A Prayer to the Lunar Eclipse

new-moon-1

I had forgotten about you.

But you were always there.

Still,

a speck of something that never

went away.

Maybe I forgot

about you

because I was too afraid

to face the darkness that still lingered

behind my closed door.

You don’t serve me though.

You don’t make my days full

or wondrous.

And so,

upon this time

where the Moon’s bright face

is shadowed,

I ask for the strength

to let you go.

To move through

to a new place,

a wilder, freer place.

Even as the black falls across

the White Orb as full as can be,

the constant

guiding light of our Mother’s Nighttime Face

is ever there.

Bright One, Shadowed One

who asks that I look deep,

bless upon me

the Truth,

the Magick,

the Power.

I am ready to face you,

to see you for what you are,

to let you pass through

me.

Sweet Moon,

I heed your message.

I face the closet door,

and I see the Shadow,

and I am One Light

too strong to be diminished.

Blessed Be.

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What Do I See Through Eyes As Pale As Snow?

what do I see through eyes as pale as snowWhat Do I See Through Eyes As Pale As Snow?

Glimmers of line and angle,

Contrast of curve and bow.

Crunchy stars that dance in place.

Empty houses where walls

only meet other walls.

 

Tangible ghosts speak

without curtains to reveal them.

Solid escapes made of absence,

of void.

Vast, tiny worlds of flapping cloth.

Fuzzy lives of mirrored selves.

 

Cracks in the plain

howl voiceless nothings.

Muffled synapses speak

in bursting deaths.

 

Depressed keys hold

for release, for ending.

In waves of echo

still surfaces reveal saints.

In slippery illusion

blank faces reveal

You.

700 Word Short Story Challenge: Joanne

empty house short story horrorI was challenged to write a 700-word story. This is by no means an easy task for me. I am a long winded mf. However, this time I was able to do it. Now whether or not it is good? Well, you be the judge. The starting line was provided as, When a man takes lunch to his wife’s office, he’s told that she hasn’t worked there in weeks…

“How’s that possible. She walked in yesterday?”
“Sorry sir. That’s just not possible. You’re going to have to leave.” The woman had her finger on the phone, security was a push away.
“Okay. Yeah. I’ll go.”
Henry left the building, steaming bag of China Night in his hand. As he passed the trash he chucked the Cashew Chicken. He walked, shaking his head and furrowing his brow, to the Brown line and hopped on. He rode the 20 minutes to his stop, absolutely racking his brain.
How could that be “not possible.” He literally just saw her there yesterday and this morning he had kissed her on her way out. The stupid woman at the desk must have been new. She obviously heard him wrong.
The biting air felt cold and stinging to his eyes, so he was glad when he opened up the door to his small apartment and slunk inside.
Joanne was at the counter in front of the window.
“Hey. What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at work. The lady there, well your receptionist is an idiot.”
“Oh, yeah,” She slowly turned around and looked tired, “Sorry, I just couldn’t do it anymore.”
Henry’s heart fell into his stomach. She seemed so pale. He silently begged for this to not be another “attempt.”
“Honey, I know you don’t love your job but it’s important to go. We can work on finding you another one too. Please don’t just not go.”
In the glint of the light from the window, Henry almost couldn’t see his wife. He put his keys down on the stand to his right and walked up to her. Now shadow played over his eyes and Joanne’s black hair looked blacker.
“You should go. You have that lunch with Rick. You’re supposed to go. It’s Friday.” He could barely hear her voice. Leaving her alone wasn’t a good idea.
“I can’t leave you here like this.” Henry reached out but Joanne held up her hands and smiled. She always did that when she just needed a sec alone.
“It’s fine. You don’t have to worry about me. I promise.”
“You sure?”
“Sure.”

