Orbits
The day was dark and
blustery, so I frowned
at the encounter.
But soon I came around,
unbound and grateful
that I found her. Or she
found me, debate
that later, for I was at her
tip, a waiter.
And so I weighed her
coolly, calculating in my
mental, and smoothly asked
permission to pollute her mind
like menthol.
She said she liked her
men tall; I was close but I
was shorter. Still in short
I changed her swift opinion like an
order. And in due time, my
mind confined her preying
for forgiveness.
For every word was
cognac smooth, like gifts
upon her wish list.
And I was Jack Be Nimble,
nimbly dodging her
surmises,
for inquiring eyes disguise
the lies we write into our
diaries. And we can say
the way we feel when
caught up in the
instant;
but instants pass like
grass under the
lawnmower of
distance.
As so we
disconnected;
time rejected our
collision, our
orbits
realigned, designed
with singular
precision…
Selene
Selene, rise and sing to me
as you emerge from
the seven seas: renewal,
rebirth, eternal youth yours.
I shun Helios, leave him his
blinding light, his fiery chariot
scalds my eyes. But you, you
are what a blind man longs for
when he dreams of color; you
are the divine equation of
mathematics,
if a sum of beauty could be found.
Towering giants block my view,
try to impress me with their
mortal design,
and these prattling mortals contented with their
phosphorous, their artificial imitation of
the splendor that is you, Selene.
They rejoice in the barren celebration
of their godhood, while I scorn them
from the shadows.
For how could they forget your
beauty, your silver chariot crossing
the lavender skyway, surrounded by
the Menae, daughters true;
though you outshine them all.
Daughter of Pallas, come to me;
soak me in your shimmering tresses.
Remove your veil
teasingly;
night by night until
we see face to face, until
I can stand before you,
basking in your light until the morning
chases us away…
Moments
Moments like these
are so hard to find;
like diamond teardrops
suspended in time.
Like tearing a hole
through the fabric of space
to see once again
the magic of your face.
Like skating across
sheets of ice and of fire;
how so I dread
and how so I desire.
Moments like these
ghost upon solar winds;
how my heart longs
to have them once again.
The Fall
They Fall when the wind blows…
bodies
pirouette in unhurried motion,
they topple
in myriads too numerous to
tally.
Immortal evergreens sigh
mournfully as they observe the
fields of the dead, the
corpses of their brethren who
pay the price for their
indulgence.
The smell of winter
perfumes the air, the
day of reckoning is
at hand. Witness the
Fall;
the crimson orange shades of
the phoenix sunset,
the pungent scent of freshly
overturned earth, the
vision of bodies that
plummet
from a sky thick with
unfulfilled snow…
Winter Dies
Old Man Winter died in my arms
today, wracked by throes of agony.
He told me in a choking whisper that
no one appreciated him, understood
that what he did was magic, was
just as beautiful as Spring.
With his glacial eyes melting
into teardrops,
he gave a final gasp, and whispered,
“Remember me.”
And like that, he was gone,
his body rent apart by
vines, by newborn flowers that tore
through his chest; and from his
gaping mouth emerged an eager flood
of insects and creeping things.
I felt a presence then, a
sense of rebirth fouling the air;
I turned, and there in the light
of a glorious sun
stood his murderer,
Spring.
Innerspace
He believed in
self destruction, ate his fingers
till they bled;
dismissed the mass consumption,
all the witless words
they said.
For he was strangely different;
glassy eyes stared through them all;
an introvert eccentric
who would swim toward
the squall, and in the eye of
maelstroms he would find
his peace of mind; or pieces
of designed confinements
freed and so sublime.
For he only felt complete at
unaccompanied occasions,
the times alone indulged in
narcissistic celebration, and
in his exploration he
would delve into the Void;
the Abyss that held his
nothing, emptiness that
he enjoyed, and in his
introspection he saw
karma in his stare;
the ghosts of those abandoned,
left behind without a care.
So he returned, his dreams he
burned upon the mountaintop,
forlorn and ever haunted by
the self that
he forgot…
King of Lonely
I open my lips, to utter something
profound, some new deliberation
that I harnessed from the cyclone
of ideas in my mind, but
I remember;
there is no one to share,
no one to whom I can
relate.
I walk alone in a world full of
fire, ice, and teardrops;
a sorcerer king
in a empire of ghosts,
viewing the real world
where the trees are green,
and the air smells of strawberries
and good intentions
only through a frosted mirror,
a doorway of dreams
that I dare not traverse.
For I dream no more,
nor do I entertain fancies;
I perch on my throne like
a raven on a grave,
my misery complete, my
depression
intact, my cloak of
self-derision settled upon my shoulders.
And I say not a word
,
only think of these dark thoughts,
exiled in this self-constructed prison,
the dictator of solitude,
missing you.
Victim
If I were to stab myself for
every genuine smile, every hand
extended as I wallowed in
the Abyss
of despair and misguided notions,
I’d be the epitome of perfect physical condition, the
airbrushed billboard of muscular
modeled underwear.
