All Posts Tagged "Poetry"

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• 
  by
  Jé Maverick
  
  Sunday, January 18, 2009
  Gentle soul – you have sought it, sifted

  and panned for it, dug and rummaged

  as though it were a set

  of mislaid keys – or eyeglasses; as though

  it were a treasured pen

  you’d dare not sign your name without.

  And so it is – gentle, restless soul -

  that you feel empty without it; that you wear

  a sparse coat, sewn from the cold of experience;

  that you are one forced smile from hardness.
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• 
  by
  Jé Maverick
  
  Tuesday, January 13, 2009
  Don’t look here

  on the days when your voice

  is lost as a mumble, or a slur,

  or a broken song:

  I will be scattered;

  intangible; a pepper

  of smaller traces.
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• 
  by
  Jé Maverick
  
  Sunday, January 11, 2009
  Spirit that the world said no to,

  unwatered wallflower, I recall

  when your days had the mercy

  of callous warlords; when every eye condemned

  with the nature of a solemn judge,

  and burnt you at the stake of fierce indifference.

  How you toiled with that puzzle of ashes; how

  each dawn’s ruthless jackboot kicked them

  from the cradle of your patient hands.

  Darkness assigned your role – cast

  you as a wraith to dwell upon a shadow’s fringe:

  close enough to witness light; enslaved beneath the pall.
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• 
  by
  Jé Maverick
  
  Wednesday, January 7, 2009
  You’re waking now -

  though sighs are shared,

  the hemispheres are split

  with another sober slice

  of fission – once more

  a planet cloven.

  Perhaps you wear it heavily,

  drag the first thought of it upon

  your wanting flesh like a hairshirt -

  This Idea Of Us,

  this beast that pants and lolls,

  ankle tall, old, lagging,

  straggling to keep pace

  with the lovely that you’re wasting,

  the beauty you’ve withheld

  for this ungodly age – this wild

  that howls alone.
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• 
  by
  Jé Maverick
  
  Tuesday, January 6, 2009
  One

  blazing

  flame of flesh;

  one

  torch of blood;

  one

  luminous harvest

  with which to light the world –

  heart -

  benevolent fire,

  you spread your warmth

  as bread for the feast

  of humankind.
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• 
  by
  Jé Maverick
  
  Monday, January 5, 2009
  An hour is eternity. If

  paper is scratched with the wrong meaning

  blood is drawn.

  Why must it be so delicate?

  The nib makes uncertain gestures over

  winsome, or dusky, or sultry –

  yet can’t commit.

  This is the horrid nature of specifics.

  Still, one can’t desecrate.

  Those are not your smiles.

  Your smile is the language

  of forbidden consolations.
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• 
  by
  Jé Maverick
  
  Sunday, January 4, 2009
  Because you exist, I cannot see the world.

  You leap from lilacs, and tambourines,

  and bubble in the eddying waters. You plucked

  me from the stalk of a limp night, and because you exist

  I am suffocated by your name.
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• 
  by
  Jé Maverick
  
  Saturday, January 3, 2009
  You who turn from love in pain,

  turn kindly: seek the tender cycles of the world.

  The winter greets with joy-flung arms

  the first fog’s slow return, and so the moon

  shall know its lover’s face, the sun sinks

  without quarrel. Spring dances without clothes

  as Autumn looks on, waiting, and neither

  will depart the grand design.
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• 
  by
  Jé Maverick
  
  Friday, January 2, 2009
  I was a bump in the day.

  I walked fifty miles of aimless, looking

  in each pavement crack for the faces of angels,

  turned blind corners with eyes wide open,

  sat quietly at out-of-service bus stops,

  for an event I didn’t wish to attend,

  nor could remember the invitation for.

  Noon spun on a dry axis,

  each second needing the grease of

  a troubled thought and an injured sigh,

  and the leaves dived without noise, just as expected,

  from the maples along the street

  and the eucalypts upon the mountain.
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• 
  by
  Jé Maverick
  
  Thursday, January 1, 2009
  It sticks to your insides, this endless tramp

  of the daily, damp commute. This war against the clock

  and how each monstrous hour falls and falls

  and chimes a bleak reminder.

  The calendar, it hurtles slickly by – you swallow

  knowledge like you fight a rising gorge –

  those displaced days that made up all your youth

  lie littered in your wake:

  the carrion for history’s avid vultures.

  And yet, you grow accustomed to the loss -

  and grinding down the journey of each day

  into a powdered debt – resolve to pay yourself

  at Destination.
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