in here
oxygen has stopped moving
a body is melting over a dream
that is alive and well
an intention
blackwater
we intertwine like parasites
we love like decay
i could be convinced to move out of here
but every moon begs for this same
consistency
and I am no moon
start with a word
they don’t care which word you choose
as long as you begin
and, later, end
those words hang stolen
weeping willow feelings
a translation
so desperate
so sudden
a panic slighted by
memories that
only sleep can
bribe from
a hidden cave
i think
i thought of you
as love
a piece of heaven
dangling over
a crimson counter-top
tempting my
sensations
a reverberation
of a gift
offered only
by the Universe
you stole
them from another
love
that flourished
in a time
that I could not exist
not for you
The sun lays September to rest,
my single tree quivers
against black canvas, frost steals my breath
and this night makes it hard to be a river.
My moon cannot gaze quick
enough in any direction, I stumble
over boulders, though these dormant feet stick,
one-side of heavy rubble.
Gentle, I offer, white whispers,
(and knuckles), as I lay my head to rest,
because, as he often does, the reaper
shreds nightly peace, to build a home in my chest!
Sad forest of dread, your morning crowds me
with loud hatred
and the whole world crawls in my head.
They sit on my couch, spilling coffee and
lies. Gross laughter – snorting
at sticky children.
I have said that I am not a city
to muck around, but they watch me
like my ancient bricks are
Italian art,
my legs,
my hands,
my lips become earthquakes
I am the black silence, awkwardly shaking
against the wall while a baby
crunches tomatoes against my skull,
and this flimsy morning is
scalding me with people
carrying invitations to disease.
I want to be free of
this nausea
and take some of their trade,
but I cannot.
My skin has been nourished by neglect
and poverty, I’ve been
eating grass roots and building castles
for worms,
and if you follow my example, you might be the
wisest, and the loneliest,
to ever sit in this sad, sad forest
of dread.
She is fierce perfection,
parallel to the sky,
matching rock for rock.
The sky’s diamonds sparkle for her
and we stomp on her beauty,
each day, yet she is soft leather
under our ignorance.
They talk about her like I do not know
already. She is arid,
angry!
She stretches over death,
impregnating fire
with fire. She is malignant perfection
and I am her sister.
He may kill me
in plain love, He has
done more already.
His words are iron,
a heavy chain crushing
my fight.
I left a sleepy hill
for His voice.
My feet ached with disapproval,
but I went, as a soldier,
and shall we fight?
I hold armour in my lungs,
but my hands are wasteful,
braided together in conversation
with God. I would be proud
if I had it now. I would offer
everything, but question.
Here, He comes!
Don’t be late. I think
we settle on a couch, sinking
into resentment, I feel His chain.
I am not, but is He
free??
Tell me something. As I lay next to my sick sister
in silk, unbalanced; give me an offering.
I burn for truth, for the ignorant man
to bare his torment,
to tell me my body is useless,
to hold me as a black fish stripped of possibility
and soak me in architecture.
Make me into something better than two.
I have been a ruined kingdom
for over an hour. My bed is an ash tray.
My bones are hot with need.
Where is your urgency?
Where is your greed?
Catch my empty hand…save me!!!
Give me something sharp to believe in.
My name is a vicious mirror at a stand off.
I catch my sick sister without her gown,
as naked as the night,
a rough sling shot aiming for the key hole.
She is the lie trembling in my doorway,
the life I cannot live.
We have no place, not now!
Her knees are bruised and I am her salve.
I, her freedom.
She, my prison.
Tell me something to help me
burn this sick girl out of my skin,
to gather my ashes and make me one again.
Some Things Ache In The Dark was made available today for $5.00 at http://store.writingknights.com/2013/0043-3043.html. HUGE HUGE Thank you to Azriel Johnson, founder/director, at Writing Knights Press for the opportunity to make available a small collection of
my poetry, (which is my life)!!!
Also, another HUGE thank you to Doug Alan for the amazing book cover! He is a fantastic artist and I couldn’t be more happy with the cover,
and, OF COURSE, thank you to every single reader!!
XOXOXO
~ Maggie Mae
You will lay aside your suspicions of me.
Slide the doormat over your back,
be still.
I turn silver coin accusation
between my finger tips
and flip.
The great crime, I ask you,
a civil war inside me,
or you?
My innocence is like this!
Your guilt is a private loss,
but the way you droop confidence
downward, as if the ground
will forgive you,
shows my victory,
and in my voice, forgiveness,
but my gut smirks.
I am a temple of construction.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 