I Am (or more aptly, The Constant Gardner) (7/24/2012). - M.Weisgerber

When last I fell into love,
I knew all the right things
& therefore said them.

When cast out doley,
I wrote till pen & heart were dry
Nimble now, such a fractured thing beheld.

I am now content to watch,
Peer into a blue that breaks from darker water,
Or cry out, to send inner beasts back into deep wilderness:

It is a composed passion, these things.

For when I first awoke into this life,
I talked like a man, fought like a god
& doing so, watched the world burn.

Upon awakening to the shambles of a new day
I relearned how to grow quiet calm,
subtly pick at the many weeds that reared their ugly heads.

I spoke, therefore I am.
I hated, therefore I am that too.
I love now, and seek a brighter future:

That has made all the difference imaginable.

Shattering of the Blood-Stained Darts - M.Weisgerber

Sharpest Fracture -

Goodbye, dear constant soldier of the night

Headstrong; he who taught me how to fight.

What can we say, to him whose life betrayed

himself, daily - now frozen, never to grow old

Never again to laugh or cry.

You supped upon their finest poison,

drained that crystal chalice in a fell swoop,

stumbled to the nearest window

and awaited the coming of the dawn

with a new sense of urgency.

We are those left with boyhood memories,

of many good times through the woods

of endless futures never quite set.

We forged bonds of weight n stone,

gave meaning to all the insane wanderings in the dark.

We laughed... what is there left to say?

You led us first and foremost, and lead us again now,

apparently a marked man destined for an endless night.

Hope now, in your chilled embrace

fated for the fire.

Royal Woods - M.Weisgerber

There is a girl, who managed to earn a place under my skin

Not sure with fine precision or just weakness of mind;

She is there to stay, to root around like so many gerbils nesting.

Held precious, but mentally removed with much disdain.

Held, I say, because I asked her to enter and stay,

made room amongst all the decent clutter.

Precious, I say, because I realized far too late

what little that was caught, was far more than friendship.

I...

I dreamed of my city darkly, no windows;

everywhere an endless sea of wood beams.

People smirking over a cup of tea.

Always watching; a faint glow that was all becoming.

I meander here along a Seine that never existed,

dreading the waking, and the screaming that follows.

Saw her hair at a distance, riding that broken red bicycle

and always seeming to ride away, always laughing so.

Follow me down, past the edge of the quai's,

to where our favorite colors collide, hallucinogen times;

those crafting a scene I will remember when down,

drawn up and drugged against a better state of mind.

a dig at fiona apple - m.weisgerber

oh, watch the iron beast take to the sky, 70 tons
at least
it is a longing for refuge
a need to take flight and rise
but never is a promise

and never will that creature survive the climb

it is the kind of thoughts that made it hemorrhage originally
each rivet hiss, sizzle, pop underneath curling fists
if i could paint that picture, it would be the muscles of a jawbone flexed
strained, then snap, and limply hang

maybe i'd color it red

i've lost you in some forgotten land - m.weisgerber

maybe in some faraway place I will find you
And be allowed to take you home
or at least, catch your gaze in my eye
your lips, one last time, to remember what its like to hear you speak my name
three syllables spoken softly, please

i wish i could remember what it was like to hold you close
held a blade in your stead, its long sinews singing for reprise
you, probably, have watched a hundred times from your lofty cloud,
and begged a hundred more in your own silent prayer as i replaced its gentle gleam
to unfold it yet again, while whispering my own quiet reminders

i suppose i should have always known, that i could fall for blonde hair and blue eyes
for reckless hate, and a fear that comes from sadistic smiles
exchanges help, however, and keep us alive: human once again if only for a little while

you once asked me to make that final change.

while you pray in joyful love, i will show how much a forgotten face can still mean
i  will give up forever, if just to touch you once more, softly
with only the back of my hand, while you however, only gave up a simple body for a simple boy
and now, i will give it all away, carry your memories up to the sky

take me for one last dance, cold friend
and tell me how much regret, and sweetness, and sadness can all partake here in this single moment
a lost artist with the ability to create no more
but enough courage to draw a few more simple lines

Falcon Sound - M.Weisgerber

Touch of the mirror with the backside of my hand
seeing chocolate eyes that melt at the edges,
reminding me its time for a leap.

Falcon Sound - M.Weisgerber

He settled on the name 'plunge', then jumped
sending body on a cartwheel course through midair
catching nimbus between open toes, whilst screaming aloud.
And dropping.

Oh yes, dropping still; creating a secondhand view of the 21st century.
Not feeling gravity's lore, not stuck on simple sounds,
while blending others around tissues scarred.

If we could fill the void with jello, his decent would be slowed, yet still remain graceful
Wishing he could hang forever in midair.
Stealing any precious seconds to remain in flight.

Not stuck on the rocks climbing, upwards.
Not picnic dreams, snared in near briar patches.
Not love, I know not that name; wish to merely cheat death again.
Or strike flesh on the outcropping below, surviving for yet another day.

It's a different sort of backpack worn,
while hanging amidst the ice flows & blue seas.
Pack heavier than your average knapsack.

How odd to touch air, yet not feel the cold.
Or gurgle on the slush blood wrapped inside crimped veins.
To feel bare feet amidst the howling winds, and not care.

Weast - M.Weisgerber

I see the rising east, sweet history; to seek the origin of dreaming
Your eyes rest west; to that of opportunity, and of the dear setting setting sun
West, where Mojo Rising wrote to live,
East, where he died aspiring to better days.
Both, a balance, more potent than any drug.
We, stuck in this middle and ready to run
Ready to jump and play,
To sleep and stay,
or write such simple poetry.