On Holding My Tongue (Again)

Will there still be time for talking
When I am not afraid?
When my voice is no more meek or fraught
And my shame is unlade?

Will I still have breath for speaking
When worrying is past?
When I’m done fearing how I’m thought
Or how my thoughts are cast?

Will I still have words worth saying
When I worry not what’s said?
I suppose it really matters naught–
I shan’t speak when I’m dead.

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The Lover’s Turn

The sun is shining high and clear,
In the east and far from here,
The sun is shining high and clear–
Love me, love me, won’t you dear?

The moon is shining, cool and bright,
Westward far and cloaked in night,
The moon is shining, cool and bright–
I will, I will, till morning’s light.

And every sunset shall we meet,
When I in passing pause to greet,
And every sunrise meet again–
Will you, in dying, love me then?

I’ll love you clear across the sky,
And yes, I’ll love you when I die,
And since my light you happ’ly give,
I’ll love you all the time I live.

I’ll love you too, from rise to set,
From when we meet to when we’ve met,
And while this place is yours to see,
I trust you’ll hold the light for me?

Each night I rise and each day die,
As you are born unto the sky,
I’ll hold the light until once more
You rise to keep the hour’s score.

The sun is shining, high and clear,
In the east and far from here,
The sun is shining, high and clear–
Love me, love me, won’t you dear?

The moon is shining, cool and bright,
Westward far and cloaked in night,
The moon is shining, cool and bright–
I will, I will, till morning’s light.

Tick, The Clock is Chiming

Tick, the clocks are chiming,
Tock the clocks fall down,
Tick the time is passing
As the forest turns to town.
Tick, the fairies beckon,
Tock the moonlight wanes,
Tick, your time is running
And the child, down the lane.
Where does she go? You ask her;
The child only skips.
The child does not answer,
But she laughs and runs and trips.
Watch, the fairies mock you,
Watch, they take her hand,
And she will follow happily
To the far off fairy land.

The Eighth Son of Seven

The first son is heir to the seventh son’s throne
Barren and black though it be
The second to all that is gardened and grown
Though half of it’s washed out to sea
The third son receives a wonderful wife
Though she’s fifty years older than he
The fourth, perhaps, to a tedious life
As a merchant, or maker of keys
The fifth joins the army, an officer born
And he might win a medal or three
The sixth son often is treated with scorn
For nothing he does comes free
The seventh has magical seeds to be sown
And wonderful sights to see
But the eighth is neither remembered nor known
A horrible thing to be.

Nobody

i am
aching. i am
empty. i  am
a blank space inside a shell I am
Nothing I am Nobody and I
Will sail past sirens and past Cyclops, you cannot harm
What has no
Existence. I am the Universe aching, I am
The Great Blank Maw that Swallows Itself
I Create Myself and you shall not
Have me.

Maccabee

Imagine if we could be
Maccabees and
knock down oppressive regimes with
guerilla warfare—
we could change the world from shadows and
make it safe for the people
who live in it the most.
Guerrilla troops can win because
this is their home, not yours, and you will fall,
and what if the ones who had to live with the laws
could make them?
I can’t carry a sword though and
pepper spray would make one hard to wield,
anyway. But we know these mountains made of
numbers and code and words and whispers
more than they do, so maybe
we can be Maccabees after all.