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The clusters of constellations fill the midnight sky, shockingly clear in your serene colored eyes.
I stare as you look up,
Soaking up the image of you.

The honey colored skin, turned darker in this absence of light,
The night above being the color of your eyes,
The bit of stomach peaking out from under your cropped shirt as you raise your hands to the empty
heavens,
The appearance of midnight you.

Oh,
Starlight, star bright.
I wish I may, I wish I might,
Call upon you tonight,
I wish I may, wish I might,
Be forever trapped in this scene of us.

The fabricated structure that binds and twines us into life as we know it is invisible to the naked eye, but always present for those who wish to see. Fiction can be compared to one’s daydreams, fables constructed by the minds of what is known as a human being, We are not able to create a story that our minds have not yet witnessed, or so we have been told. But what if those stories are pillars of our existence and we are simply remembering the truth that has been washed out of our conscious minds, imagination labeled as mere fiction, covering up the constructed illusion that we perceive as our reality. If we can erase what has been instilled, we can see that we are not animals that are meant to be tamed, but rather energy that is found in every particle of this universe, abundant and free to roam, think, live, breathe; we are whatever we choose to be and in order for us to experience at our highest potential we must realize we are as real as the truth that we seek, forever expanding in this web of subconscious perception.

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Enigmatic and dazzling,
the fox lullabies on flagstone streets.
Acidic whispers, crooning screams,
sharing tales to feathered devotees.

Fledglings sway under a glowing moon,
crying their thankful racket.
His mouth makes sense of midnight calamity
helping them feel less alone.

Idyllic, yet idolized, the young adored in haste.
From windswept seeds across the land,
years of allegations bloomed—
He was found with feathers between his teeth.

Huntsmen brandish torches outside the den
and hear his insincere apologetic howls—
It’s in my nature!
devoid of responsibility.

Trust snuffed out in daughters.
Grief assigned to mothers.
He is disgraced and exiled,
marked only with scorched whiskers.

Other creatures might forgive,
but young jackdaws don’t forget
the tongue that warbled twilight virtues
then licked the hollow bones clean.

I was a bee, I needed honey and
I needed to give honey. I made honey
and I survived on honey. Your
mandibles were askew and your belly
out of sorts. You had very little honey
to give but I knew it was the best honey.
Up close, we were very strange, though
from afar, romantic. When you began
to make more honey, richer, amber-er
than before, you brought it first to
my sister. I had been saving
my honey for you.
I had been hungry and kept holding
on, winter after winter, for you. After
that I became very ugly. After that,
I felt very broken. I felt you had shown
my worst self to me and I did not want
to be the bee that I was. But,
after you saw how ugly I was
you still loved me. You made me
this ugly bee and then you stayed
with me and told me I was beautiful.
I don’t know what to do with this honey.
It is all over me and it will not wash off.
I am not starving any more. There is excess
and you keep giving though we are both
even stranger now. Even more hideous.
And soon, our short bee lives will end.
So here we are, in the honey. Ugly
and alive.

A tower’s moonlit window alcove, and a boy alone in thought,
beneath the evening’s dewy glisten and the scent of willow rot.

With pen in hand, a boy endeavors, to erect his fantasies
unto a page where moments prior, hadn’t laid a single thing.

With maidens fair, and soldiers brave, and mighty dragons called by name,
he’d bring them there into his world. He knew the power words contained.

So he began his epic story, a boy of age, unlike himself,
who knew one day he’d live the greatest stories boys could ever tell.

Set out on horseback in the countryside, as soon as he can climb,
perhaps a stepstool toward the saddle, after all, he’s only nine.

With heavy gallops toward the tavern, windswept blond and leather mail,
perhaps a chat with local ruffians would spark an epic tale.

“You can’t come in here.” A toothy scowl met the boy as he stepped in,
a smile crossed his lips before “A couple silver says I can.”

He sipped an ale and listened closely to the rumors passed around,
by barmaids, soldiers, widowers, and anyone with grief to drown.

. . .

Some months had passed arresting thieves, of traveling, curtailing crime,
and on his journey out of town, an aging paper caught his eye.

“Reward”
They’ve taken our sweet princess captive,
deep inside a dragon’s keep,
Excitement leapt within his chest, “now THAT’s just what this journey needs.”

And he set out toward her captor, fiery hot, and scaly green,
a craggy cavern burned and black into a tower quite pristine.

His trusty steed made double time,
he sensed the small knight’s urgency.

Past carriage wrecks and bandits foul, he leapt ahead most gracefully.

