Merciel

Photo by Ines Milewski

Life within a tower that scrapes the sky
might seem high to the common peasantry
but in the clouds, the friends are few–
a dove or two who hardly speak and never stay
beyond the night another day.
Any face besides mother’s would suffice
but the witch chastises her wants as vice
so she shuts her mouth and plays nice.

Rapunzel could sing but lacks breadth of lung
to break through the clouds with her songs.
Not that anyone would bother to listen–
the prince is preoccupied poaching low-hanging pelt.
She retreats to her canvas and paints
herself in foreign places she’s never seen
among the friends she’s never had but always dreamed
beside the prince she’ll never have but always need.

Should she sing another song on bended knees
in wait of a prince to set her free?
Should she flaunt her hair? Though it be fair,
her head’s too high to catch the prince’s stare.
Should she wade in fantasies forever in wait
of the key to break out of her womb–her grave?

Not in the mood to play, she plucks a feather
from nearby doves and weaves them together
into a pair of wings she declares her own,
hidden from her mother beneath her nightgown.
Tomorrow’s dawn, she casts down
her heavy crown and leaps with final faith,
flaps her arms without thought or strategy.
With all her fight she takes aflight across the sky.

“Impatient! Imprudent!” her mother shouts
trapped in the tower without her golden ladder.
The peasants decry her a harpy, aim their arrows
to knock her down to scrub their floors,
but the breeze blows away their bile
as she plays with angels over the Sea,
pushes aside princes pawing at her feet,
unwilling to settle–she’s already Queen.

The shadows and haze cannot conceal
his glamour–it takes center-stage
the moment he strays into the club,
glitters at night with milky way starlight
so bright it blinds eyes blurred by ecstasy
and liquor. His apple blossom air
annuls drugstore colognes preceding
his flutter through the crowd caught
on him to a booth behind the stares.
He orders a Sprite and waits.

A procession pries his gate, picking the lock
with manicured fingers and photoshopped faces.
No combination will click, no coo cracks
the wall. With merciful smiles he casts them
back to the bluffs beside their rusting trophies.
A green-eyed girl steps over the casualties,
flitters into the twilit booth to try her attempt
to unearth his name. “Oberon,” he finally says
as if to confirm rumors he’s fay, but though
perhaps fantasy, she choose to stay.

She stammers over well-rehearsed flirtations
to lure him to dance. He follows her anyway
onto the stage as clear as night on a midsummer day–
they are the stars on which the underlings gaze,
Their performance proceeds obliviously
to radio hits playing through speakers and static,
to the throng of thralls that stand against the walls,
relishing each step he struts across the floor.
Even those not caught under his spell
dissect each step to graft to their stagger.

Midnight strikes an hour later. He pulls out
from her embrace; she pulls him back
with a pouty face, pleading for a peek beneath
the colorful fabrics he fashions himself,
the frills that lured her in. His cider kiss
muffles her moan, petrifies her in bliss.
He mouths goodbye as he floats through
the parting stares outside into the darkness.
Stripped of the stuffy straps, lit up with cigarettes,
he dreams of his reign in Avalon again.

My father bequeathed me armor
to wear in the crusades. I waved
my sword with zealous spirit, thrust
my wooden shield forward with faith.

The belt fastened on too tightly–
almost choked me out of all life.
The breastplate chafed against my neck–
I couldn’t pivot left or right.
The shoes never fit my flat feet–
I couldn’t walk by end of night.
The helmet blinded my vision–
I never saw the coming tide.

I fell at noon, screaming for help–
they already pronounced me dead–
wading through waves of demon attacks,
bleeding out spirit, faith, and friends.

Through cracks in the armor I slipped
and rose to face another day–
tried pawning pieces for pennies,
but only the helmet remained.
The shield shattered into splinters,
the breastplate rusted in the rain,
the shoes severed from heel to sole,
the sword was never seen again.

From the helmet I fashioned a face
to wear at theaters and ballets
and when struck by moods to role-play
and when it might help me get laid.

I couldn’t walk on water, so I drowned.
My waterlogged legs dragged me down
until I hit the ground on bended knees
in wait of machines to rescue me,
but I was never found. I cried for help
but couldn’t breathe with all the kelp
entwining me. Only gurgling sounds
reached past my mouth as I drowned.

Returned to the shore by a mermaid
who vanished before I woke a decade
later. I waited for her to reappear
but forgot her face throughout the years.
I drew messages in sand, but the waves
washed them away. I painted in caves
but nobody understood what I made.
The only one who could was the mermaid.

