be careful, son
don’t delve into
too much mystery
it’ll consume you
pray to yellow moons
cycles of rebirth
summer turns to autumn
the land sustains us
be careful, son
just before slumber
there’s a moment between
dream & wakefulness
a hazy realm
your smelly dog
at the foot of the bed, growling
the moment happens
you fall into dreamland
awake to sunlight
peering through heavy curtains
a new day – but
are you still in dream?
this whole thing may not
be what it seems
He traversed the valley for days
seeking the ancient one who’d provide
nourishment to his ailing soul
words from a holy mouth that
would unlock secrets of his inner-being –
sloshing through thick mud, the traveler perceives him
through the fog –
the figure of the ancient man
glowing, golden in the valley of shadows.
The Hight Priest of Saturn tends to his parish –
you didn’t expect to find him here
hidden in this Rust Belt town
a town eager for rebirth
a town that’s lost its youth
who’ve fled the flaking steel mills that die
on the banks of the purple river –
The High Priest of Saturn expects a successor
someone to continue the cleansing
the vicarious pleasure of standing
before Saturn, our merciful Maker.
(Photo from sciencenewsforstudents.org)
Note: This poem was inspired by High Priest of Saturn, a musical group self-described as in the psychedelic doom genre. I’ve been listening to more groups like them lately, so I guess the cool band name was caught in my head!
You humiliated the Netherworld Poet + now you must pay – the only way to avoid his curse is to sacrifice your first-born son. The Poet cackles like a hyena on arid plains of this sun-soaked frontier – you dared question his knowledge of tribe + kingdom that’s your birthright to lead.Continue reading
The soul-snatcher glared at me from the dusty street corner with fiery orange eyes, his hands cupped over his mouth because of the early morning cold.
I had been out late that night, and I was returning home a little tipsy.
“Hello there,” he said. “Looking for your fix?”
See the silver moon through the trees,
but don’t open the gates that lead to the dark forest.
I forget what the outside’s like;
in the twilight, hear the groans of the dying.Continue reading
A few months ago, I began looking through my journals at old poems I had written. “Strange planet” has gone through several revisions over the past year or so, and this is where I’m at with it so far.Continue reading