Late January

I haven't written here this year.

But today I saw the wind in the grass.

I saw the sun shining through the grey clouds.

I read poetry I didn't quite agree with.

A strange hot day.

The air smelled of sweat.

I held the seeds of a plant I grew in my hand.

And I can genuinely tell you,

I don't know anything.

Bukowski said some lose their mind,

others lose their soul,

I've been split down the middle,

mind and soul,

human and animal,

water and fire,

for so long.

I haven't lost anything,

it's just that we're,

not in one place at the same time.

That when we sit together and drink coffee,

looking at the world around us,

it seems so alien.

People calling me weird,

but then they refuse to see the sky,

they refuse to hear the music,

they refuse to see the wind dancing.

I don't know anything.

But I know the seeds in my hand.

I know wind in my hair.

I know the whispering heat,

that simmers on my chest.

-o0o-

Ricky Man (on Youtube)

Clearing, Part 2

"They chose their own paths,

and how they know it well.

They know their own hearths,

and floors upon which they dwell.

They made their own bed,

they carved their own stones.

Be careful of the dead:

they hold court upon your bones."

-o0o-

Clearing (on Poetry Potion)

Head over to Poetry Potion to see my new poem, "Clearing".

-o0o-

Whore Prophet

Elijah.
You talk big for a murderer and a misogynist;
water-cooler-gossip,
snickering,
telling your bros about what a whore I am,
while I made miracles,
filling bellies in the heart of the desert,
and wrote thaumaturgy on the hearts of children.
You talk big about the false prophets,
but you carry middle-management hatred,
like ring binders in your mouth,
hatred that boiled over and slaughtered my kin,
with no provocation, for no reason,
but the name of your god of war.
But remember, it was I who chased you into the desert,
I who put you to wandering,
I who made you weep for death.
In the end even your god sent upper-management down
to take you away:
a PR disaster not even the high heavens were ready for.
Tell Elisha we won’t be any easier on him.
Tell him my name is Jezebel: Whore Prophet.
If he comes for me I’ll eat him and feed his bones to my dogs.

-o0o-

A Facebook Status for the Fifth of November

Remember, remember the fifth of November,
oh Jesus, the broflakes are loose,
spare us the mansplaining, actuallies, concern feigning;
and shove it right up your caboose.

Now also available on Twitter:
https://twitter.com/charllandsberg/status/927292951910285312
https://twitter.com/charllandsberg/status/927293029983145989

-o0o-

The Difficult Magic

when you don't expect sparkle and pop
or to swell like Gandalf
or glamour like Dumbledore
when you expect to do less today
than you ever have before
when your impact is small
but the outcome is big
and you take nothing from the world
that you couldn't restore
this is the great magic
the endless bore
to love beyond measure
to wait beyond pleasure
to give beyond showing
to learn beyond knowing
to trust in your heart
forgive when it's smart
see the beauty in the noise
permit yourself the little joys

-o0o-

Rapture

I caught a flight

on a planet named Nibiru.

I have to be at tea 

with the witches of the sky.

If Jesus wants me, 

he can wait.

Tell him, if you see him,

I was only passing by.

The world ended,

again, again, again,

waking up smiling,

with the daughters of the sea.

If Jesus had a plan,

he had years to step up.

If Jesus had a message,

he could have given it to me.

-o0o-

Craft

For audio please visit HERE on Soundcloud.

We learnt the art of potions,

from the great schoolmistresses of the South,

their hair like thistledown,

a tongue like a bullwhip in an open mouth.

They taught anyone their craft,

free of charge,

if you had a talent for magic,

and a will to learn.

They taught us the right way:

to stir a pot,

to wipe a child’s snot,

to make a man leave or stay,

to cut a foetus away.

Of course the men came to burn us,

but they didn’t recognise us,

being so suspicious of their own daughters,

that many a child was murdered.

Unmarked graves,

that bore the sins of the fathers,

instead of names and dates.

Eventually we became the new teachers,

and under our tutelage,

the young ones learnt to fight back,

against the stupidity of the old men,

who held laws like babies,

and propped up their houses with the corpses of children.

We taught the young ones the right way:

to stir a pot,

to wipe a child’s snot,

to make a man leave or stay,

to cut a foetus away.

Soon our books filled every shelf,

our songs every heart.

So much so that even the old man in the pub,

hums our tunes over his beer,

while his children practice their queer,

and hone their craft,

and brew wild ideas into living potions,

that teach minds to fly,

with the queerest of notions.