Henry sat at the table not really eating or talking to Rick. He seemed to notice.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, Joanne’s just acting strange again. I’m worried.”
Rick’s face paled. He set his silver fork down on the side of his plate, next to his mashed potatoes.
“Joanne?”
“Yeah. It’s been a long while since, well you know. And she seemed alright, but now I’m afraid she’s gonna do something.”
Rick looked like he was about to speak but he couldn’t sit there anymore. Henry got up and dropped a twenty on the table.
“Hen—”
“Sorry Rick!” Henry was already running off to catch the next train in the subway, “I just have to check on her!”
“No! You’re not…” But Rick’s voice was fading into the background din of voices and cars and birds and wind. He didn’t know what he was going to say.
Henry rushed back inside the stuffy two-bedroom. Joanne wasn’t in the kitchen. When he walked to their room she wasn’t there either. He heard water running.
Henry ran to the bathroom. As he opened the door a puff of steam escaped and blinded him momentarily. She was standing in the middle of the room, but the tub and sink were empty.
“I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. I really regret this. Yeah, I can still regret.”
“Honey what’s going on?”
Henry’s phone rang in his pocket. He answered Rick in a cold voice.
“This isn’t a good time Rick.”
“Henry I’ve let this go on long enough. You need to talk to somebody. This isn’t right.”
“What are you talking—”
Joanne moved to stand by the tub and she looked down at it. Rick was rambling in his ear.
“Enough already Henry,” Henry turned away to keep the conversation from Joanne.
“I—”
“She’s been dead for weeks. You can’t keep doing this.”
Henry stopped. When he went to look at Joanne, she was gone.

Death Like Raindrops

Death like raindrops falls upon the Earth,

washing clean a surface of pain and degeneration.

Death like wind blows gently the waves of the ocean,

rushing toward far, yet familiar shores.

 

We will stand upon it. We will walk the pale

beaches of lost knowledge

and find again what once was laid deep

in our bones.

 

We will rest upon the foamy water line,

seaweed and life tangled in our hair.

Till we rise and walk down the horizon’s edge.

Sharp like a knife it will cut our lives apart.

Letting what should fall away

be cast down into the pool of the Creatrix.

To be made again with purpose and skill.

 

And if we find that we can balance,

on the wedge of the Great Womb’s Divide.

We will walk on to a new realm

of knowledge and communion.

 

If not,

we will teeter.

Back to the World’s Shore

and find again our chance,

our responsibility,

to cultivate our simple truths

and forget

the false anchors that fasten us.

 

Till we know again, as we always do.

That life breathes death breathes life.

The hoop of vast chaotic energy

of We.

Sight Sensing

My eyes are brown.

Like moth wings

with awkward cream spots

floating around the center.

 

When I look close

at the edges and valleys.

I can see spires of rocky, brown landscapes.

Mountainous, spiraling curves which dip

and duck and flash

as I blink back

droplets of imperfection.

 

What would it be?

To live in my eyes.

To explore the crevices

and get lost in the black cracks

between bark-colored crags.

 

I do not know

the heart of my eyes.

I have never been there.

I see

them only from distance.

A meteor passing

by the foreign world

of my optical orbs.

 

I know what it is

to touch

a moth’s wing.

To have your hands

and fingers sullied

by the powdery, flight ash.

 

Would my eyes,

my own means to traverse the world,

also leave dust

upon woeful travelers?

Dusty remnants of unoccupied roads.

Found deep within

my moth-wing sight.

Walking Home NSFW

I walked down
a road of dirt and gravel.
The ground rattled
and my thumb curved toward County I.
The rusty smell of road kill
filtered through my nose.

Dry mud flaked
off my pants with each step.
Half a bottle of Jack,
a pack of Red Apple cigs,
and my lucky
black lighter.

I met a man in red flannel.
“Goin’ to join the hippies.”
His rough voice dragged
through my ears.
I shook my head,
took a sip of Jack.

It was ’92,
what hippies?
Must have had the IQ of a dishrag.
I wished for his innocence.

He wiped a tear
on his shirt.
“Gonna miss days like this.”
He was talking to the sun.
“Looks like God just stirred up the sky with a stick.”

Stick echoed in his throat,
as he squeezed the trigger.
Even after his blood hit my face,
I thought he was god.
The hammer of the gun
was the only sound for miles.

Turned

I wanted to break the rules with this one. Most professors and poets and people will say that in a poem you should not use many adjectives. I dislike this rule. Adjectives are my favorite. So this was my way of saying, “I do what I want.” Also I like vampires, so there’s that in there too. Clichés and too many adjectives, take that poetry rules!

Burgundy, velvet drapes

dusted the ground

near the high round window.

Breathing cobwebs

hung in shadowed

corners.

Jumping water

echoed off the marble

floor.

Chocolate wood

lined the frozen

walls.

Each rhythmic ping

took longer

than the last.

My mind strained

to hear the next

expected

drop.

Sleeping lights

would not shed

their glow

on me.

Emerald eyes

stalked

in the distance.

Rough

breath scratched

on my throat.

My wet, bare feet

slid on fierce,

marble floors.

My drugged body

fought for safety

from the intoxicating

poison.