Through forests vast, and deserts hot, they voyaged onward tirelessly
into a mountain range surrounded by a frigid, untamed sea.

“Stay here”, he whispered softly, tying tight his brilliant steed
“It’s not the best, I know,” he whispered as he tied him to the tree.

“I’ll be back soon, but now I’m off” he said whilst heading toward the crag:
a silver sword, a rope, a helmet, and the apples in his bag.

When nightfall fell, ahead he saw what looked like rhythmic bellowed flame,
and he set onward, steps away, the hole from whence the fire came.

He crept in silently behind the dragon from the evening fog.
You see, a boy so small, so quiet. No one’s more perfect for the job.

“Unhand her, beast!” The boy would shout, waking the dragon’s deepest sleep,
a mortal duel to then ensue, secured the dragon’s swift defeat.

And with her chamber key in hand, the jovial boy leapt up the stairs,
threw open wooden doors atop a tower housing maidens fair.

A princess young and beautiful awaiting brilliant knights was she,
jumping into his mighty arms, they made their way most happily.

. . .

He’d soon fight wizards, werewolves, drunkards roughing up the local girls;
he’d save ‘most everyone in every single corner of the world.

Minstrels, they sang of dragons slain, princesses saved, a boy-knight-king
and he would ride the countryside giving the poor the wealth it brings.

He’d be the best young knight there was, he’d marry yet that princess fair,
and they’d have dozens, if not hundreds, children born with golden hair.

It was a brilliant tale indeed, one day he knew he’d tell to all,
give hope to every boy who reads, who stays inside, afraid to fall.

. . .

His dream soon faded in the glass, his sleepy eyes lost in the pane,
his bedroom window, huge and darkened, covered wet by all the rain.

Hours had passed since he began his story, hours into night,
and just a sliver left of blue, all that remained of evening’s light.

He lit a tiny tealight candle, hoped to write his story’s end
and deeply sighed looking upon the pages scattered in the wind.

Such vivid reverie, a dreamer’s curse, the innocence of trance,
to see so lucidly the trees of old, where woodland fairies dance.

This writer boy, now saddened deeply to indulge a fleeting whim,
as after dreaming countless stories,
he’d only written “It begins”.

Keep me around,
Pin me down. Tack my wings to a wood block.
Hang me on your wall and preserve me,
like a taxidermy butterfly.

A loved thing, petrified. A shallow kiss, breath
laced with formaldehyde. Treasure me
like a prized possession, describe me, like
I’m the most intricate, distinct, and magnificent thing
that belongs to you.

Give me a place, any space, in your life.
Lay me to rest on your bookshelf,
or the mantle above your fireplace, or
on the nightstand, so I’m the first thing you see,
when you wake up in the morning—If that’s not too
much of an ask— then I swear to be a
modest muse.

I’ll betray my very nature and wait for you to
change. I will love you, silent, my only escape,
clipped and pinned behind my back, mariposa,
withering, my wings more like tissue paper, every day,
So, I won’t want to fly away or go anywhere.

I’ll oblige to be patient and trapped,
content and okay forever, just displayed,
beneath a sheet of glass, if it means
you’ll keep me around.

Grand Rising to the Baobab Tree, who grows towards the Heavens.
Oh how you angered the gods, as a result they turned you upside down. .
Thora plucked you due to your haughtiness, but God showed you mercy.
The decision to return you back to the ground, was a blessing and not a curse.
While the sun rises on your roots, God enabled you to bear fruit.
Your beauty is not hidden as the gods intended, for God gave you a new purpose.
Awkward in shape, your branches are sparse, but your trunk carries supernatural properties.
The Elders gather around you to commune with the spirits of the ancestors.
Before you only had glamor, but now you are a source for wisdom.
People walk to you for advisement, you serve a role to all who seek enlightenment.
What an awesome tale you tell, of how arrogance changed your fate.
As the sun rises in the Savannah, wake up knowing you have been forgiven for your mistakes.
Every morning is a new day to thank God for your deliverance and how He set you free.
Even when life forces you to take your punishment, God is still right there besides you.
Your end, is not an end unless there is no longer any more life to live, but as long as you are living seek
God’s will and God will create a new plan for you.
Grand rising to the Baobab Tree.
Your message is more important, because you serve your sentence under the dirt.
But, you are more truthful and you are a hearth to those who need to reach Heaven.

he said, “poet – poems, their likeness is useless.
Do you see? They are trivial people
writing trivial words for drunkards to
regurgitate on trivia night
at their local pub. But we are world burners―world creators!”