-o0o-

Jars

in the beginning

the stuff of souls

was kept in large jars

thousands upon thousands

stacked up in lines

and a few people

who drank from the jars

had the same soul stuff

shared between them

in the end 

they will be poured back

into the old jars

hand in hand

-o0o-

Crop

no time for tears, no tears for time

on with work that needs to be done

the ground is wet and steaming under the sun

till the fields, work the soil

sow the seeds for newer crops

the storm is over and you have much to do

set your eyes to the rising sun

set your will for good times to come

hail the wind that carries the leaves

hail the earth that journeys my feet

hail the heartbeat alive once again

broken open and healed

a scar that runs a line to plant

no time for tears, no tears for time

on with the work that needs to be done

-o0o-

Scratch

I grew tired.
Lay on my bed.
Eyes grew heavy.
Reached with my hand.
Scratched at the world.
Tore at it.
Little pearlescent bits,
Flaked of in small dreams,
Like the innards of a shell.
I saw tomorrow and dreamt.
And woke up having forgotten the  dream.
My mouth tasting fowl with foreboding.

Wheel

I am a creature of seasons,

not affected by, but made of.

In the spring I am flowers,

a lover in the wind,

whispering songs for hours,

with no thought to my reasons,

free and careless.

In the summer I am the river,

that flows with the summer storms,

that weathers the gale,

catching lightning to boil my coffee,

with melted hail.

In autumn I am the leaves,

writing my poems scattered about,

a messy room, an unwashed plate,

a single sock turned inside-out.

In winter I am a tree,

struck bare with ashen skin,

hard and unmoving,

demon of healing,

and saint of sin,

all gather at my table,

to drink of my potions.

I am not disaffected by the seasons,

they are me.

I am not affected by the turn of the wheel,

I am the wheel.

-o0o-

February

Cool summer morning,

and the storm lies on the ground,

face down,

reduced to puddles,

and the clear sky,

blue,

just relieved,
to have kicked the storm out of her bed.
For all his raging last night,
she's free of him now,
he did his job.
Now the sun rises with the sky,
and the sisters take to the day,
climbing into beauty,
while the storm dries himself off.

-o0o-

Pour Grace on my Name

Grace is when you drink at my expense,

and get drunk on my good will.

When you think we're good,

but we're not.

Grace is when I let you think it's okay,

when you hurt me,

again and again.

Grace is when I stop talking.

Because my words will become poison,

and you've become so accustomed to drinking of me,

that you'd swallow the good and the bad.

Grace is when I sweeten myself,

even though I'm dying.

Making the best of milk, 

that makes white flecks in your tea,

but you can't taste it's off yet.

Grace is when I keep opening an artery for you,

so you stay,

for my own fears of being alone,

which become more an more real each day.

Grace is an idiot.

I guess that's my new name now.

-o0o-

Omen Sky

The moon sits so menacingly in the sky, 

looking flat across the world, 

like a god getting a good look, 

at what he's about to stomp on. 

Its like a bad omen. 

It's cold after a sweltering day,

but this wind doesn't bring relief, 

Master Moon has nothing but cruelty to whisper. 

A snap in the air that pulls your chest tight,

leaving you breathless, 

hiding indoors,

from the cruel sun's even meaner consort.

The usual dog barks are missing. 

The trucks on the highway are gone.

Even the Summer came to my window,

wrapping his long fingers around the sill, 

begging me to tell what's going on.

but I don't know.

He's cuddled up by my dogs from the cold.

Perhaps the sun will tell him tomorrow.

I asked whether he'd tell me tomorrow night,

but he's out cold.

At least my coffee is warm,

and I smirk at the moon,

he who can't come into my house.

My gates are warded from his ilk.

-o0o-

Upload

having left this to the last minute
I find myself sitting here
furiously willing the data
to swim upstream
so I can get going
damned fish will never swim directly

-o0o-

Ice Cream Rant

Ice cream...

why is my night devoid of ice cream?

Oh cruel world,

you, that spits in my eye -

with your fist curled,

jeering at me as the hours pass by.

Me, oh my: perchance to dream.

Someone give me ice cream.

Isn't my poetry so fucking deep and meaningful and moving... What? Don't look at me that way? It's 1 in the morning here :P

-o0o-

Twice bitten, still not shy.

but you were there with your wit and charms

and your winning smile and your well built arms

so when I caught up with your little game

you were off again and I was still the same

and I just lay there in my blood on the floor

rehashing the lessons I should have learnt before

with those guys who set off all the alarms

with their winning smiles and their well built arms

-o0o-

Ochre

There is clay under my feet.
It is yellow and barren like me,
but it makes for good ink.
So I take a sorry seat,
and write of all I see,
of all the things I dare to think.
What strangely things we meet,
that dreams congeal to be,
that lead us to the brink,
that causes ships to sink,
down, down, down into the clay,
where fantasies may be what may.

-o0o-