The Poet & The Provider

I follow this distant, burning
star that leads me home
to you.

For eleven years I’ve returned
to a beautiful prison—
a prison of silence;
A mask with rosy eyelets—
and a yellow gravel driveway;
A wonderful, loving asylum—  
a place of secrets and repression
contrasted between the powerful love
we share.

You—
the provider, protector, and handyman;
Me—
the poet, painter, and student.
A man who  has faults,
and a pain beyond measure.
A young woman with a dark side
that eludes description.

I know this masquerade—
my pen has described it numerous times—
my heart screams the truth
but it’s silenced by my mind
whose concerns for you overpowers
the will.

This air we breathe is stagnate—
toxic—
we need to step out
into the open air—
breathe—

Could these prison walls
come crumbling down?
Could the rosy eyelets
be gouged out?
The yellow gravel
powerwashed?

I have questions!
I still ache…
I long!

But you seem so far away…
So distant—
Why?
What are you running from?
Its going to catch you eventually—
(I should know)
maybe I should trip you so it can.

And we can step
into the open air. 

© Lauren E. Wilson

Pandora

Beyond the fourteen hills, through
fourteen valleys and fourteen streams
there lies a temple of great enigma.

Down fourteen flights, past
fourteen bronze statues, through
cobwebbed and bone riddled catacombs
lies a box filled with secrets.

Not another soul is aware of this
box except our explorer; and even she
does not know the true power of this token artifact.

This enigmatic box has no key,
(it’s getting to it that’s the challenge)
it sits on a pedestal awaiting to be relinquished.

Our explorer feels the polished gold and ivory,
the intricately carved skeletal designs and the
latch begging to be opened. The suspense is murder.

Open sesame…
I await your command.

A great cloud of black has been
summoned by Pandora; she has been
released to wreak havoc upon her intruder—
to open her own boxes.

Her great, black claws sink into the heart—
recalling memories and summoning demons long
forgotten and exorcized.
her black face smiles—
revealing the face that our explorer
has been trying to escape from.
Her arms surround our explorer—
consuming her in fear, not allowing
sleep without a hefty sum.

Pandora has been released—
a requiem begins, the nocturne sings
and the soul is thrust into the valley of despair.

Our explorer dug deep—
and found a long forgotten secret.
Oh Pandora…
Why? 

 © Lauren E. Wilson

Alice Liddell

Lewis Carroll to the story best:
“Little Alice Liddell wanders through
the looking glass and finds Wonderland.”

There’s this cat (I always was a dog person) 
that smiles and speaks in riddles;
A door mouse that fancies a teapot for a house;
A hatter who has come in contact with too much mercury
and his snaggletooth hare-friend.
A Queen who fancies head—
chopped off that is.
And a fat caterpiller the shade of your grandfather’s Sunday suit
who smokes a fat straw.
(We all know its opium.)

Yes dear Alice Liddel,
go to your Wonderland—
a world of fancy and whim,
But wait—
Alice—
you’re not eight anymore
Madness is not a game it never was—

For the time has come to talk of many things:
 of shoes—
and how fast they can carry you away from here;
of ships—
and if they can weather the tumultuous waves of madness in the 
imagination;
of sealing wax—
and if it can seal tight the chamber of maddening memories;
of cabbages—and kings—
and why the sea is boiling hot—
beware of scalding memories.

If Wonderland is your imagined world
on the other side of the dirty glass—
then what happens when the creator
sinks into madness?

(The time has come to talk of many things—)

The cat who smiles now has gleaming teeth
that sink into soft, squishy flesh.
(And the mome raths outgrabe.)

 The door mouse is a paranoid schizo—
that’s not jam—its pureed thorozine with a sprinkle of Xanax.
He cowers in his teapot writing rhymes and singing lullabys. 

The Hatter and Hare are pedophiles
who lure unsuspecting guests to an unbirthday party 
With promises of sweet teacakes and silly riddles.

(The time has come to talk of many things—)

The queen of hearts a murderous tyrant who
chops off heads for her chandelier—
and uses their teeth for necklaces.

Then there’s the caterpiller—
that fat, blue, slimy bastard.
He sits upon his shroom like a phony King Solomon asking:
                              “Who Are You?”
over and over:
                               ”Who Are You?”
                   ”Who Are You?”
                                      “Who Are You?”

Alice, your Wonderland is tainted with the cruelest stain of Madness.
(Who Are You?)
This Wonderland consumes the mind, plaguing it
with bitter poison.

