en langage clair

anything and everything

Category: Poems

Kismet

Wandering eyes can easily bait

A blithe grin, a peal of laughter, an errant remark

That sticks to your mind

Like caramel in teeth

Where the sweetness lingers indefinitely

And remains oblivious to its own perfection.

When pleasure is found

 in discourse

 in silence

in presence

in acquiescence

in coalescence

Cessation is not an option.

I watch your hands

 Until a thought decides to drop from your mind

And then I’m given permission to watch your eyes.

And when expectation arises for reply

I want to ask you to please let them keep falling

So I can keep listening

And the world can keep spinning

And I can keep studying

And you can keep syncopating,

 Extrapolating

Conjugating

Meditating

 Ruminating

 Proliferating

Fascinating me until the lights behind your head

Are blotted out, one by one

And all that’s left

Are the words and thoughts that I loved from the beginning.

As a Child

Image

As a child, I was fond

Of pressing sweaty palms into eyelids

Until that natural, hallucinogenic screen was pulled down by unseen hands

In front of my pupils

Where swirling patterns and bright flashes of light

Were released before me, around me, into me

And life was a natural high.

Now they wait in the shade for a tab

To be pressed surreptitiously into their palms.

As a child, I could pick my way

Under the branches, through the shrubbery, into the foliage

To sit behind my little green pond

Hidden from the world behind Elephant-ear leaves

And the refraction of the sun off the water

Tiny, white plastic feet submerged

Algae weaving through my toes

Entreating me to stay hidden here in my natural habitat

Yet demanding nothing from me.

Now they wait in broken homes, running cars

To bestow upon another their carnal knowledge.

As a child, I rarely woke before the sun

Yet when I did

That celestial beauty would soon raise his head

And bid farewell to the gossamer stars

And eat the pale moon like a Communion wafer

A sacred, ethereal ceremony

That I, and I alone, witnessed.

Now they stay awake each night to stare at the horizon

Bleary-eyed, numbed; but cannot name what they see.

As a child, I could pluck miniature flowers

The white, spongy ones

That were smeared across school fields like litter

And with nothing but the dexterity

Of my petite fingers,

Tie them end to end,

Into streamers that were me a thousand times over

Crowns that bore my primordial regality.

Now, with shaky hands, they spray glue onto their heads

And stain their hair unnatural pigments.

As a child, I could savor clutching to each branch

Revel in the act of climbing

The lattice of a pine tree

Accruing sap in the spaces between my fingers

My palms like strips of fly-tape

My body swaying with the trunk

As I sat on top of the world

Still wondering at how sticky my hands were.

Now they cling in fear to their branches,

Staring at their hands

Wondering if life was supposed to be this viscous.

The Origin

cool ocean woman

It will be here soon, it’s so near

You need not change your name, your passions, your fears, the cereal brand you buy

It makes no difference where you are, who you are, what you are

It’s coming. Your life is about to begin. This, is now, is the origin.

Wait in the night with the solemn man of the shadow

 Tell him things you cannot say

Then rise and take repose in the coming of sublimity

When the sun creeps along your wall, down on your floor, through your lids.

Don’t go searching or seeding and do not look with your eyes

Hear with thoughts, feel with ideas, taste with memories

Stretch and crack until pain becomes euphoria

Until affliction is synonymous with talent.

Revel in the solitude of your head

Then open it to another

And let them experience the intricacies of your whole being.

It’s so close.

Don’t hide.

Wait.

Hands

My hands were really cold tonight, so I wrote this for you guys.

handprint on window

Flex, and straighten, fists curled, white knuckles.

Ten fingernails, ten knuckles, innumerous creases and crevices,

Places where memories were trapped and held into infinity

So that I might find them again one day and smile or cry

At their behest.

If I curl and cramp these fingers and hold them taught, tense

 And form tiny little cages

Mistakes and regrets would be shoved up against one another

In my left palm

Clamoring like a circle in hell, screaming at me

Through my fingers, threatening to crack my bones

While in my right, hopes, dreams, ideals, loves

Would be caressing and embracing one another

Asking me to join them

Begging me to free them

Wishing I’d favor them.

In my palms, I once held

A happy puppy, a brandy snifter, a witch’s broomstick, a stuffed lion

A tendril of Mother’s hair, a tarantula, a laden bus tub

A microphone stand, a wrapped paper gift, a letter of acceptance

A pool of blood, a rollie pollie, a pair of handlebars, a vase of yellow tulips

But ne’er felt so good as when

Hands found another’s shoulder blades as

Arms wrapped around each other,

As when a palm placed over a chest proved to one that

Life was still alive, hearts were still beating

As when one’s fingers molded into another’s

And each tip clung to each knuckle

A perfect lattice of love, filigree of fidelity.

All hands were made to know.

And now, as I look down at mine

I see the blue fingernails losing feeling

As they move faster across the keys

Cracking skin stretched thin and taught

As fingers move to punch another button

Tiny, undefined veins creeping under the cover of skin, stifling blood flow

All hands were made to know.

All hands were made for another’s.

The Cleansing

Here’s a little ode to my Edgar Allen Poe heritage. It’s not nearly as majestic or creepy, but it might entertain you for a few seconds.

The Cleansing by Devan Haddock

Last night I saw upon my floor a horrible, gruesome thing

Black and oozing, ghastly, monstrous,

A mass of evil, writhing and pulsating.

As I crept closer, it transformed into a box,

The bile, it melted away,

Through the floorboards, the crevices and cracks,

There it sat, wrought with age and decay.

And as I watched, it began to shake, as though there was something inside it,

This thing, it was desperate, it frantically pounded!

I’ll open it up, I decided.

And so, I bent down to study the old lock, and looked about for a key

But to my surprise, the box opened up,

Where a chunk of ice sat waiting for me.

Cautiously, gingerly, I reached into the box, and held the ice in my hand,

And as I gazed, the ice, it shattered!

I simply could not understand…

Left in my palm was a little black thing, shriveled and shrunk like a raisin,

Expecting the worst, and receiving no less,

The little mass caught fire, furiously blazing!

Shocked and horrified, I began to scream, my hand was aflame, you see,

…Until the flames subsided and withdrew,

And left me with the most pleasant feeling.

In both hands now, I looked down and saw a sight I had never seen

One large heart, warm and whole, reserved solely for me.