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.

the ways I find you

Your face up close
God's grace, God's grace
and my mistakes are held there in your eyes
I ask for space and take
the length of pride to stretch myself upon
and make images of all my golden lives alone

Drops in a bucket loudly in my ears
steps to doorways trip
my heart.
Your healthy eyes you steer-
be clear! be clear of me!

Covered up and over by my cold shoulder
still you synchronize my day and night
and when I crumble over you
We flow out and in and through

the broken ways I find you.

we go unbroken

Strike our heads together
and like a match we
flare with flame.

Slip our hands
between us
and like rope
we go unbroken.

Share the spirit
and like nothing this
world can touch
we find souls
that leave these skins
behind
and climb
toward what our lonely needs
could never see

or believe
or reach.