(Who Are You?)

Oh Alice—
Why did you have to grow up?
Madness now lingers here—not childish whim or fancy
How easier it would be—
if only I could answer that goddamned riddle.

                            (Who Are You???) 

© Lauren E. Wilson

14

This is a story everyone knows: 
There’s a princess,
a dashing prince,
a dungeon and
a dragon.

The princess, in some way or another
(maybe it was her beauty and brains),
has gotten herself kidnapped by the
dragon, (what does a dragon want with her?) 
and is now held captive in a dungeon.
So this prince, her lover (whose only met her twice),
must be valiant and save her.

Now, here’s the Petrarchan twist:

This battle, this story is painted upon your heart,
rattling your ribs, shaking your soul,
and scalding your nerves.

The dragon—
its forked tongue lashing from behind its gleaming teeth;
the flames of orange and red, the eyes of yellow and green
ready to burn your soul and your will.

You are its prisoner—
its sharp claws piercing your flesh causing
frozen blood to stream down your body and
your heart racing—your spine tingling—your body trembling—your hands shaking—

This dungeon—
this body made of flesh and bone;
a despicable thing—
weak, frail, broken.

What of its captive?
The princess?
Why I know her well—
she is but fourteen, only a child—
but with eyes that have seen and a heart
that has felt nothing of sorrow since March.

The prince?
Can he (she) save the princess?
With his (her) doubt and the depth of knowledge he (she)
has of the dragon?
Why can’t he (she) just leave the princess locked away—
in the dark dungeon forever…forever
as he (she) did long ago?
So long…seemingly aeons ago. 

The idea was to leave this goddamn princess
and her goddamn dragon locked away forever
so that he (she) could be at peace.
But the princess’s cries and and the dragon’s roars
echo in the chasms of his (her) heart—
rising up like a black phoenix from that deep valley

Fool—
it was only a matter of time.

Oh my princess…
how can I ask you to forgive me? (Can you?)
For this dragon of yours (mine) has me prisoner.  

Confessions of a Clay Vase

I need to be knocked down—
Shattered—

I am a clay vase with no opening,
no way to get inside.
I’ve been molded by the hands of life.

I need to be broken—
Shattered—

Beauty was once painted there—now there is vulgarity.
My burnt skin and soiled art has
allowed me to forget my once lively splendour.
The scene upon my face is
deformed—
vile—
unclean—
dark—

I need to be 
Shattered—

Yes—
Shattered,
broken into pieces so that I may be put
back together again—only this time I can be
reforged.

No more fighting to open up;
Or shame of my state—
(I can remember beauty)

I want to remember what I was before.  

 © Lauren E. Wilson

The Tempest and its Dwellers

What can you do for strength
when your reservoir is dried up?
When the thirst maddening and 
weakness is wrapping its tentacles
around your heart?

How can you stop the sands of your
life from slipping through your hands?
When your soul becomes a barren desert?

What can you do for protection from
fear, which strikes like a cobra
injecting poisonous doubt into your
bloodstream; leaving a trail of unimaginable
sorrow and pain?

 When all you have left is the
struggled breath in your lungs
and a broken heart that’s about to flatline,
when there is no warmth except a
scorching sun and your hands
are raw from fighting how can you grasp hope?

The last breath of ragged air.
The last beat of a broken heart.
The final piece of a shattered will.

How can one rebuild the empire
of the soul under such sorrow?

                                       † Creidim i ngrá liom fiú nuair nach mbraitheann sé

I feel it not
                                         (But its there…) 
Where?
                                       (It is in your last breath and the one after that,
                                       That last beat of your broken heart,
                                       and in that final piece of shattered will.)

A tempest builds—
fusing the broken pieces and boiling my blood.
Wind lifts the broken body and cradles it
as it whispers softly:

                                       Tomorrow my love, your heart will become whole
                                       and your soul will reawaken.

† I believe in love even when I feel it not

© Lauren E. Wilson

The Snow Queen

The night is cool and damp;
a lone flame twirls on
the end of a candlestick.

It’s cold for April—
the evening dew transforms
to frost;
longing for the warmth of
the sunrise to free it from
its frozen tomb

Nature seems to take pleasure
in extending this frigidity.

Nothing is as cold as
the frigid tundra
that is my bedchamber.

No strength and tenderness
to shield my fragile body from
the unfeeling cold.
No whispers in the dark—
or hot breath on my skin—
no secret kisses—
or tangled limbs to
caress this cold, hard skin.

