Brainsprain.net

Ivory skinned, doe-eyed devastation.
A slight tilt of her head elegantly murders time
she sighs
We again exhale.

Yet for all the grace in her delicate, musical fingers,
happiness seems to slide through them – unclaimed.

She runs from desire, but baits it.
It is her wound and balm.

So quiet is her heartsong
muffled by trivial distraction, demanding patrons
and whiskey-soaked comfort.

Though her true worth is in the melody,
she fears the fleetingness of form and
desperately claws for purchase.

To many, she is cast in marble.
flawless, feminine and frozen.

To those who listen closely,
she is friend.

copyright cmiller 2-27-2009

Beloved
Love like ours must have come before, yet there are moments when I feel ours must be bigger than time itself and somehow able to support the universe.

Between us, symbols have no meaning.
I cannot compare you to the sun or moon, for they fall short.
I do not look at the ring on my hand and think “this is what binds” for it does not.
A ceremony could never contain what it is to be us.

For every moment, I choose my life.
I choose love and joy.
I choose intimacy and companionship.
I choose someone who knows me, who loves me and who chooses me in turn.
I choose you, my love, my heart, my guide.
I choose you.

for Chad 7/7/2008

She calls me out to her
and I stand half-dressed in her wonder.

Just her smell is intoxicating.
salty, metallic and magical

She purrs and builds
and keeps us
right on the edge.

My skin tingles
every time she flashes.
and my toes grip the wet grass
as she screams her intentions
to take us.

All of my senses are filled now
and I must take shelter before
I come to harm, yet I do not want to move
from this storm.

You may wonder why I do not paint you,
but there is no museum wall that could hold the beauty of you.
There is not paint bright enough, deep enough,
or resilient enough for the vision you hold in my head.
There is no canvas ever made as strong as your arms
or as pliant as your kiss.

You, my life-long lover and friend
are the greatest of all works of art
and if I had any hand in your making,
I hope that I have only left
my thumb print on your heart.

Colleen M. 2/14/2008

My mind keeps coming back to that Monday
when we sat outside in the grotto lawn.
I stretched out flat on a chair below
so you could not see me as you sang your songs.

My eyes traced the veins of the of the leaves above
while you told me of your plan.
It rained flowers that matched my shirt.
and silently my teardrops ran.

Ain’t it funny how our memories change with time?
or how a penny whistle tune can be sublime?

When what you seek and who you are merge
you simply divide again, I am afraid my friend.

But why that’s how it goes
only the cosmos truly knows.

Now, I have loved a man longer than I have not.
and I’ve not found many who know what I have got.

I’m so glad to share the laughter
and a pocket full of dreams.
because now I see that lonely heart
is busting to the seams.

It is beautiful to see the love that I have that is so true
you have found in someone beautiful and I have to say
my darling,
Love looks good on you.

I struggled and struggled
thinking I was all things.
I grasped at chaos
and practiced elegant stances
until seven came along.
I disregarded him
saying “I have no time for you as I am all too important”
and he said, he would be back.

I searched the cosmos
I wore meaningful beads
and performed the rites of ancients.
I read the great philosophers
and memorized the words
so I could repeat them with eloquence.

I clothed myself in the world’s greatest thinkers.
I danced before the fire.
I bathed in the river of time
and then I met nine
who asked what I was doing.
I said “look on me and behold my glory! for I am infinity!”
Nine smiled and called seven to her side.
They took me by both hands and
held me like a lover between them
and suddenly, my confusion melted.
I had a purpose
and my burden was no more.
For I am not infinity.
I am eight.

I have been unmade by nothing
and nothing shall be my unmaking.
For the king of fairies mocks me and does not know it.

He, with his world of knowledge and plastic beads
laughs at my simplicity.

He, with textbooks of incantations and useless spells
mocks my energy by comparison to the horned toad.

I also have words of Latin and the rack of a first kill,
but they mean nothing.

They are merely symbols used in time by men who know no better.
Teddy bears of the intellectual man who cling to words
and have forgotten the old ways.

But how can I resist the dance?
What glamor has the fairy king.
But I will not tango, nor drink but my own wine.
And for all his beauty, passion and poise
the fruit on his table is always rotten.

What happened to poets who stood up for chance?
What happened to lovers who stood up to dance?
What happened to passion that came without brand?
Oh the times, they ain’t gonna change in this land.

We are products for product we are born with a void.
So much lust for fulfillment, that nothing’s enjoyed.
We use and we use all trends in demand.
Oh the times, they ain’t gonna change in this land.

So some of us gather to welcome the fall.
Some of us answer to a higher call.
But until we gather ourselves hand in hand…
Oh the times. they ain’t gonna change in this land.

It is said that no man is an island
yet I have sailed these waters and
seen one exactly thus.

Puzzled by my siren’s song,
he came to hear her and
she found herself, for once, without a song to sing.

Now she stays alone in her abalone bed,
confused and voiceless.
-Wide tessetura of seduction abandoned
and staccatissimo left on the hearts of her victims.

He was born to sail,
His blood runs thick with it
like the very salt of the sea
or the endless protein polypeptide chains
which halo and surround him in golden glory.

He is gratified in his solitude and
takes no comfort in the bows of this ship
or any other.

This ship sails on, but it continues to
stop off at the island now and then
just in case.

Rising and falling, my chest recalls
a pastoral ballad played by a concert cellist.
In viscous counterpoint,
my neurons pluck at my memory a wild pizzicato.

Today, I sun dream of you.
Your wild, cables of cinnamon hair
cross my memory like it did your face -a lion’s mane defying Venus.
The crescendo and hush of our voices made a joke of entropy
for we were ripe and full with the fruit of making.

Now, the wine of the poets has peaked.
But, a heart shaped wing-print remains in my garden.
And by the healing tree, your gold eyes flash mischievous photons
at me under your lids – like you had treasure chests of Hollywood’s greatest bullion
and I were the worlds greediest pirate.

You are love and loved. Grow, green thing.
We are forever and you are now.