…Yet I admire the birds flying whimsically,
their spirit free from the start
As I
stay
weighted down,
by my
cast iron
heart.
The Birds
Self Portraits
Do you love me now?
One day you’ll love me when my name is known,
but for now you’ll see my soul emptied in my phone.
Asleep on the tube or awake at night in bed,
my thoughts pour fleeing from my chest to my head.
My heart purges thick oil from my core -it’s a start,
I pine for irreality and for the darkness’ depart.
I sign away joyous secrets and lamentful decisions,
avoiding your judgment to make an incision.
To your eyes open I’m paused -pregnant in wait,
for you to render me love’s stark fate.
With my name atop poems you’ll see and you’ll know,
to love me cause I’m playing on the radio.
I’ve signed faux-names to truths in futile admission,
for one day you’ll know me and release me from my prison.
The Nothing Before
A fair perspective eludes
a feverous desire
now devolved to a black ember,
a crumb from its former whole.
Distrust corrupted our air,
the fire uneased, wheezing and resigning
unable to persevere.
Lethargy and double thought
rendering the flame impotent
emptied of passionate blaze.
Without heat to broaden,
nor a cold to collapse.
An Empty Pen
My words are shouted at midnight,
love and anger laboured
on unseen paper.
I die
my face unknown to light’s eye.
For whom do I aspire
to see my words?
to rescue eyes and ink cast earthward?
to validate muted loves?
to love
me?
Lyon, London ou Brazil
Si je parle français ?
La vie à Lyon,
au Croix Rousse même.
Ici Je dessin le coeur des figures
qui me passent,
une plume à main
un piccolo à l’autre.
Ou viver no Brazil
Tomando um café e escreve em Portugues.
Minha língua dançando samba,
como bossas tropicais lavar sobre mim.
Minha alma de ouro do sol equatorial.
I sit here in passage
an architect of sand castles,
creations washed away
as I construct another.
Southern Belle
Upon Greenwich hill I stare
through swaying maples,
at grand temples of wealth;
unenvious of their material souls.
I long not for their goods
to adorn my soul,
to collect their fiat wealth,
to amass my self worth.
Instead I search inward,
for an intangible whole,
for completion found
in blissful quiet.
Reality’s Abandon
I rest in the life of another,
in a dishonest past;
a retouched memory,
sombre, stained a rose’s hue.
Yielding and regressing,
to a former self;
with sight more tranquil,
wit breathing unspoiled,
though vision untrue,
distorted by a lens seeking solace.
Visionary Love
My soul pours
for Jeni,
Jhené,
and Janelle Monaé.
Their melodic oeuvres
a soothing poetic massage.
Beautiful heroines
birthing love’s shy vision.
J.C. FitzDerick 