 The Snow Queen
I am called.
Frozenpuss;
Without feeling or passion.
This body, this iceberg—
conceals the longing,
hides the fear.

I can remember when
my passion burned and
danced like the flame
of this candle.

No—
not a candle.
A roaring inferno. 
Like a blazing Phoenix
risen from the ashes.
Life was my exlixir
and I was euphoric from its taste.

But someone (he) decided
that this Phoenix was his
to do as he pleased—
his desire,
his entitlement
told him it was his
to take.

My flame was extinguished—
the Snow Queen
was born.

 Forever cursed 
with and ice cube
in her chest—
sealing her heart
and an igloo to
protect her body.

Only in the cold night,
does her empty bedchamber
singe her skin—
her pillow stained
with frosty tears
that sizzle in the
emptiness.  

The Albatross

A february snow dusts

the sand dunes, the biting

wind carries ice and sand across

the barren, wintry landscape. 

The roaring waves engage 

with the howling wind

in a competition of 

masculine dominence.

A lone Albatross 

stands defiant against them.

Her fragile body protected 

by her soft, white feathers;

her regal head facing the storm,

awaiting its exit. 

The Albatross is wise:

she knows it would be 

foolish to fight this storm

of biting sand and ice.

A Mariner appears―

seeking shelter in the dunes,

her territory. 

He is weathered, tattered, and wrinkly―

but the Albatross does not

fear him. 

For she is unaware of her worth―

her value.

Her luxurious feathers,

the fine bone and figure―

life has been kind to her. 

Her beauty unequaled

when compared to others.

The Mariner recognizes her value.

He speaks softly to her―

cooing and humming a 

melodious tune that 

entrances the Albatross.

She is unaware of her grooming.

His beastlike, weathered

hands seize her;

the competing wind and waves 

were too concerned with their 

contest to hear her 

desperate, pleading cries.

He ravaged her―

stealing a handful of her 

precious, unstained feathers―

leaving her naked, vulnerable. 

With a jab of her 

prow, she wounded

the Mariner―

his putrid blood staining

the sand. 

Her bare, fragile flesh 

exposed to the merciless,

biting wind she flies―

higher―against the wind. 

The Mariner takes up

his crossbow, cursing 

the Albatross for 

her “crime.”

He takes aim: sending 

his arrow toward her. 

The wind―now aware of her plight―

attempts to save her; but not before 

the arrow pierces her 

exposed flesh. 

She flees to her colony―

safely harboured among her comrades. 

They nurse her―

cursing this Mariner for 

ruining her

Beauty. 

She reassures them:

Her feathers will 

grow back; when 

Spring comes she will be renewed. 

But feathers and spring 

only hide the festering, gaping scar

that her Mariner 

left behind. 

 © Lauren E. Wilson

A Difficult Proposition

To those who

cry in the night;

whose tears saturate

your pillow and whose

sobs go unheard.

To those longing for

affection, the embrace of

a father, the kiss of a

mother; to those who

are alone.

To the

wounded hearts

broken souls

battered bones

and lonely visages.

Your songs do not go unsung.

Your cries unheard;

your loneliness unnoticed.

Hear that?

That soft whisper in the wind

as it dances through your hair?

That is my call.

I seek those such as you,

those known as

“damaged goods.”

I am the song

on the waves.

I am the glimmer

in the sky.

I am whomever

you wish me to be;

I have many names

as I do faces.

The call is a voice

for those who are

mute;

bread for those whose

souls hunger for

peace.

I am there,

calling you

to surrender yourself.

© Lauren E. Wilson

Fáinne Chladaigh

The sunlight dances

across the plains of my hand;

a delicate and sultry tango with

my skin.

It’s light is captured by the Claddagh’s embrace,

its crown sits regally as

it did upon the

Ríthe na Éire ‡

Today it sits upon

the heart the hands

cradling it like a newborn babe;

caressing and speaking softly to her.

The heart is pointing toward

the world, awaiting its

other half. Facing the world

with bold passion

she prays:

Cé a chliabhán dom mar a dhéanamh ar na lámha? †

Bold, yet…

Once before,

this heart has been

shattered by betrayal;

deception took her,

ravaging the gentle

beauty of innocence.

Shattered and anguished

she constructed a great

fortress. Vowing to never

give her trust so willingly

ever again.

Tá mo chroí istigh a chrá ualach ±

A strong soul,

encompassed by a

fragile heart. A heart

that awaits for the

embrace of one who

will take her shattered pieces

and fuse them together again.

