to them. And I think the crux of the problem was that I couldn't figure out how to make things better because I didn't know what was wrong; not really, anyway. It just seemed that I was a growing ever larger in a cage that was getting ever smaller, and maybe this had been of my own making or maybe it hadn't. What was certain was that the pacing and the restlessness was spreading me thin.
I eventually found myself fantasising about just getting up from my chair on the porch and just walking out into the storm and not coming back—at least not for a while. I wanted to just walk and walk, smell the rain, feel the water fall on me. There was something out in the distance that I was searching for; I wanted to find it, whatever it was. I had been waiting for something, or nothing—I don't think there was a difference, not one that mattered: I simply was not whole and badly needed to be. How easy it would have been to do it, to just leave. I felt in every part of me that my life was meant for more and how I hungered for it. It would have been completely irresponsible to have just left, yes, but the idea was undeniably tempting.
That was some time ago. Where do I stand now? I'm still looking out into the storm. I'm still looking for something (nothing). There is a peace that is out there I have yet to reach. The only difference between that autumn stormy afternoon and now is that I am much less afraid of the thought of running away.
23 October 2013
"Turning together"
Turning together in the dark
Caught by each other as twin suns
Entwined serpents with fangs bared
Momentum and heat colliding together
And skin pale, rippling like a silvered pool
Moonbeams reflected on sweat-beaded flesh
Friction to ignition and exhalation
Tender in the moment with senses peaking
The tussling and tumbling and trembling
Crescendo in their tautened limbs
Ex Tempore LXVII
M.M. — 23-Oct-2013
Caught by each other as twin suns
Entwined serpents with fangs bared
Momentum and heat colliding together
And skin pale, rippling like a silvered pool
Moonbeams reflected on sweat-beaded flesh
Friction to ignition and exhalation
Tender in the moment with senses peaking
The tussling and tumbling and trembling
Crescendo in their tautened limbs
Ex Tempore LXVII
M.M. — 23-Oct-2013
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)