Cold, strong hands

grasped my unaided

arms and hurled

me into the dank,

solemn bedroom.

Short breaths escaped

from my lips

and icy sweat

dressed my brow.

Smooth canines

pierced the skin

by my clavicle

and strong lips

sucked out my blood.

Warm, liquid rubies

caressed my skin.

Cold no longer stung

my eyes.

The dripping water

trembled in my ears

and my arms went slack.

New vision filtered

my sight and ghostly

shapes took form.

No cold, no warmth.

Only the still

sound of water

on bloody, marble floors.

Goodbye Girl

The latest poem post! This one does contain one curse word, so head’s up. Otherwise, enjoy.

I know that mole

on the back of her neck.

It hid behind her hair,

like a brown period.

Or maybe it was part of a colon,

and the other half was too scared to play.

She once cut her hair

just to show it off.

It still had me surprised.

That wasn’t like her.

I slammed my hand in a door

and she didn’t see the black,

purplish bruise for two weeks.

She was always caught

up in her own shit.

Even now as we sat at this table,

in this crusty, smoke-filled bowling alley,

she couldn’t see the tears in my eyes.

I was trying to hide.

Why did I care

if she saw me?

After the night

of faceless sex

with her.

Still, dignity wouldn’t let me

cry in front of her.

It was no secret

neither one of us really felt attached.

I could go home

and she was there.

But she wasn’t my first thought

in the morning

any more.

Now her hair had grown

over the period.

But it was pulled up,

in a dying, black scrunchy,

and the mole lay ghostly

behind it.

A brown ring

from her glass of coke

stained her napkin.

She had ruined

my favorite book that way.

A faint, broken circle

dressed the cover

of Love in the Time of Cholera.

“Annie Get Your Gun”

played as she got up

to “powder her nose.”

I knew where this would end.

I would try to make her feel

better, but she wouldn’t feel anything.

I wanted this situation,

this relationship,

to end.

“That’s unexpected,”

was the last I could hear

of Squeeze as I left.

No notes or words

would help or hinder her.

There was no sorry

that either one of us wanted.

I reached into my pocket

for my keys.

Which still

sat near her basket of fries.

A piece of napkin

lay on top of them.

“Goodbye,” her curvy

handwriting bled

in the condensation and coke.

Death of the Dragon NSFW

This poem is a bit on the darker side and is a wee bit creepy. It may be a too dark to take a look at work, depending on your job. None the less I hope you all enjoy this little slice of horror.

She was mine,

my Scarlet Dragon.

But today was different.

 

She didn’t run.

No pink bra.

Instead she walked

through her house,

spraying perfume

and lighting candles

in each room.

 

Eight thirty shower was longer.

She used a special

shaving crème and painted

her toenails Ruby Red.

 

She even manicured

her privates. She perfected

every inch of her body.

 

She left the front door

unlocked and never

got dressed for work.

 

She only rubbed oil

over her bronzed skin.

She fluffed pillows

and played music.

 

She brushed her hair

when a strange man

entered her room.

The man she talked

to at work.

 

They began to kiss

and laid on the bed.

My stomach twisted

and my pulse echoed

in my ears

as I watched from the attic.

 

Almost on its own

my hand reached

for my gun. I shot

my meticulously placed

cameras and the Dragon

screamed.

 

I ran down

the attic steps.

They almost reached

the front door.

 

The muzzle flashed

and two bullets

flew into their flesh.

 

No sound. My Dragon

fell to the floor.

Her head cracked

on the wood.

 

No she couldn’t

just leave me.

I couldn’t stay

in that house.

 

I dragged her body

to the garage,

to the near-by cemetery

and sat her up against

my mother’s grave.

 

She was mine.

No one else could have her.

No one would. I closed

her eyes. Blood smeared

on my fingers.

 

I took

what I always

wanted.

I was going to be

with her.

Now.

Churchyard

There is a wedding today
and the sound of dancing bells.
People are laughing,
joyful tears are falling on cool cement,
but none of them for me.

They are wearing white,
not a single black
shirt.  Not even navy blue.

Their perfume burns
my eyes.
Their smiles scratch
my graying skin.

I could kill
for a drop of rain.
Even the sun
has forgotten me.

I left no proof
of my existence.
I did not imprint
myself in anyone’s brain.

Worm food,
my single
beneficial act.

Ten years
I have watched.

Seen trinkets and flowers,
but the flowers have died.
Brown, flaky petals blow past
and no one will know
they were ever there.

Copyright R. Elizabeth Johnson