Again a slow start as I stepped off the shore
until I hit water, then I ran with a burst
until my feet set fire. A trail of waves
tried following me but couldn’t keep pace.
The mines ahead I easily leapt. The sharks
fell behind along with the moon, Sun, and stars.
If I walked or I waded, I’d surely have drowned.
To stay afloat, I couldn’t slow down.
The breeze blunted the burn as I ran forward.
Ahead awaited Avalon, behind me the shore.

Her scent slithers up the vine–
a bouquet of berries fully ripe–
sweetness spliced with an ounce of spice–
sleeping serpents wake and rise.

Her smile struts without a shame–
a bouquet of roses lace her frame–
below the petals hide her thorns
pricking serpents out untamed.

Her sweetness thaws with warm embrace–
Eden shines within her blooming face.
Her spice stings the mouth, the eyes, the disbelief–
accentuates the aftertaste.

Temptation waits, but forbidden fruit
is worth the thorns though they will bruise–
though they will cause a fatal wound
that bleeds the dust and salts the roots–
burns the bridge between two best friends–
even causing the world to end.
Eden would be no garden without spilt seed–
Adam would be no man without Eve.

Breaking through the golden gates
face-first without a flinch
toward pearly ones from whence I came–
they never opened anyway.
No yoke will slow my stride;
no cross will hang me dry;
I’m riding her ass all the way to Jerusalem
beneath palm trees and orange skies.

The half-hour shower frees me
from the grease of moonlight work
from the hours wasted with her.
I’d drown my aches beneath this rain
all day, but I have bills to pay
and it’s already past midnight.

Out of the shower into the steam
chilled with the breeze
whispered through the window.
The fog conceals nothing;
every towel in the hamper is mine
and her toothbrush is still dry.

She’s already in bed, an arm
around my phantom shape
a smile sculpted on her face
like ones I had when I embraced
the phantom her in distant dreams
and nostalgic memories.
She isn’t as pretty without all
the makeup and imagination.

Her eyes are no emeralds;
her hair is no crown.
Her chin is too pointy;
her lips are a clown’s.
Even her mountains lose luster
once scaled. Not as soft or serene.

She once played my princess
she once played my angel
she once played my queen
in all my poetry, but I haven’t written
a word since she left him for me–
my punishment for playing the thief.

Dull eyes open, catch my stare.
“Whatcha doing?” she asks.
“Just admiring your beauty,” I reply.
She moves forward; I tense,
suppress a gag as we kiss–I’ll never
enjoy to the taste of her lips–
then we shut our eyes. I rest
in peace stuck beside the girl I loved.

April diminishes me by three.
Fall out of the Sky – return to the Sea
a fairy with water-logged wings.

Headfirst I drop into the bittersweet
sink into familiar waters fathoms deep
without drowning – without defeat.

Through Siren’s kiss I find my breath
discover pearls in deep regrets
lead ancient demons to their deaths.

When tides fall, dive deeper depths;
when tempests call, play the deaf
following flow – surfing the ebb.

I’ll resurface when no longer drenched
when the whirlwind lifts me up again
when I’m ready for another friend.

This was my entry for the WD Poetic Form Challenge: The Big 10.

His infancy meant memories made months
ago–before work pulled me out of state–
were rarely saved. When the holidays came,
I stowed away on cargo trains back home
to see my son again, but who would he?
Stranger from forgotten past or father
who he barely had? I opened the door.
He stared at me for eternity, then
his crescent lips rose. He wobbled over
on stubby legs, his arms raised up for me.

Your strut through Hollywood stole the scene.
Your glamour grabbed our eyes, demanded gasps.
Some flinched and fled, but those who stared
long enough saw beneath the cellophane
and found inside you a phoenix egg.
Its flames thawed us left cold, so we followed
you beyond the glitter. You stripped your glamour
and led us naked into the wilderness.

The trail you burnt withered the thorns
who tore us timid. We became monsters.
The most ferocious, fairest of all, you
never bore your teeth at wounded prey,
but savaged hunters who treated us like game.
Beneath the fur, you tasted sweet, soothed
the sting of life. Legions pawed at you
from the shore; you embraced us all as royalty.

A charlatan the Pharisees declare you;
forever you remain our Mother Monster–our Queen.
They see horns and mistake you a demon;
we devour you and taste your manna.
Your words resurrect the dead, your smile
uplifts heavy heads. Into outer space
we follow you–grow our own wings along the way.
They shun us outcasts; you redeem us royalty.