Beloved,
I write to you from the marrow of silence,
where your name still claws the walls of my ribs.
Every breath I take is borrowed from your absence,
every shadow a telegram from your ghost.
I have pressed my lips against the memory of your throat,
tasting the dust that has replaced your laughter.
Do you remember when we shared a heart like contraband,
smuggling tenderness through the checkpoints of despair?
Now I light a candle to your vanished face,
its flame stuttering like a pulse that refuses resurrection.
If you return, even as ash,
I will call it love.
I cross my heart and hope to die,
A childhood pact between you and I.
A sacred X, a secret sign,
Promising your heart would stay with mine.
We sealed our words with a silent grace,
A mirrored promise on each other's face.
One soul, two bodies, a perfect whole,
Bound by a truth that fed my soul.
But you broke the cross, you left the 'X' bare,
A gaping hole where you once were.
Left me to mend what you tore apart,
A shattered promise, a broken heart.
I cross my heart, but it's just a scar,
A ghost of a twin who traveled too far.
And I'm left behind, with everything to bear,
And a broken promise hanging in the air.
I am 1,248 songs of complicated rhythm. Prose and verses tell a story of my decisions…my indecision. I am skin shaped, in 42 different shades of foolery, a life lover doing my best to avoid an other, but they seem to be everywhere these days. Crawling out from under rocks, or latent in my twisted fantasies. I think I may be terminal with delusional romantacy. A proverbial symphony strung together with sinew and longing. Discordant chords bending into melody when I blink too long or laugh too hard at the wrong moment.
I can admit, I have been the composer of songs that I was never meant to play. Still, I finger at the keys, an untuned melody stretched thin across the vastness of possibility, a quiet rebellion whispered in 3am silences, telling truths I didn’t ask to know, but I can’t help but pick up on the tone. I am every note you thought I missed, the calloused fingertips of my mistakes, still strumming, still singing. Harmony may elude me, but the melody is mine to claim. Yes, I am 1,248 songs of messy humanity, and I’ll rewrite the chorus as many times as it takes to finally hear it in my own voice.
Streetlight dander. Jawbone asphalt.
Blink razors carve her iris script.
Rib stars ovulate in feral grates,
mechanical tongue juts a bloodline breath.
Keystroke ruin writes in collapse,
a waveform lodged in sternum glass.
Lipsticked rodeo—a gash in faded denim
Banana-knuckled hands torch filterless ghosts.
Tree-call through copper root systems.
Wire-pluck storm,
vapor chews the stock market
Cancer caught in molar hush,
brined in citrine static.
She opens her throat like a coin purse.
Spine bows in semaphore.
We dismount the edge—
An incisor cusp,
the confession still blistering
beneath the flesh of no language.
Bless me, Father, for I will sin
And go against your laws
But the winds of change are blowing
I must pick up the cause
At break of dawn I'll march to war
My sword will rise again
For our faith will be no more
Should our foe prevail
Sekigahara calls for me
To fight that raccoon fiend
But save me while I'm falling
Christ, my bosom friend
God of Mercy, I'm in your care
Your grace my strength to lift
This cross, your gift that I must bear
Along my battle flag
- In the voice of: Konishi Yukinaga (1558 - November 6, 1600), to Fr. Pedro Gomez, SJ.
-- The Battle of Sekigahara, 21st October 1600
* "that racoon fiend" refers to Tokugawa Ieyasu, who is often derisively referred to as tanuki (raccoon dog) by detractors.
A I CONFESSION
not my
own work
Opportunity presented itself
I closed my eyes
Learning seemed hard
I closed my eyes
I pushed open a door to my new start
I closed my eyes
Nothing worked out
I closed my eyes
Facing my reality
I closed my eyes
Losing the worth for which I strived
Every waking moment my heart cried
However hard I tried
I couldn't close my eyes.
Confessional Poetry
It is a hard thing to write down.
Much less,
The things that you do.
To influence a life that's not yours.
What did he want?
He only wanted her to get her.
