Poetry

Daddy died
And the Jewless boy couldn't mourn
His deprived
And shapeless ego
Without a song
To bury the dead
The faceless boy
Dug his ditches for his pennies
But could not feel the hole in his chest

Could not look into the coffin like a man
And take the cold hands into his own
Then the messenger called
And the second king lay over the hill out of sight
Only then could the boy put on his warrior's paint
To face his tasks
To look into the coffin
And feel the crying pain in his chest
To take the cold hands into his own
And bury his father
As men do.

We console ourselves when there is not more chocolate
With dreams
And see the truth
Only in the ways art can tell us
About the misplaced world
In which we live
I do not understand this dream
But only feel it.

Celeste, the young dame
Had a sister named Rose
Who was misnamed
For it is Celeste who is the Rose
As Rose should have been named stone,
For a rose, is a rose, is a rose
baptized Celeste
Their holy father in all his misgodlyness
Stole her being
And Joe and dad left her for dead

And this little beaming star
Sat in the mud
Muddled and unaware of her noble birthright
Looking into the wisps of the dew
And seeing only weeds.
Mirror, mirror on the wall
Have I the right to live at all?
Like discarded toys
She lay broken
In the arms of evil
As these sightless voices ran their boats
And gave their sermons
Only in the secrecy of their hearts stopping to admire their ability
To turn gold into coal
But almost unnoticed
At first just the gasp of a cough
The first tear of her unbreakable will on her cheek
Then whole movements
This jewel willed herself from the mud
Unbeaten by the evil
And unbroken by the spiritless father
She rises
Her scent evident to everyone
Touched by her magic
For a rose, is a rose, is a rose is always a rose
Is a wonder
Is enchantment
Is Celeste.