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What the seed has learned.

May 23, 2015

I always thought you’d be the sky,
but darling you’re the dirt,
and you embrace me as I lie,
a tiny little seed:
you nurture and inspire me.

I always thought you’d be the sky,
but darling you’re the dirt,
and even when I’m, by and by,
a weed or mighty tree,
my roots will drink your wisdom.

In Grant Park

May 18, 2015

Hot pavement bitten feet rest tingling
on cast off cedar branches while the
highway streams on ceaselessly beyond
the fence, in the sunlight. I sit in
the shade. There’s no life down here, between
the grey trunks and pounded pathways; not
even the sun wants to dance on these
colourless twigs and faded cedar
brushes. Only the ceaseless white noise
of the highway and the odd cotton
ball, aimless in its flight, lift senses
past the virgin graveyard of unturned
pine needle sand and pinecone corpses.
But when lifted, my senses recall
that the crowns of trees are emerald
because of this dessicated floor,
and beneath the loose spines and sticks there
lies a thousand silent highways of
thirsty roots feeding on yesterday’s
discarded branches. Suddenly the
graveyard ground seems sacrosanct. I tread
with lighter steps the barefoot path home.

You crow

May 5, 2015

The world speaks:

You crow.
You garbage-eating blackmuscle heart.
How the filth speckles your beak!
Look at your reflection in your shining vomit, you oily creature! Look at your home
or can’t you see the black mold through your nightfilmy eye—how grotesque you are!
You’d eat our puke, wouldn’t you, if you were hungry enough?

You crow.
You villainous plotter, planning planning.
Take your sinshadow elsewhere, twisted gargoyle! Don’t land your crooked claws on this pristine pavement! We take care of our own, so back! back! you cretinous creature! Don’t spread the lies of your past!
You gargled no mothersmilk, you egghatched reptile, no god coddles you, so back! back!

You crow.
You think yourself clever, don’t you, with your nutcrackering and busybodying,
but no intelligence comes out of your lipless daggermouth,
no sentience,
just emptiness.
You cry!
You crow!
You scream!
You witchcackle!
You occult darkspirit! Wiccan demon! Corpse defiler! Back! back!

You crow.

The poet speaks:

You crow.

You shining spirit, let not darkness in.
You wear it on your back, already inked,
let not it seep into your soul. But crow,
I know it lies already heavy there.
I know, my crow, the darkness sits inside
your being, crushing deathwish whispers through
your veins. You gorgeous wing! How light you look,
how delicate upon that outcast bed,
spread featherswide, so beautiful and young.
Don’t ope, oh carved obsidian beak, don’t speak:
I see the suffering around your shape,
the acid trash, the crumpled life, the blood,
the dead facade, the living one, but crow,
I know that you have precious human veins,
I know they map a labyrinth too vast
to fit within you; too exquisite, too
complex, to carry only wasted blood.
You crow, your blood is full of pain and loss,
is coloured by the refuse of the world
that you’ve absorbed, but crow, you know your blood
is history and future, diamond
and earth, and flows through all the flesh of life?
You crow, how beautiful and wonderful,
misunderstood and crucified.

You crow.

The crow speaks:

I am crow.
I am crow.
I am crow.
I am crow.

From my bed, 1:21 AM

April 30, 2015

I know that I will wake tomorrow, but
I feel as if I’ll die.
My lungs don’t seem to drink this nighttime air,
as heavy rib bones lie
upon them. All the muscles wrapped beneath
my skin are tired, and ache–
not ache, they throb–not throb, they’re just too tired
to lift my chest, to slake
the fading brain’s desire for breath. No deep
inhale, no shaking yawn,
can feed my ill desaturated blood.
(My poetry is gone).

Faint thoughts of love and melancholy pain
curl with me as I lie:
I know that I will wake tomorrow, but
I feel as if I’ll die.


April 19, 2015

between our laps, our hands entwine:
our fingers dancing, playing some
implicit melody between
their tiny curlicues of print,
impressing softly on the keys
or brushing past in whisperings;
ephemeral embraces, soft
skin kisses; fingertips like wind,
like water, velvet, steam, or cloud;

a tiny track of fingernail
trails delicate along the warm
retreat between the fingers’ bend:
a clean, distinctive note above
but carried by the padded rest;
a smooth expression follows close,
a flower petal brush, a calm
smile sunbeam fingertip to trace
that minds’-eye scratch away, away;

our fingers dancing, intertwined,
while worlds move on outside.

Words that burn

April 11, 2015


A poem I wrote for a Good Friday service this year. Formatting wouldn’t allow me to post it here, so follow the link in the reblogged text.

Originally posted on goodfridayblues:


Poetry is thoughts that breathe and words that burn – Thomas Gray

Each year we invite a poet to create an original piece of poetry for the Good Friday Blues services. They’re given one or two of our songs and the service’s annual theme to use as inspiration. These works are always deeply inspiring to me, often moving me to tears.

This year’s poem was written by Adriel Brandt and was not just inspiring, it was unnerving. It made us uncomfortable with its raw honesty. This poem embodies the Thomas Gray quote above. Would that more poets had the courage of this young poet; I hope to hear more from him in the future.

You can access this poem here.  Let it breathe and burn within you.

View original

14. Sunday

April 2, 2015


We wandered slowly to the field
and rested on a wooden fence.
With orange blossom tea in hand
and sunshine at our backs, we took
some photos to remember how
the sunlight set our hair to glow;
we talked and stood in silence; studied
moss and held each other closely,
lost to time in patient love.
The air was cool, your sweater soft,
our voices calm and happy, glad
to share that Sunday, heart and soul.


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