Will you run to the mountain

Posted on Jul 6, 2016 in Poetry

Will you run to the mountain,
to the hill with its fractures,
were just fingertips fit
as if someone had measured
and planned for the swell in your heart?
Will you rush to the water
the cool of its bed
your toes squishing into its mud?
Strip off the sin garment.
cast off your shame—
the animal skins of hate,
the knowledge!
Be like the dog
his excitement unconfined,
his intellect gladly restrained.
I speak with words
that aren’t real.
I notice nothing dreamed up
by a lonely, bored dreamer.

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
Up,
down,
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.

A bee man visiting china

Posted on Nov 23, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

A bee man visiting China
talked to his dog back in Maine,
with howls and with tears in his eyes,
Over signals bounced off the moon.
The dog must’ve thought he’d come come,
That he was in the next room.
But the bee man,
He was timezones away
And he cared for the dog
more than all the tea in China;
More than all the millions
she’d stolen away.

The girl in the stone

Posted on Feb 1, 2013 in Poetry, Writing

The girl in the stone
has no seam

The cooking makes me cry

Posted on Feb 27, 2012 in Poetry, Writing

My hands run up your slender stalks—
my eyes and heart go further.
Are we so different anymore—
my nails, their marks—
the earth.
The other day, I felt my knees,
they woke and hinged too wide.
I wore your clothes,
you fixed my hair.
Your cooking makes me cry.

Warrior – Cary Briel

Posted on Dec 17, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

Your pretty eyes
dart, gaze from behind
your mask,
your facade.
The bend of your knee
is all that I need
to sustain the day.
The angle of your ankle
subdues the monster
in man.
Strength fades.
He’s owned by
the weakest,
the smallest.
Big muscles sit
outdated,
outmoded,
while prettiness sighs.
Little one
supple,
sensuous,
I will climb back
into the womb,
I’ll be born again,
forget
what facilitation,
what imposition,
the time of the wall
that would be a door,
when you looked so comely,
so pleasant,
so accommodating,
when you overtook
by being overtaken.

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—
shoes.
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.

Each day – Cary Briel

Posted on Jun 5, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

I’ve set an easel up
with canvas, 
brushes,
paints,
with colors of 
no worldly hue.
And each day I paint  
a memory—
bathrobe, 
dress 
or hat—
a memory of you.