Air

Smoke
from a recent candle lit,
extinguished
by the breath of it,
sweeping
over the desert
landscape of the room.

Cool
but pungent now,
picking up
the vapor as it swirls
along the walls,
my lungs making
little catcalls
and come-hither twinges
--aching for its presence there.

Deep in the soft folds
of that hollow place,
I need it...
but only moment by moment,

as it leaves as quickly as it came.

terrible cure

Coughing, lurching
in the throws of another sick fit,
I lie against the length of you...
your body cool marble
to my fevered form.

Cradle my head and kiss my brow,
but don't forget to tell me how
I'll be better off in the next world

--But I'm still afraid

of the candlelight dancing,
casting shadows on the wall,
mixing with all the dark things there.

[Do not mask Death when He comes,
for I want to see Him
face to face and in plain view.]

"Shhh," you whisper softly,
but that is not for you to say.
You will be here when
I am gone away
into that long night

making do, when the time is right
to live on faded memories of me,
and of how much better off I'll be.

Untitled

Nine fine lines
Falling out of time,
Marking every syllable
with a fine nine rhyme.

Challenged very aptly by:

One terse verse
vying to be first
fighting for the title of
this nine-lined curse.

Who will be the victor?
It's doubtful we will see,
For this poem is still untitled
and I fear it is to be

the way it is, and nothing more.

Distraction

Softly I write, feeling you in every word,
your distant voice I might have heard,
had I paid attention

to the little urgings stirring within.
I do not need you now as I did then.
My muse is my soul, history and nature,
whispering sweet nothings onto paper.

Outside my window,
straight and tall, pines
point to the unfolding miracle:
another sunset is mine to see.
Molten red sifts through
the clouds like manna,
washing me in cherry-red starlight--

[I might have taken flight--but instead I write
and let my pen do the talking.]

All at once the sky is bleeding
into (rather than out of),
fashioning with delicate fingers
a manifestation of flesh,
an embodiment of its love,
a mirror of above.

Wonders unspeakable
I have seen, but never this,
and suddenly a line I miss
as I scrawl the words "I am made real..."
For these things I see are only me,
not outside the glass but inside looking back.

I never knew that until now.

the traveler

Swinging softly
my hair blows in
perfect rhythm
with a cloudless sky,
which is beating into the
tree line with steel blue intensity.

In the breeze the leaves
of my heart whirl in an updraft,
spinning in a cyclone
of whole-wheat happiness,
tickling my senses
with the softness of a sparrow's wing.

It is autumn here, I think,
but the laughter of summer
still rings along the sidewalks,
the buildings, the white-wood houses
where the children play,
dreaming of Halloween and
Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays.

I wish I lived here too,
instead of just passing through.

I find my peace in poetry

I am along the stream
and paint a dream
with a sigh from deep within.

Arranging words with steady pen
I briefly think of jumping in
but decide against it. Instead,

I find my peace in poetry.

With every thought and karmic condition,
with every sin and remission
I am contributing to the Big Picture.

I am a part of it, but not at all

for I work in the background,
pouring my soul into words never read--
but I have them there,
out of my head
and gleaming proudly up at me.

I find my peace in poetry.

With a rhyme or word a story's heard,
transcending time
and space and physical laws
to make or break a simple clause
("I love you" or "come with me")

with such finality it causes me to shiver.

And I do and did and will tomorrow,
for my heart is tangled up in "thee" and "thou"
and wondering how we came to be.
I ache to know but cannot see, so

I find my peace in poetry.

Prodigal's Son of My Soul

I've been away for a long time
but I'm coming down now,
knowing more, loving less,
feeling hopeless and forgetful.

My little self-discovery self-destructed.

But I had good intentions, you see.
I went out, so long ago,
and climbed a mountain
and nested with the eagles
[who were buzzards, but
I didn't know that then].

I was young and stupid and thin
and beautiful and I wanted more...
I wanted to be "up there"
and "out here" and a part of "it."
I should have been satisfied with what
I had and who I was but I wasn't.

I sought counsel and
enlightenment and a "higher truth"
but I came away with less than
what I left with, for the want
of it is always more powerful
than its reality.

So I am coming back down...
not shining and peaceful like
Moses from the mountain,
but with a task I never had before
[finding myself after "finding myself"]

which is proving quite the chore.

Force of Nature

I do not want to walk through this life.

I want to be moved.

I want to be pushed along
by the breeze that blows
through those who want to feel it.
[and I do want to feel it]

I want to be shown

the way; show me the path to take...
nudge me gently toward that pot of gold
we all clamor for--but don't dare rush me.

It is mine to find in my own time;

so let me rhyme.
Let me feel the words
honey-warm on my lips,
traveling to my fingertips
and scratching a hurried phrase.
Hear me--
for I don't want praise,
but understanding.

I need you
to push me, just a bit,
to make me realize the gist of it
is far greater than my comprehension

of the tension between you and I,
of the broad sky
and of those who think I can't do it.
I lift my gaze as if to say,
"I can, and I will prove it."

Two Bodies [in an urban jungle]

Hard earth
under concrete,
greeting my feet
with every step.

Around me,
a cacophonous
symphony of faces...
then you,

in the strangest of places

we connect;
lock eyes briefly...
hungrily, wordlessly
seducing--

and deducing me
to a quivering mass
of humanity.

For all I want, it cannot be.

Your frame so burned
within my sight,
has faded long into the night
of the city;
swallowed up
and blended away
by the shadow thieves, slate-gray and waiting.

I press my face against
the steel cage and watch you leave.

©Brandi Clark