Well-worn WingsWell-worn wings are what we wear
To navigate skies of despair;
Breaking ties from what was sworn
Our fledglings fall, their souls reborn.
Well-worn wings are what we need;
Shed and frayed in times of greed.
Like sails upon forgotten masts;
They are reminders of our pasts.
Well-worn wings will travel far
Lets soar away, land on a star!
Lets fight the urge to speed away;
Lets save our flight for another day.
From well-worn wings well take our scars.
Gifts tied with strings, but not labeled as ours.
joeyi want him unpoetic and graceless and impossible, rawboned and alive with the thrum of stubborn, stupid strength, arrogant and cocksure and good, with a roughscuffed heart of gold that longs for home and loves whole and pure and hopeless with a wanting that makes the words all tangle and catch in his throat but flow warm and willing from fingertips that know me better, with a rogue's twistlipped lightning smile and a laugh that rings echoes of the child he wasn't long enough, and eyes always, always burning fire-under-glass: brighter by the weight of the world on his shoulders or my dreams between his lashes, gold whispers blinking slow by dawnlight.
The SongbirdA man once asked me
What do I wish?
Is it boxes, or pudding,
Or death-defying fish?
Is it rainbows a-plenty,
Or cabbage and glue,
Or maybe a toaster
That when it pops would say 'moo'.
But I just shook my head
And I sat for a while.
All of the right words
Were lost by a mile.
I bid him good day
With a melancholy tone,
Then up from the park bench
And back home I did roam.
I tossed and I turned,
Still thinking the words,
When finally at last
They came with the birds.
I searched for the man
That very next day
Then again did he ask me
And at last I could say:
'It's nothing of nature
That I wish for myself,
Not the dogs or the paper,
Or a hundred books on the shelf.
I don't want my children
To grow up without fears,
Without fear is for traitors
Who aren't allowed tears.
If I asked for a fortune
I'd only give it away,
So that wish must be saved
For some sunnier day.
What I want came softly
To my window this morn
On the wings of the birds
Calm as a new born.
So listen, my darling,
As I tell yo
Name CallingGalloping roundabout down the mountain,
Bareback on that stallion you would give
No name because to name something is to
Own it and you never believed in possessions;
But lover, listen, once you called me your
Sun and moon and the ripples in your river.
You gave me many names and when you
Left you couldnt just take them away.
You were more cut-throat than Id imagined;
But listen, gunslinger, I'm not dead yet.
PersephoneShe is the descent, yet have no fear. See
How wild flowers whisper where she walks;
She, who moistens mortal springs with her tears,
And the earth does bloom where her feet may fall.
She is the abyss, yet tremble not. See
She, the Maiden, the courtesan of death,
Brings flowered rites of spring to the weary,
And the wintered world holds its bitter breath.
She who sends specters, she who walks with wraiths,
Who tarries yearly in the great beneath,
And thus holds the seasons within her sway,
She, who in the hell-halls of Hades feasts
Who ate from these, three pomegranate seeds,
Maiden of Spring, became the Iron Queen.
On Saying I Love YouI have both wounded and been injured by
The lacerating edges of the words;
So it is not lightly, lover, that I
Bring myself to utter Love to be heard.
I have been both the sharp twist of the knife,
And, too, the target of the blades quick turn.
I have picked my way through those fields of strife
And I have set the peaceful vales to burn,
But now my hearts bedecked in armored trust
And your soul is iron-clad in its faith,
I fear not the craven calling of lust,
Nor my past so full of demons and wraiths.
Darling now I lay my arms before you
And whisper the words I know now are true.