Underneath: a Villanelle

In a sense more real than blood and sinews,
something flows throughout my being
free of blue veins and ruddy tissues.

It streams through me at mountain views,
breaths of autumn, and the songs I sing
in a sense more real than blood and sinews.

I breathe it in whenever I see you
in frosty nights with snow falling;
free of blue veins and ruddy tissues.

It leads me to board planes and canoes
to give water and food to the needy
(in a sense more real than blood and sinews}.

Separate from me, it’s the watcher of moons;
moving across the face of the waters, being
in a sense more real than blood and sinews,
free of blue veins and ruddy tissues.

Fears Grow with Me

As a boy I wore socks beneath my sheets
and at once admonished myself for such
weakness. I dreamed that eight legs and teeth
would meet my feet there where I couldn’t see.
My blood was my own; my body hemmed in
by fabric, protective, though I blushed at
any confession of the fact in the sun.
In the thin veil of night my enemies
seemed more real, though now, in their graves,
they’re cold. New enemies stand before me
not restricted to the moon’s hours, rather,
now I am never alone. No socks beneath
sheets, nor a tight-wrapped neck offers safety:
an empty, vacant spirit haunts me;
a vacuum devoid of personhood.
How many more times will the autumn leaves
crumble beneath my feet with this ghost
as my only companion? The air
is frozen where she should be standing –
cold, stagnant and whining in my ear.
The pitch grows so great that I fear I’ll go
deaf, and won’t hear her voice when she arrives.

Hamartia

When the first morning beams
alight on my window panes
I feel my coarse humanity
like charcoal. Empty. Light.
I’m broken by careless hands;
malice makes an end of me:
Weakness defines my porous
frame.

The morning grows wiser,
I submerge myself
in divinity,
like streams of silver
coursing through my frail
veins, and I am whole.

The deluge lasts for the day,
during which I bask in strength.
In the frigid night,
I return to my brittle state
and again seek divinity

Emotionalism

There are snakes, and lions here;
here, where the thickets
give way to the bold hand
that brushes them aside,
but deny passage
to weaker hearts.
Here, where Celtic serpents
rather than due-dates
stand between myself
and the horizon
for which we all
desperately long.

There is a forest spring here,
clear as glass to its
pebble floor, wherein
that thirst for childish
fairy-tales is quenched
and I am content.

I am wild, bold, untamed here;
here, where the grey desks,
grey carpet, grey rules
have no place and give way
to green adventure:
rich with passion.

Reclamation

I’m building a tower
From which I’ll watch this city burn,
But no soul will know it but my own.
This city stands desolate,
Without bourgeoisie, without proles.
I alone am its master, me and my foes,
Which hover about me
Starting fires to all I have known.
I don’t care to stop them, because I know:
When the city burns down
Then the trees will grow.

High Water

Tight curls of blue and green
Twirl about my toes, now
About my heels. How quickly
This playful current becomes
A raging torrent of red
Clay washed up in the flood.
I’d run to higher ground
To escape this high water
If only there were ground
To which to escape.

There is none, and still
The water rises.

Anxiety. Fear. Worry.
The water’s at my chest,
But I keep my head.
Pump my legs to keep afloat.
I grow tired; the water pulls
At my skin: down, down, down.

And still the water rises.

“Give up, let me take you.”
The torrent speaks to me –
Am I losing sanity?
All about me the voice
Echoes.

I struggle with the surface,
“Let me live!” I cry, to which
I receive no answer.
I surrender. The current
Envelopes me, embraces
Me like a child dearly missed.
I sink, I must be leaden;
Down to where I have no hope
Of ever breathing air again.

The water’s clear at depth.
Cool, crisp and clean, pleading.
Pleading with me to let go –
Release the oxygen
That I so desperately
Hold in my lungs. This is it.
I exhale.

Soon all will be darkness.
I wait until my lungs
Must inhale, by reflex –
Wait until water fills them.

“Trust me.” I hear vibrate
In every molecule of
Hydrogen and oxygen.
And thus, at last I inhale.

Water is denser than air
In the lungs; denser, yes,
And richer. I’m breathing
Deliciously, like I’ve
Never breathed before –
As if these lungs were made
To breathe water, to which
Air is a mediocre
Substitute.

Yes, I am breathing. Alive!
Deliciously, delectably
Alive! And I’ve come so deep
Now, that never will I
Have to breathe wretched air
Again! I am free!

The water is all about –
Without me and within me.
I am not the water,
But the water makes me free.