Sleep with the Angels

I slumber at the wakening,

tasting the luscious licks of the unwrapped

lollipops, sparks of sun settle

through frost-wintered windows,

white toes chilled against red circulation.

Morning cat meows plead of attention,

circling the unchanged litterbox- recognizing

her own beloved stench. Upstairs

the flowers sing like honeydew- “Me

and Bobby McGee” as we drove

to the scorched heat of Pheonix.

Sitting under moonlit tents, sanctuaries

of bodies held together by blazing fires,

conversation blends as easily as baryonic

matter in the cosmos, sparking brilliant neurons.

The night cold wore us like a blanket

of damped packed sand, the piercing

coals of envy and beauty embered

asymmetrically into the stars like soft

epiphanies. I swallowed the wood-burnt

smoke and ingested the amber flames.

Duerme con los angeles, mi amor,

feathered pillows spoke softly in accord

until the honeydew flowers chanted

the confined lullaby.

 

j.f.

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When I am Weary

I heard imaginary ailments-
whirling dervishes dancing
with one hand pointed at the sky
and the other at the ground.
Such dismal feelings however
do not often persist in the clear
light of morning, when
you are young.
Many are the thoughts that come
in lonely musing;
leaving no trace of existence.
I walk home to tranquility-
the trees are still bare, the buds
still hard, cocooned.
Appear- an impressionist scene
of a rainy night.
It accretes in layers under
my skin and knits my pores tight.
A hideous sense of pursuit
sometimes comes chillingly
when I am weary.

Upon the Boutique Sidewalk

Upon the boutique sidewalk, I

stumble upon a man- or

is it a woman? The dark and

defined makeup surrounds the black

pupils set in stone marble eyes.

The perfectly defined Adams apple sits tucked

under the creamy white face adorned

with chiseled cheekbones, contoured

and glowing. I wonder

what he sees sitting on his perch,

unable to move. We bustle and groan,

rush around like spawning salmon-

but you, your plastic skin still reeks

of chemicals produced in assembly

lines, people machines. Your

cheekbones deceive me, your slim,

lean legs lack the delicate fibers that

give legs meaning. You represent facades

and images endorsed, societal projections.

Who gets to decide

what ideal looks like?

 

j.f.

Spiderwebs

She sits

solemnly at the dining room

table, trying to find a metaphor

for her creative process, is

it the revealing of one’s

eyes, after removing

sunglasses? The dark

shades, black as dilated

pupils, outstretched when accustomed

to night, revealing the

hidden webs

forming dust-

a forgotten bond.

 

j.f.

Random Thoughts

Do you ever wonder…

what you would

become

if you

did

not blog

did not ‘gram

did not facebook?

What if…

thoughts,

your stream

of conscious,

could be made

visible, online, for

all to see? Would you

be embarrassed? Or

embrace it? Do

our thoughts

really,

truly,

belong

to ourselves

anymore? What

is writing becoming?

What is writing?

What are

your

thoughts?

 

I originally wrote this in 2013, and it is just as prevalent as ever.

Insurmountable

We are

the expendables-

how extraordinary

is the notion

that we could be gone

from this world

tomorrow

maybe some people

weren’t made

for this world-

their pain is felt

more than most.

It is all relative.

Contextual, at best-

the differences in

our lives,

insurmountable

 

JHF

Risk

I often wonder what it feels like

to be you

A lyric stolen from a song

A line of a poem

never to be published

The intangible things

are somehow just as critical

as the ones

screaming at you.

The crimson red flags

you choose not to trust

at first

How does it feel to be perceived

as a risk

to someone else’s well-being?

How does it feel

to be perceived at all?

Captive

I watched you from afar

though I couldn’t see you,

and I still wonder where you are,

a part of me sees you

gazing under the stars.

 

And dear,

even with all of the friction,

the manipulation and confusion,

even with all of the fear

 

I still hold you near.

There’s a part of me

that will not release you

or am I simply

still your captive my dear?

Little Fixes

Center of the day begins to unfold

Already gone through the marshes and mixes

Alive & full,

Lick our lipses

Do what we can to get our fixes

Skin as oily

as Honeydew

You caught me in a full-on looptiloo

Getting Right

In attempts to avoid folding within myself
I sit numbly
Your possible rejection of me
Collides into a forgotten, yet nostalgic fear
Creating unforgotten insecurities
Memories of the past start flooding in
But the boulders are too high and sharp
The lack of words become deafening
I just want to cover my ears
And cry out of relief
Over holding in the washed up emotions
That I tried so hard to flee from
Spending countless days and hours
Looking in and Distracting from myself
Getting over someone, and
Getting right with me.