But my scars are from fire, from
the impotent fury
of those who should have built shelters
from the rain, from the tortures
of this ugly existence.
I held no free pass, no
golden ticket to the gates of love;
no choice but to walk the
broken streets, to face the
predators
who taught me the lessons of life
as I lay in pools of my own
blood.
No tears, for they are the
luxury of those who
are blessed with arms to run to.
I became steel to feel no pain,
and tundra on the inside,
for it is better to feel nothing
than to hang on meat hooks
screaming
while the masses pass by with
blindfolds on
and smiling masks upon their faces.
So when you look in my eyes,
and see the shadow of the monster;
please
leave me to my darkness, for
I never had the chance to choose;
I never had a choice at all.
Quivers
Written with Victoria Selene Sky Deme
Her pain
resonated
like the strumming of electric
guitar strings, and
rippled across the angry sea to
the blackened shore where
my body lay,
long abandoned;
bleeding
onyx wine into fine white grains
of sand filled
with memorials of memories.
She crawled out of the sea foam
in a red wedding gown, torn
at the shoulders;
the lace mask across her eyes
bleeding
down her cheeks
as the sun above inverted
the inevitability, the
doom of a thousand ages, the
feedback from a thousand lies,
a thousand heads of Hydra
hissing;
but…
stirring on the winds, a sound;
like the howling of the souls of wolves
who stalk on dreams
and shake the noise
of human chatter from their teeth;
against a lake of alloy fires that singe
humanity from rage to bliss.
The ungirl danced a ring
around a world steeped deep in sin;
and the inhuman waved his
crimson hands and darkness
swelled; the sea blackened like
boiled blood, the
locusts fell like rain, and
devoured
the world in their disgust, as
wolves stalked the forests, and
eagles soared across the skye;
and at Window Rock, all
was left was she and I…
Walk Away
Walk away, walk away,
sighed the wind that rustled in the
trees
as the rain like liquid teardrops
bled upon my face.
The wounded, neglected, weary
spirit within me groaned;
my lonely heartbeat quivered like
a child’s abandoned silver
rattle.
Scorned and listless, scarred and
fallen;
how I’ve come to know the truth, the
bitter fruit of
force-fed knowledge, the
loveless, trustless, forgotten race who
go forth blind and wandering, filled
with the helium of self-importance, while
ignorant of the designs of Death.
Walk away, walk away,
roared the flames as in their greed they
swallowed up the world;
Walk away, walk away…
The earth burns bright today…
Dark Lord
Wilderness
across my eyes;
fire searing
‘cross the skies.
Heavens toppled,
worlds destroyed;
laughing, I am
overjoyed.
Time
I’ve watched dying stars
collapse
from the mystery of space,
seen mushrooms sprout as
tribute to the forgotten,
and mushroom clouds blast entire
cities into oblivion.
I’ve seen fires eat the world in
their anger, seen the oceans stilled;
without a ripple for as far as the eye
could see.
On top of cloud-capped mountains I’ve
wept myself unconscious,
seen towers crumble, and bodies
plummet
to the mystery of death.
Dust and ashes are the inheritance
of both kings and paupers;
the Conqueror Worm lies in wait,
the last companion we’ll ever know.
And all the things seen,
every memory and wasted dream
will be eaten, distilled
and returned to the dust;
just another body fallen,
gradually turned to sunlight
by the never-ending, slowly grinding,
inexhaustible
wheels of Time.
To Fly
I must stay away from ledges
because temptation is too great
for me to soar over the edge,
to try to circumvent my Fate.
I’d like to sail for just one moment,
to feel the cool breeze kiss my face;
before the pull of gravity
a mortal moment I would taste.
I’d like to feel the weightlessness
before my body hits the ground,
before my fantasy of death
just like my dreams come
crashing down.
I must stay away from ledges
because I’m not afraid to die;
to leap into that great expanse
and for a single moment…
fly.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
When Bard Constantine isn’t taking himself far too seriously, he’s usually writing tales involving gritty futures and far-flung fantasy. Further info on his novels and current projects can be found online on Facebook, Twitter, and his personal website, bardconstantine.com. This is his first volume of poetic works.
More by the Bard
The Aberration
When a freak storm engulfs a flourmill, the workers learn quickly that there is much more to fear than just heavy rain.
The Troubleshooter: New Haven Blues
30’s noir meets science fiction in this action packed tale of a man whose job description is shooting trouble.
Looking For More Poetry? Look No Further.
Unfairy Tales From Underland
Selene has made an art form out of taking her broken and fragmented pieces, cleaning, polishing, and faceting them into fine jewels before slicing open your heart with them.
Marie Laveau’s Hot Pink Hearse
David’s poetry and prose are epic mini-plays with the theater being the imagination of the reader.
Thank you…
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Bard Constantine, Immortal Musings
Immortal Musings Page 4