poem 34 of a poem a day for 2012

 a lighthouse beams nectar in the dark

from wingless crawls
the tidal pools of go are
odd mirrored mercies
living longer in throes

how does heavy paint know
near the sea that
it's crystals weep
the candled-glass serenade
that we have all been broken
at one time or another
and are waiting to melt again
into what forges between chances
and choices made

or that these words' rides
could just be the wings
so nudge me, sleepy, out of bed
waiting and wading
haunting myself bled
til I am only
what a warrior's fool sings
knowing that school here
comes in scars
and keeps memories
jarred in what tides ring

like chinese lanterns strung
throughout the Earth's immense
bottom sky dangled
the sound of wind and wave
behave very similiarly
as do I when I learn
how fast I can crawl
and how much the wind
and water are mother/daughter
and never mind
finger combing
the mornings
to help push me
along and in and out
of wombs

sand dollar spent remains
reminders of what on all fours
I can gain in wet sand
perspective to the highs
and stretch out all my skins
drying out the clawed bits
throughout my lows
throughout where
I cannot shape the sand
I cannot cup hold love
and try to build here
I cannot know anything
without wanting it first
crawling like the sea
blind with thirst

I am
ready to burst
near the spray-taste
of your salts' sweet

driven into skins of time
the spine-arms of the forests here
ghost dream me a ripe meniscus
digging with my slow winged sharp, waiting
inside the whorled mysteries of
my history's mistress chrysalises

whirled madness beneath
the translucent to opaque windows
finding the ways in and out
of the world
that is wet all the time
with no land masses
to finger the rhyme

here,where everything you give
to me,rolls a churned kept at bay
where,what can be denied
when every bladed word you stir
can strip off my hide
when the wind and waves
brave just how my rusted lock's knew
that they had been crow-picked open
to bare my neck a completed zoo

I am
wanting
I am
needing
I am
bleeding
so much more
than a bite of you
on this page
in this poem
in these currents
taking me home


EJR (c)

 painting by Charles Moffat  charlesmoffat.com