Tag: Emily Dickinson

Categories
Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

saint basil the beekeeper

he killed the bees
emily had given me as a young girl
with his many poisons

he raped my life of its sanctity

stricken and sure of demons
desperate to heal
i prayed to the beginning
to send someone to love me
to restore my faith
to return the bees

then came the day
i sought quiet
to write poetry
within the pews
of saint mary’s church

the basilica of the assumption
shamed covington diocese
so german and vast
yet comforting

i was given my answer

noticing
a man humble of appearance
had entered silently
standing mid aisle in awe
of the soaring stained glass

weeping as he looked
at the depiction of jesus falling the first time
beneath the weight of the cross

the statue of the virgin drew him
he fell to his knees praying aloud
then kissed the ground

i watched him stand and softly sing
an aria so resonant
it rose to the highest points of the cathedral

he was surrounded by a soft whiter light
i had never seen a holy man before
until that moment
not braced to find one in a church

so i didn’t resist
when he took my hand
led me to a lectern
carved deeply with saints

pointing to the bearded smiling wooden fellow
presenting in his hands a beehive

“Do you see him? He is my favorite. Saint Basil the Beekeeper.”

now
i am sure of angels

Categories
Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

emily had her bees

but i have you

your face is my only white dress

without the hands of pretense
or false religions

innocent creation occurs

the veil is torn
exposing a perfect trust

purity of friendship
within a chalice
never wavering
of it’s shine

i will lay open the throat
of colossus
suffering
lifetimes as a statue
to ensure

it is never undone

we shall be ghosts
laughing together
in a corridor some day

Categories
Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

death in a doll house

as i write

.

death perpetually sits in

the corner of my room

reading freud’s conceits

.

or when he’s feeling particularly

mischievous

kafka

.

he is an old man now

as our time together is deep

smelling of camphor and whiskey

and cologne deemed a sin during biblical times

.

my constant companion

since the age of six

we have many times shared plastic play set high tea

and brushed barbie  hair

forced emily dickinson to eat bugs together

.

death in a doll house

.

he taught me long division

and later how to drive

bustled my prom dress

stood in the empty place

for the father daughter dance

at my halloween horror wedding

then sent me to mortuary college

.

how easily he became

my every electrified motivation

.

i so willingly devoured the

chocolate covered cherries

sugar-coated just for me

.

he has me hooked

on his sick sentimentality

.

luxuriating in the loss

agony so sweet upon the palate

injected into veins long desiccated

living in skin of unnatural colors

.

all i  wanted was a mommy in the kitchen

a daddy in the den

children in the treehouse

a reckless devil in hell

and a responsible god in heaven

.

so when it all died

i tried to become it

and i have failed

.

though i have receipts that reflect an attempt at a life lived

spanning the miles between California and New Jersey

.

today

he smiles at me wickedly

with his three good teeth

and says

.

remember baby girl

you will die

in the same place

you began

.

fearing unknown noises in the hall

.

right here

with

me