A silent prayer

echoes across the hills

to be heard by one so

noble; One whose

heart so pure,

Mo ghrá, ag fanacht liom do glacadh. °

‡ - Kings of Ireland

† - Who will cradle me as these hands do?

± - A broken heart is my burden

° - My love, I await your embrace

Sheachadadh Linn

Waves of green

waves of blue,

dance upon the shore;

each ripple carrying a tale

from across the sea.

One carries sand from

ancient lands of

gold and frankincense.

Banners of green, and

stains of red now blanket

this mystical arena

ripe with Revolution.

Upon the wave,

an echo of the people:

نجنا

The second carries

a doll from the East;

tossed upon the shore,

her ebony hair

depraved;

her porcelain skin

tarnished

by the sea’s violent current.

Her silken robes,

though tattered and decayed,

soft and bright colors sparkle

under the squalor.

She said it came

in one fell sweep;

deafened by the toppling

of empires and desperate cries

she watched iterase

all she had ever known.

In a soft, tearful whisper

she begged:

“Watashi-tachi o teikyō…”

Waves

now tainted

with blood and tears

cry out

for

deliverance.

Fifth Avenue

Four A.M.

The normally bustling street

lays deserted. There’s sand on the sidewalk…

Instead of a city, I see a barren desert.

The skyscrapers great clouds, the taxi’s camels

sailing like wooden ships over the sparkling dunes.

The diamonds and pearls normally sing

a vintage lullaby, tonight the Tiffany’s window

is the provider of twinkling stars that hang in

a great black abyss.

From my windowpane I observe

the expansion of this vast desert;

history commands that they must do so.

For a moment this

bustling metropolis

mirrors my empty heart and home.

The wind blows the sand

across the plains of my mind;

its gusts echo in the chasms

of my heart.

A siren jolts me back into reality.

Its bewailing raucous

reminding me of

a weeping Siren.

Fifth avenue.

I’m not breakfasting;

nor do I have

the mean reds.

I know my fear.

I’m afraid of the loneliness

that entraps me;

it’s tender fingers trace my spine

where a man’s fingers should.

Its warm arms

surround me in mockery,

instilling an aching longing

for someone to warm the

frigidity of my chambers.

Fifth avenue

its glamour hides the

quite desperation

of my lonely heart.

The Easel

Take me far away,

lets escape on your

painted stallion.

I want to feel your

stubble on my neck

and the stallions mane

in my face.

We’ll flee;

tonight, in the shade of

sunset.

I’ll bring my paintbrush

and we’ll paint

the sky.

This perfect autumn night…

we stop to rest,

allowing our steed

to catch his breath.

We lay on a bed of colors:

the reds and yellows match

the fire in my heart.

A fire for you.

Take me away.

I want nothing more

than to start the day

with you; watching God

take his paintbrush to the dawn

and evenings.

This perfect autumn night…

you have given me colors

I can finally paint with.

You,

the muse whose arms

protect me from all,

whose lips softly

kiss away my tears and

whose skin is warm and sweet.

I never knew what

chord to play or what

color to paint with.

You are the song inside

my heart;

my favorite piece

of art.

Let tomorrow come,

we will have been carried

away by our painted stallion.

I do not fear tomorrow now;

you have cast those into the dark.

My darling,

I will paint the sky

for you.

Autumn Sonata

I

The mockingbird strikes up

a note that echoes over

the quiet glen.

Awakened, the sparrow puffs

his feathers in agitation;

but soon he’s hypnotized by

the melody that hangs in the air

like the dew on the leaves.

He joins his brother,

and soon there is

a symphony of

two.

The sparrow inspires the

finch, and the finch the thrush.

The chickadee flitters about,

its voice echoing above the others.

Soon the dawn is accompanied

by a symphony

of song.

II

High noon brings

the jay

and the wren.

The soft sound of leaves

falling add a soothing

note to the chorus.

Their colors paint the floor;

the oranges, yellows

and reds splatter the

brown, dead canvas.

Somehow,

it brings vibrancy.

III

The sun sinks below

the clouds, casting a shadow.

The other musicians have

polished and put away their

instruments, preparing

to rest for tomorrow’s performance.

Ah, but for one musician

it is just

beginning.

The nightingale has

the stage.

Her soft, haunting sound

echoes over the shadowed

wood. The trees shiver,

allowing more colors

to fall to the canvas

below.

Soon, night takes a

hold of the wood;

the soft songs

fade as the moon

rises.

The last of the

autumn sonata

has played.