Tag: writing

Poems

All Come Down

When it finally all came down

I was in bed

feeling shitty on a

Saturday morning

after I’d said shitty things to you

the night before

and Fleetwood Mac’s

“As Long As You Follow”

came on the radio.

I couldn’t hold back anymore.

I realized you would not

follow me.

And you were never going to.

I’d spent the relationship trying

to get you to follow me into love

and the many vibrant colors of love

and when you didn’t so regularly

it angered me, it felt unjust.

And so it all hit me that morning;

we are over,

we will never be again,

we were never meant to

really be…

and I broke out bawling,

sobbing, uncontrollably,

the way a child cries,

deeply and forlorn, abandoned,

alone in the empty house,

the empty morning,

with just the sunlight and

the stillness

in the bed we used to make love

to each other, gasp to gasp.

The familiar loneliness of a transwoman

with a cisgender woman.

Except this time,

not only loneliness

but nothingness too.

Poems

Bleuets

In the time
that you loved me
I had done the worst things,
but you continually
asked me,
you called me to love you.
I was a failure many times,
messy, immature,
I wrecked relationships,
broke my heart,
broke many other hearts,
I lied,
mad bad decisions,
treated myself and others poorly.
And yet, over and over,
you crawled on top of me,
butted your furry little head
on my chin
and said,
“I am here, right here,
I am here to love you”.

You
taught me
how
to
love.
You — were a cat.
And you,
are a mother f@#%ing wizard.
You — persist.

Poems

Training With Koolaen, Part 6 (fantasy nonfiction travel writing)

More of my fantasy soccer travel writing for your evening, end of week reading…

KyrumFoot

By W.T. tuqMairtin, an excerpt from the novel “Povs In Kyrum”

As Kældurn and I were winding down with our stretching a trainer came up and introduced herself to me as Lo’o’toag. She knelt down by Kældurn as he bent my feet back and held my knees. “Is it ok if I touch you? I’d like to check out your muscle and tendon tension.”

“Sure.” I replied. She had a very calm presence about her. Her head was large and broad, her forehead especially. Her hair was dreaded, but short. A headband pushed the short dreads up, but it wasn’t the yellow and black headband. It was white with outlines of blue flowers and yellow stars in their center. She smelled like fresh cedar.

Lo’o’toag pressed behind my right knee with two fingers. She motioned to Kældurn to continue stretching me. “You’ve had this knee replaced, haven’t you?”

“Wow,” I…

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Poems

Consciousness Misunderstood

Consciousness comes in
and it pours into us

Like the surf rolling in

And it ripples and riptides

Crustaceans and sunshine fumble

Pebbles mix and carbon replaces

And that consciousness never dries up

It wades and bays

Then it withdraws
leaving
an imprint
that lasts a billion years
and
is then replaced with something infinite

holistic, continuous,
individual when needed
and squarely incomprehensible

I mean, everlasting

You are
I was
We now

I love you Leslie

Poems

Some Pass, Some Pass Away

Folds of skin
sat on a plate in a friend’s kitchen.
People talked about the skin,
associated it with this friend
when its vision was requited in their memories.

Eventually, most fell out of touch
with the owner of Plate,
but never did they forget the blooming gore
of that Georgia O’Keeffe-like still life.
In fact,
many are reminded daily,
when they eat tortillas dipped in chili,
when chili is poured atop a hot dog,
when they go to sleep at the end of such days.

… “Folds of skin
sat on a plate in a friend’s kitchen.
Who was that? Whose plate was that?”

Poems

The Kepler Torrents

“I want to know the Kepler torrents with you.”

“The Kepler torrents?”

“The ones between Baltawn and Graesheyawn.”

“The ones in the starmap on the back of your
neck?”

“No. The ones further in … and much further out.”

“The way the lifeforms are formed?”

“Yeah, the way the lifeforms are formed.

Well hold on, yes — I guess. Kind of. Sort of.”

“Ah, so the force between objects.”

“Yes, that’s it, but I mean the unaccounted force
between objects.

I guess — the as of yet, unaccounted force
between objects.”

“Oh, so then I think you mean — love,
or the love that is greater than the chronicles of
humans.”

“Ok then, you’ve made my point — come with me
to the points between Baltawn and Graesheyawn.

Come inside of there. Come for the dead. Come
for the living.”

Poems

I Pray To Trees

I “pray” to trees.

Many people would say that’s silly.

Some would say it’s sacrilege,

heathen,

evil, even.

Now, how and why can I judge

how others pray and hope?

Poems

The E.M.F.H. For Male Mentality

novamartinpoetry.com

No man can survive on peanut butter, bread,
cereal and milk.

“No man is an island.”

No man alone can make a family.

Every man is a worker,
in some crummy sense.

The Commandant of Baby Boomer says,
“Every man for himself”.

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Poems

Training With Koolaen, Part 5 (fantasy nonfiction travel writing)

Might not be your cup of tea, but some more of my fantasy nonfiction travel writing. This is part 5, there’s 4 parts that precede it if you want to read more context. If you like football / soccer and Hemingway’s vignettes of nature you might like this — though this is probably about 1/16th as prosaic as ol’ Papa Rum.

KyrumFoot

By W.T. tuqMairtin, an excerpt from the novel “Povs In Kyrum”

Up ahead, on the trail, the rest of the players had filed back into line. They were about 30 yards ahead. Kældurn looked back, to check on me I assume. I lowered the water bag down and gave him a thumbs up. He shot me a salute back. I sprinted a few steps to tewkKyoo’ihf and the trusty waterbearer, handed her back the bag, helped her swing it over her head and shoulder, then grinned at them, “Come on, we’ve got a little catching up to do.”

We bolted forward, the team and the hills gaining ahead and leaving the city back below to the right. It wasn’t a dead sprint by any means, but probably a good solid 5 minute-a-mile dash.

“You made it, survived one of the toughest parts.” Kældurn welcomed us back.

I huffed and puffed…

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Poems

The Poet’s Guild

When we go into the woods
we lay down our weapons.
Place them at their feet,
their basin, their trunks,
on stones or behind shrubs,
on the edge of the forest,
before we enter.

The pine stops bullets.
The hickory blunts swords.
The willow catches arrows.
Such is their magic.

They bare time,
layered in their cores,
marked on their bodies,
growing towards the air;
the past, present, and future.
So what would you expect from
these beings?

In their presence,
we listen and learn,
feel their heartbeats in our heartbeat.
They show us how to become
into the All.
Consciousness masters.
So this
is why we lay down our weapons.