If you’ll block the light

Posted on Jun 22, 2016 in Poetry

If you’ll block the light,
turn the mirror,
so I’ll not see what time has done;
If you’ll fool me—
Add to the doe-eyed,
your face,
your favor,
the moon’s countenance
upon the sun—
I’ll wrap up this play.
Stand between heaven, earth,
And with a cry not heard
since your mother’s days—
With the draw
of a thousand suns,
I’ll remove this firmament,
this trick—
Hands reaching
torn asunder in ancient times,
will find each other once again.
The touch of fingers
will wake Him
from long stony sleep,
and when he reaches—
when I do—
I’ll pull you to me.
I won’t forget,
Never again, never again.
O heaven
what standard is enough?
Wrestling, wrestling
below, above.

If only I’d have caught it

Posted on Jun 21, 2016 in Poetry

If only I’d have caught it,
that moment, you know?
But we never think that quickly.
There was a dream that was Rome.
If you’d have stood in the city,
its white buildings emerging
birthed from pure soil
of the Ancient, the Sea,
built by hands
of calloused craftsman.
There one moment in time,
but then gone.
With time running faster,
you’ll need to be standing
at just the right moment,
else you’ll miss it.
Like a movie on fast-forward
this is how time works.
You sit in the theater chair
while vanity puts up monuments
just to watch them come down.
It looks as a children’s pop-up book
looks, turning its pages .
Up, down. Quicker now.
But the book is kept;
It’s a family book.
This is where you’ll need to be careful,
that word family.
Don’t let your eyes deceive,
taken in by dream.
Begin by wiggling your toes;
the only way really.
Feel the bedsheets
the clothes
of an alien world
in which you’re the little green man.
Beside you
lies your little green bride
warm and clammy
from the long, restless night
of wrestling and tossing.
Move a leg and feel for her toes
Next her ankles and legs
working a way up to her
dream-weary head.
As she whispers of mistakes
put a finger to her lips
replaced by a kiss
you’ve been waiting to give
for millennia you’ve lived
separated, and yet never really.
When you’ve both wiped
the sleep from your eyes
find that book.
Remember your hot, carnal days.
Ladders set up
that went no where and everywhere.
Hands red and sore
against rungs of passion
and war.

The builders

Posted on Oct 18, 2015 in Poetry, Writing

Each morning,
I confront the builders
with their brick and mud,
setting up
and plumbing
a soundproof,
recollection-impeding wall
between the heart-shoring running,
this subroutine to that,
and my humble bedchamber.

A crow, crowing

Posted on Oct 18, 2015 in Poetry, Writing

There’s a crow, crowing through
my open window,
calling to his mates.
Cars and trucks
in the distance,
the occasional motorbike.
The whole time,
I click away on keys
who know me better
than I even know myself—
some muse I’ve never met,
and yet she tells me every day
which way to think and see
the very things that’ll get me
from point A to B
in this scrawled out story.

The hotel

Posted on Oct 3, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

The hotel is large.
I’ve climbed all its floors
Many a sleepy night
In my bed.
And I’ve even gone low
To its tunnels below
And wound far and long
through its depths.
The rooms are occasionally
Rented, with vacancy
With a door key given
At the desk.
But at times they’re a hospital
Where people, irresponsible
Have their limbs sewed back on
for a test.

It’s the swell

Posted on Sep 2, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

It’s the swell
and fall.
And I’ll take land and a view.
The girls walk by
in bikinis more sexy than flesh.
I hadn’t known what flush was
nor legs, knees
What were ankles and toes in those days?
Was there even a me?
How provocative an idea can be.
One which drives everything,
though no one will say it.
Come play
at the sands of the sea.
I’ll lay still,
while you trip, intentionally.
When our clothes
shed like autumn’s leaves
And in the long night of winter
we’ll make house.
Angels falling,
Others climbing.
We’re betwixt heaven and the dream
And you’re mine
until we’re dying.
And when flesh walks by
you won’t look
And neither will I.

Back – Cary Briel

Posted on Jun 24, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

I awake in the night to find
the yellowed mirrors surround me.
I hung them when I was old,
when I was lonely.
Where is my shiny boy, my wife?
I will carry her from the dark,
back to familiar waters.

It’s shiny – Cary Briel

Posted on Jun 12, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

It’s shiny
and that’s the in.
It could be a bracelet, ring,
or even—especially—
And I say, I can write this.
You wake and think,
‘I will be pretty.’
You can’t possibly know
that it’ll bring a smile,
that a beat will skip,
that you’ll draw eyes
in passing,
or from a distance,
and that it says something.
It’s shiny
and so are you.
My heart leaps,
as you pass, and I think
we knew each other,
it must be true,
in other worlds,
in other lives,
and I held your hand,
and you cried.
And I must have loved you so.

What would make a man? – Cary Briel

Posted on Jun 4, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

What would make a man
seek nylons
and high heels,
and weeping
two days long away?
Except he be young,
except he’d agreed,
when he was a he.
What would make a man
seek mountains,
just to fall,
just to leap,
and to be caught
by his angels,
by his kin,
when he’d become a she?

Taut – Cary Briel

Posted on May 24, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

In a field, I see you and I lying taut in the sunlight, stretched so perfectly that no finger or toe is even slightly bent. There are no ropes, no restraints, so I tell the me beside you, “ask.” And I see me turn to you and ask. In your eyes, I see it. I can’t help myself, I can’t. I’ve understood.

At night, the moon lights your flesh so I could swear I’m not stretched anymore. I stand and run around you, still understanding your taut predicament. But I’m free, and you’re rooted like a tree, unmovable. I know this, but still run free. I’ll get to it eventually.