I Hear the Moon Kristin Osika

I Hear the Moon

as she sings her song. Enchanted, I listen all night long.

In her radiant gaze, an ivory glow. Her ethereal love and care for us shows.

“Come,” she whispers “stay close to me and let dreams follow my melody.”

So yawns escape and eyelids fall, thoughts drift away until the world feels small.

With all hopes and fears, anxieties gone I ask you, moon, to sing until the dawn. Kristin Osika

Anticipation

Luc Francis

Shelved thoughts are such a burden. Always peeking and prodding with eager mind and Open temptation.

You can organize them alphabetically and somehow You become immersed in seething lies and fallacies And façades and hopes and memories from Yesteryear. Then, you have spent months leafing through the dry, Reminiscing over the decrepit pages of a few ancient books.

And the rest of your collection from B to Z Waits idly for those innumerable days Until their fifteen seconds of exalted glory.

You can match them by genre, But only if your purpose is nimble enough to balance on the Rubric of your mind. And strong enough To bear a cacophony of mixed emotion. You can design each category only if you can, Equally, understand the disorder than is bound to arise from your Arbitrary desires.

Or, You can simply observe them In their natural chaos.

Focusing on the thick and thin and veneered And creased spines of each book, All pressed together to create some All-encompassing amalgamation of your psyche. Perhaps your gaze looks deeper into the small cracks Between each book

These brooding, infant voids, feeding on your attention and growing in presence, But never in size.

And, alas, after scrambling free from their deceptive lull You have accomplished nothing.

So what are we to do with shelved thoughts, These inexorable chores?

Tempo

My butterflies only come out once a month. Most are cyclical in nature, but mine bounce on Currents of thought stylistically, with rhythm. Their wings do not flap: They pulse and reverberate irregularly. This irregularity is invisible to the eyes, Only tangible to the most sensitive parts of the soul. Any more disturbance to their natural flight pattern and they’d be bereft of the joy of flight. A sad tale, but one all too common. A cautionary tale, derived from the suffering of millions and the death of more. Luc Francis

Their death, however, is trite. Of course, the monarchs of the winter have to make way for The yellowtails of the summer and so on. There is no tragedy in this truth, and no cyclical elements either, But there is a rolling tempo that pushes the caterpillars from their chrysalis And the corpses into the detritus beneath the undergrowth of my being. Like some methodical base player, some lyre of Hades, Whose notes dance in coerced unison with my butterflies’ fate.

Perfection and The Mudded Men Luc Francis

Many moons Mount themselves on mundane mountains. Men, motionless, muddled with Meager money and malformed misapprehension, Mar the magic of mischief. Most months, Marks of marsh and mist Mask the muse of moonlight. Mentions of melancholy mints Meet the midrifts of misfortune.

But here, In

my museum, Meet the masterpieces and the mudded men. Moved most maniacally by the menacing Motors of misguided mockingbirds. Mother’s music Makes mush of mangoes, and Makes moorland of Madrids.

Mounded mocha, Made of mouton’s madness Masks a magnificent metropolis of married mates.

Maybe most miss, Many or most? Mixed mondays, May be, more than mounted moons. Moonlight, A perpetual betrayer, A pain too familiar, A friend.

Finger Locked Pt.2

Strewn on the iced sheets lie Broken, blue bones Which break the brazen Blazes of yesterday. A child gazes upon the frozen carnage. She picks at the bones But they crumble. Their dust Choking the air with Oppressive asphyxiation. She finds a skull, cold and familiar. The young, delicate flesh of her fingers Pricked against the dead teeth, as if A trapped soul was pulling, Begging for return. “Yesterday,” she promises. “Today my bones are wrapped in skin And home is a place between two hearts.” The skull waits. Waiting. Forever. Luc Francis

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