Come here kitten, help me fix the problems again.
The sorrow and tangible sense of illusive confusion.
Make them go away for a minute.
There it is. The body resonant. An internal salve.
I wrote this poem once already.
The eyes, tinted glass, stain the mind.
Today dark red. Yesterday a more placid indigo.
By slight variations console the day into a rest from fervor.
Forgiving the self for its knotted essence.
The judge sinks into the couch, tired.
The visibly sick deserve forgiveness but those comrades closest merit not.
Collapse it all with a single blow of the hammer, if you will,
though it has weathered worse fury and torment than this mind can muster.
Stain the days as they must be stained.
Unforgiving rain, cleans the cicatrices.… ...continue reading
(I will whisper this so it stays between us)
Your heart has been broken.
It has been shattered for so long
you believe it will never be whole again.
I will take your hand in mine,
your heart in my other
and walk us down to the river
to our hidden grotto of brick and iron.
I will wield your shadows and shatters
turn them into gold lacquer
rebuild what you thought unfixable
until we see the beauty in the imperfections
– Mae Fraser… ...continue reading
The April fires burn into the velvet night.
Flames turn to ash and memories
the last remnants of the dark, dead times.
And so the Festival begins.
Wine is drunk.
Songs are sung.
Love is made.
Boys take girls to the forest and become men.
Girls become women.
And women become mothers.
The Mother of All smiles
from her perch atop the moon.
Like it has for generations
flames turn to ash and memories the dark and dead.
And so the Festival begins.
– Josh Krach
Author’s Note: Spring is my favorite season. This poem is a nod to the first clear, warm evenings when the moon is full, the first flowers are blooming, and all the dead is burned away in the first bonfire of the season.… ...continue reading
“Your difference isn’t a detour. It’s the point.”
Before me came words that showed the way
for everything after me.
I knew exactly what I needed to do.
I’d been rehearsing for weeks.
I tattooed every line of that script
on the tendrils of my being
in case anyone forgot their lines
or became ill or perhaps died.
But I had no understudy
when I fell into an obscure coma.
For several days, I lingered,
the persona illuminated but quiet.
They had to start the show without me,
my twin brother quickly hired
to play my role until I woke up.
When I emerged from my chrysalis,
I realized the words needed to be different,
the detour actually better than the journey.
I shed my wings to walk again instead,
the flying comma becoming a voluble period.… ...continue reading
Gothic of course with gargoyles
wandering the ancient halls.
timeless despite the chiming
never to be heard in unison.
Clock hands close in prayer
where, gowned, the giant ravens
barely see the visitors’ gaze
in shades of admiration.
An aria sung on a bicycle
drifts graciously through the years.
“Wait to be asked” was sound advice
in finding a life worth living
among minds higher than mine,
their intellect as tangible as stone
were stone winged for flight
above reason’s indifference.… ...continue reading
Of Virginia Woolf
‘We are the words. We are the music. We are the thing itself.’ Moments of Being
Are we the things we think we are?
Or is there another music
with words we have never heard?
Something close to the heart
becomes the essence of us,
a truth enabling the sense to be
what is spoken, what is sung.
This sound evades the silence.
There lies the fear within,
of never being believed.… ...continue reading
We were supposed to be having babies,
Raising life in a little historic townhouse
Ideally downtown, so that I could walk
To the coffee shop everyday with the
Dog and the kids.
I wonder if we would have had a girl
First, or a boy.
Would we have stopped at one? Two?
Surely not three.
Would we have taken family photos
At every holiday and have large canvases
Of our smiling faces covering the walls?
Would we have worn matching outfits–
After you pitched a fit of course–
Or would we be more subtle,
Maybe some matching shoes?
Would our daughter have my nose and
Our son, your eyes?
I can see us now–
Curled up in bed, with the dog in between
My legs, a spunky pigtailed daughter
Kicking my ribs in her sleep,
And a mousy younger brother who
Accidentally knocks over the collection
Of bottles on your bedside table– crying
Because daddy hasn’t had much sleep
And is quick to anger when hungover–
The floor covered in shit because the
Dog was not let out before you
Stumbled into bed
And me, eyes wide open
But stiff as a board
Not minding the
Repeated jabs in the ribs.… ...continue reading