January 4, 2013

water is Winter's castle...

  ‘the last train’  by Michael Hutter ©

between a bull and seeds

the pierced still gray
of the January night sky
is open mouthing the words
to this poem
they are in
a caught light magic
lulling clocks asleep
past midnight before Dawn

I am calling out to dance
in the brachial reach of thin trees
crawl-tasting my desires
in their raw time signatures
these flickering silhouettes
of my sensory perceptions
are tied to memory
are stamped like passports
so I can understand
that familiar rhythms
travel with each new
reason to burn

each leap draws  
into dark fertile encampment
I become, a crept theft waiting
to catch fire, waiting to be seen
beyond recognition, waiting to accept
the permanence of the mask
I televise my surrenders
give up the wheel
I motion though
that I am still driving
I take selfish as the slow bullet
know where to place pain
each moment a reflection
to make an example of

I pause, to cry a bit
in the cold ache of snow
arctic fangs, digging in
waning Moon saying nothing
behind the clouds
while, I start
to remember Summer
as May leaning in
pure wanted bloom
pure pollen storm
slowed down dreamt
fuzzy images, pure delirium
fitting everything in



  1. These days are so dark, I too pine for the pull of the sun, the eddies and ripples and scents of summer. Beautiful as always.

    1. I always seem to wax for the Sun, after Yule ...the sleepy wombs beneath frozen skins, tell me to be patient...it will all begin again...arm and arm, hand in hand, friend to friend...

  2. Another piece of warm wet beauty, poet♥