A prayer

"All that is thirst" Estellamestella

With sweat I'm scared to love him
for with the night
he'll drift away
and under thick cough, his depart
will be the heaviness,
my, heaviness, of, heart.

This faint beat of the day
and, night, and, day
meets every breath with
some morsel of decay
Oh how to stay, to love, to hold
when quick as light
we'll depart to old

Teach me to let light in
to bring each moment
dignity to brim
to love him
limited and faint though be the touch
and in each laugh, each unformed
dream, see much

Teach me to love without
retreat or turn
to dark familiar where I learned
to hold only my own broken
bursts
and now it seems I hold my own
in his
for a moment unto ever
drink his and his my thirst

AEM2010

Molly Coddled Along

This poem was written on one of those dreary train trips in the sort-of-morning time and you are dreamy, dreary and lulled along with the motion.

Film over morning movements
light and distant
dull dabs at my peace of mind,
Eyes look up, lock
on the closest person
until
their stillness pushes hurried worries
down, in the deep down where
they belong in frowns

Allow now I do
the train pull to gather me in
soft, closed eyes
in warm motion, being hummed
and molly coddled along

AEM 2010

Still Sweet Voice

painting by Chris

Fur and heat
steadily complete me,
His voice still sweet
though I shake he remakes me

Skin and teeth
grow replete
and defeat us
yet His voice still sweet
makes a treat of this carcass

In my bones I still moan
of the night and the quiet
but His still small voice
like a sweet sup of choice
pours a stream to my soul
where the wind could never go
and where his still sweet voice does follow

Wet and torn
from the naught I had borne
I listen for an age
and grow silent for a night
in a moment of a memory
and in an absence of a sign
I hear

His voice still sweet
through the valley of my sleep
and voice still sweet it finds me

From the hole in my soul
where I swore I'd never go
his still sweet voice reminds me
his still sweet voice unties me.

AEM Dec 2010

"ASK for Help"

this guy

I have dedicated these holidays to doing something with the creations that live in my head and under my bed. But what do I do with them? Do I give the art I have borne to a cafe wall where people who do not know me nor my heart will cast a cursory glance and make me feel like I have done something tangible with my time and energies? Do I send my writing to magazines who might look at it, but most likely won't, only to have strangers read, or not read some fancies in my head?
Now I know I'm just being a fusion of lazy and fearful.
SO if anybody who reads these has something to tell me about my writing, that would be so helpful. If you like it, hate it, find it confusing, or convoluted, or boring, or hopeful, or unskilled, or it makes you feel warm and fanciful, please just give me a word or two in return. I have a sign on my wall that says "ask for help". My wall gives good advice.
Also if anyone has any ideas about what field you think my style of writing would suit, or any authors you think I could read, that also would be wonderful.
Many thanks

Trim Down Your Passions

Between my legs
your table finds
its edges folded
over my deep
crease increasing

I think now to
leave
the world of
writing as an
exercise in futility,
as civil hostility
advises me.
Feed your soul on
early decadences
and trim down
into adulthood,
cut in half your passions,
tighten your resolve
to absolve yourself of
all your
visions.

AEM Nov 2010

Weather girl

Pic by dayswillpass

Weather Girl
I go grey with the rain
and white with the sun
I'm a weather girl
weathered by night's begun

I go dull with the morn strike
and bright with the turn
I'm equated by changes over
sunset's burn

I'm an evening haunter
a stalker of the dark
I fumble with my drawings
under blurs of the heart

I'm a changeless statue
under influence of the torch
I rock with force of weather
no gun, will, or horse.

AEM Nov 2010

Over Sunday Swell

Nothing's right with this
health I mind,
I feed it flesh
and it gives me rind.
I'm less than pretty,
and less than well,
but I'm calm as sunrise
over Sunday swell.

When a person has no one
they concerned with all,
the ways they could be broken
by somebody else;
but I've got a broken someone
who don't mind my frown
we don't pretend we got no higher ground

We work for our dinners
and sing for our dimes
and though I'm less than pretty
and I'm less than well
we are smooth as sunrise
over Sunday swell.