Not even a priest especially a priest
Wants to go to heaven a virgin.
But in the past I did .
Anyway mine didn't, so does the boy or girl stay a virgin?
Who even has the audacity to bring this up on a
Sunday morning?
Back it out,
the girls that live in those trailer's?
Confessions don't change, unless,
they are changed before Sunday morning.
The Handwriting of the Marionette
David J Walker
The confessional was
Paper-thin cursive in ink
A life of sin laid out in as few lines
As were memorable in a
Second person narrative
The ventriloquist's voice opened
The service with a far-off prayer
In another language of tongues
Which only the faithful could bare
As the maître de la marionette
Guided her signed confession
Utopia would open its gates
In the wake of the waves drowning
The funeral pyre
So goes the soul as the steam rose
From the cut strings to the
arcadian clouds somewhere higher
And higher
Confession
by Michael R. Burch
What shall I say to you, to confess,
words? Words that can never express
anything close to what I feel?
For words that seem tangible, real,
when I think them
become vaguely surreal when I put ink to them.
And words that I thought that I knew,
like "love" and "devotion"
never ring true.
While "passion"
sounds strangely like the latest fashion
or a perfume.
NOTE: At the time I wrote this poem, a perfume called Passion was in fashion. Keywords/Tags: confession, confess, confessional, confidence, words, talking, excuses, tangible, real, surreal, feelings, love, devotion, passion, perfume, fashion, false advertising, hype
CONFESSIONAL
I confess to an addiction
If I’m honest, no it’s two
On the scale of dire affliction
They don’t count for much ado
So I’ll say it, take the risk
While confessional I’m tackling
It is salt and vinegar crisps
With a large side of pork crackling
I wear a mask daily
the one I put on in the morning
with the rising sun
and I am the rising sun
full of positive energy
the bright white side
of the yin and yang
the calm water of a river
during fair weather
while deep down I hide
a heart bursting
with the potential for drama
most of which is no comedy
a brooding moon in a starless sky
the black part of the yin and yang
perfectly capable of tragedy
Raw conscience brought me to my knees,
no strength left to defy my shame.
Soul manacled, bereft of keys,
pure guilt by any other name.
To gain my life bought by his loss
raw conscience brought me to my knees.
I face torn sinews on the cross
for by this death mankind he frees.
Hands clasped, head bowed I make my pleas
recounting sins like tables times,
raw conscience brought me to my knees
to man and Lord confess my crimes.
Now cleansed, hands, eyes and soul I lift.
Though this penance is by decree
and liberty the promised gift-
raw conscience brought me to my knees.
For 'Show me Quatern poetry' , sponsored by Andrea Deitrich
27th January 2016
Colorless Confessional
It was as if time had resisted capture
hid its most precious commodities
averted its eyes lest you see into its soul
withheld all but the extremes of color
Everything became a negative reflection
black on white, white on black
variations of both accounting for contrast
allowing the moment to be stolen
There would be future arguments
regarding what color the dress was,
why Mom always had on the same housecoat,
where was Dad when they took the pictures
Time’s reluctant moment would pierce the future
prick deeply the longings of our hearts,
elicit laughter – and tears – intermingling
remind us that we too had been young
The old camera, the canisters, the leather case
the eye that captured a moment of life
offering it to us - as a window
into our future.
John G. Lawless
3/1/2015
By Kevin Robey
September 19, 2014
Casualties are memories
Of all the things I'll never be
Make way for rainy day delays
Release the floods upon the bay
I'm moving on from idle dreams
I played away my self esteem
We found the haze of make believe
Too good a ruse for you to leave
Am I too blind to make it clear
Or just too tired to make it here?
I'll answer you just for today
Tomorrow comes another way
Yes I'm trans, you know it's true
I never could get through to you
So let me state the reasoning
You may not see me wear a ring
I hate these words, I hate their light
For every smile, I cry at night
Still Making up for what I've lost
Won't stop to think about the cost
No better reason why
This bed in which I lie
Until the day I die
Until the day I die...
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