But I did not see. Immediately,
sun high in the sky,
I approached my neighbors,
all strangers, and exclaimed, “I am a Poet!
Poet! Poet through and through!”
Fearful of some mad stranger
banging on their front door,
they refused to answer.

But I did not despair.

I went to my family and exclaimed, “I am a Poet!
Poet! Poet through and through!”
Some touched my forehead fearful of a fever,
others patted me atop my head,
“You’ll grow-up someday,” they said.

But I did not despair.

“If strangers know me as well as family, then
I must meet the knowers of everything!”
Quickly I escaped to the nearest University
and there I gathered professors
from all studies. Standing before them
I announced joyfully,
“I am a Poet! Poet! Poet through and through!”

“Nonsensical!” many professors proclaimed,
while others claimed, “Nonsense.”
One professor stood up and said,
“The word I is nonsense; therefore, I have no idea what is being said.”
Another professor stood up and exclaimed,
“You’re all wrong! The word Poet is nonsense; therefore, he is merely proclaiming he exists, and
is thus wasting our time. I propose we leave.”

Only two professors remained after
the Great Scholarly Exodus,
one was beautiful
with long grey hair, and deep wrinkles
in her face. She stood up with great care and
raising a shaky arm, her skin pulling
toward the earth, she pointed at me and said,
“I know you, and your turns.
Do you not see?
Writers are to be subjected.
Ends come from readers now. A
writer alone is just a fanciful dream!
You, are a means, of course.”

Then the second professor stood,
equal in beauty and sluggishness
he cleared the rubble from his throat
and exclaimed, “A Poet? A Poem? Heaven forbid!
All poetry died with the Romantics.
Reason is our champion today!
A Poet? A Poet is a nasty robbing creature―
a societal byproduct we’ve
yet to figure out how to dispose of.
Surely we’d bury you all if we were
not fearful of you contaminating
our water supply.”
With that, they shuffled out together.

Once again I stood alone.
But I did not despair―running about the city
I went to trees and bushes at their most
vulnerable time, and asked, “Poet?
Poet? Am I a Poet?”

but their reply
left much for me to imply.

The sun began to kiss the western horizon
lighting clouds with intoxicating oranges
and deep sobering purples.
Those akin to me began
to litter alleyways and backyards.

Entering an ally wet with filth,
a rat approached me.
I asked, “Poet? Poet?
Am I a Poet?”

The rat shrugged.

I approached a raccoon,
feasting from inside a dumpster,
peering in, I humbly asked,
“Poet? Poet? Am I a Poet?”

The raccoon shrugged.

Questions flourished―But I did not despair.
Arriving on the outskirts of the city
I approached a possum perched
on a wooden fence, and asked, “Poet?
Poet? Am I am Poet?”

The possum shrugged.

Then
a moment
of silence
laid on the tongue
with the weight of a century and I laughed!

“Ah! I see! I see!
Carminaphobia1 lives in our hearts!
Dumb stupid fingers on shaky hands
belongs to the poets of today.
HAHA! Do you see?”

The possum shrugged.

And I did not despair―to the nearest hill
I ran with joy―glowing―burning
“Creare Creare Creare!”2
within it resounded deep―
swelling; an echo to a high-pitched
vibration. And it was my own;
a vox3 from within―commanding
for new beginnings―new voices!
Sparks replaced questions;
melancholy and joyful tears flooded out

as I stood atop the hill looking out
to the city behind me,
remembering all carminaphobists.

Never again shall I return, and I did not despair.

Within―breathing life―taking alight!
I; conditorem ignis4―and there! I do see.
We world burners. We world creators!―
how painful our bone growing,
bone stretching ways are.
How fertile our soil!
No longer poet! I,
Dicendis Ignis,

I, wanting to burn―needing to burn
till all is consumed―lush cities charred,
reason melted down into a lake
for those of us capable enough
to swim and not fall under.

Yes! I see, my friend! And I have never despaired.
Leave them to their Poets,
their Poems,
and should they shun them all, we
Dicendis Ignis,
will greet them on the hill
and gift them Vulcan’s tongue
to resurrect themselves

What Gepetto or Gepetta
carved our current crop of candidates?
Their wooden limbs flail about and clatter
as their noses elongate
and their lies linger.

They refuse to help Gepetto
or anyone but themselves,
incapable of becoming kind or good.

These modern Pinocchios believe
they are already real boys.

But are they?