Author: lbstowe

I write & I don’t have to show my face.
I write & I don’t have to know my place.
I write & live at my own pace.

When I write, I write from a crippled place.

I write & I don’t have to hate myself. I write & I don’t have to lie.
I write knowing I can come off the shelf.

When I write, I write from a crippled place.

I write inside this prison that I & others built.
I write inside a dungeon of doubt.
I write so I can hide it with gilt.

When I write I write from a crippled place.

I write knowing it’s my only chance.
I write knowing it’s my lock-pick.
I write for a change in circumstance.

When I write I write from a crippled place.

I write because I cannot leave.
I write because I cannot stay. I write because it helps me grieve.

When I write, I write from a crippled place.

I write because no one is coming to relieve. I write because it makes me feel better.
I write because it helps the magic to believe.

When I write, I write from a crippled place. A place I know has no reprieve. And yet there’s a defiant smile on my face.

I am the eye of the storm.

I am the unbroken levee.

I am the silence surrounded by chaos.

I am the silent lightening.

There’s no thunder to be heard after.

I can hear the cylinder of rage around me.

It makes my silence more stark.

And it is my silence, as you can clearly see.

I walk alone. I walk with the eye of gales.

It’s my own private wind & rain monastery.

At least until its walls finish falling around me.

By divine rule’s intervention I am knighted.

A sword hangs above me…tied & tightened.

And yes, with nightmares my sleep is frightened.

Tentatively I test the throne.

The sword still hangs & I am not at home in such a rich gold tone.

A sword hung by hair follows me everywhere.

So far, as it snaps & falls I’ve caught it with an air of flair.

I’ve kept each catch I’ve luckily had so far.

With every new sword I say a prayer & wish on a star.

I carry on each day; gulping at the sight of scissors

I live in hope of dull edges & for my hands kindly nurses

But as my sword collection grows, recoiling becomes second nature.

I’m not allowed helmet or a visit to the “Armored Haberdasher”.

The punny point is fear that life hangs by a hair.

But I’m a funny juggling fighter who catches things with flair.

You should come and see my collection sometime; sooner rather than later.

We never know when I’ll lose this game & be impaled during an afternooner.

Our souls are not in our bodies at night. In dreams they’re thrilled to roam free.

So that passionate barnburner you had last week was a “la Petite Morte” for a woman in Nice.

Should are bigger than our bodies so they are felt but felt loosely as we move through space.

Though you have to be attuned to your own body to feel your souls hovering around you in place.

Lying still & quiet you can feel the warmth all about grazing your skin.

Lying still & quiet you can tell indubitably that the presence is closer to you than kin.

If you’re really good you can jump & feel it ricochet back to you.

And yes, at night, I promise you the you soul leave you & one becomes two.

The soul is expansive enough to visit the moon within the space of a evening.

It’s adventures related upon return that we disregard as dreaming.

Why is everyone so fucking blessed?-“I’m blessed, you’re blessed, we’re blessed”

Gods have better things to do then help your dreams to crest.

If you’ve reached a dream or goal you did that all upon your own.

Or you were lucky or just hardworking but by Gods your “blessings” weren’t sewn.

Take credit for what you accomplish…don’t give it away to invisibility.

Gods didn’t give you the things you strive for; you did that with your ability.

Gods may answer Life or Death but not for prayers of “I need” or “I am”

When it comes to the material I just don’t think Gods give a good goddamn.

Many Gods for many places

Many Gods with different faces

Many Gods each with their tasks

Many customs, books & masks

Many philosophies on how to live

Many instructions to love & give

Many instructions to hate & smite

Many holidays-festivals of light

Many days dour remembering death

Many orders to keep prayer on your breath

Many gods for many places

Many gods with many faces

I’m my own god with my own faces & places.

I once fell in love with the sweetest fruit

Who rotted & withered as she crossed the sea

None of us remain the people we were

But all still recognizable to me

But through better & worse we’ve evolved

But never once did I ever expect

The kindest of hearts to devolve

I love other fruits who’ve ripened with age

And though their rind is rough & sage

They’ve aged like the finest wine

They remain sweet & kind

And not like their soul burnt in life’s oven.

She no longer has love for me. She joined a rebel fruit coven.

Monsters aren’t often made of tentacles & darkness.

Sometimes they sidle on up, wave a hand & smile at us

Monsters aren’t often found in bleak, foreboding places.

Sometimes they hide in plain sight with bright & shining faces.

Monsters aren’t always out for blood, feeding on fear or killing.

Some shake our hands & kiss our babies & seem ready able & willing.

Monsters aren’t often built out of talons, claws & giant maws.

Sometimes they work behind the scenes to hurt us with abominable laws.

Monsters aren’t always from nightmares or afraid of the day.

Often they do their worst by daylight, on TV & by offering to “show us the way”.

Monsters of the dark aren’t half as bad as the monsters up on the hill.

Daily they damage the fabric of reality by lying to get their fill.

Monsters are everywhere today just about everywhere you turn.

But we people are the ones to vanquish these creatures who our fires so easily burn.

What is poetry if not an X-ray of the soul.

It’s a scan of what we hide inside in darkness black as coal.

A poet scans the soul of things…themselves & those without.

They see into the hidden places & turn them inside out.

They roll it over in their hands & rinse off all the rot.

Then it’s polished & bright & ready then to be poetry’s plot.

Black blood ink soaks into the bright white page from the nib of fountain pens.

The pens designed from broken bones found behind the X-ray lens.

And whadduyaknow! The things we hide turned out to be rare diamonds.

Poets have done this from the dawn of language & will until la fin du monde.

I’ve become a thing of twilight, constantly in between.

Smashed between the light & dark where things can & cannot be seen.

The danger of the night looms low; the safety of day in the sky.

The writhing nighttime forest floor is is still very much alive.

The light of dawn dusts the crests of the landscape confusing the human pupil.

Live things skitter & screech about me at hauntingly varying decibels.

If it flies or crawls into a corona of dusky light…then I see & know it.

If it creeps or slithers around my bare feet; I adjust my eyes & intuit.

This is where I know I belong in the rivers of in betweenness.

I’m comfortable in this misty foggy state. It’s mystery a power to harness.

No one comes to look for me here & if they do they can’t find me.

For in twilight the light will camouflage all things into a dusky sea.

So twice a day I find myself in my melting or icing element.

For I have become a thing of twilight…acceptance my only sentiment.