Mother Moon

Mother Moon, Luna,
give me your light,
so that I may shine,
reflecting bright,
right alongside you
into the night. Read More

Paint Me, Dorian Gray

Dorian Gray, paint me
like your picture.

Use red,
but not on canvas… Read More

Paper Lanterns

Somewhere above,
the stars shine
like paper lanterns
in the sky, Read More

Pareidolia Unfolding – Audio

Audio version of Pareidolia Unfolding. Very good practice.


I hope I pronounced “pareidolia” correctly!

The Sea’s Dead Touch – Audio

This is a recording of a poem I wrote in November, 2017. It’s called The Sea’s Dead Touch and features the morbid nautical theme I seem to be fond of.

We Were The Wretched Ones

We were the wretched ones.

Destitute and broken inside,
seeking a home where
we could simply be alive.

We thought the Sun rose in the North…

Expecting its warmth to heal us,
we soon learned that the Sun had
already set in the South, and thus,
we met the night-people, indecent,
the wicked child-eaters that only
lived in the blackness of their own hearts.

They crushed us into cages,
glimmering sheets bound
our fear and concealed our ages.

But,

our simmering rages, like seeds,
sprouted secretly behind our hearts,
hidden inside the unknown parts
of our souls – innocent and noble –
soon to replace fear and loathing
for those complicit, wicked, and wrong.

Into the echoes of our chambers,
concrete and cold and evil,
our cries went unanswered
because they had stripped us
from our people.

Wound us, you will,
but we will grow strong,
and when we remember you,
you will already be gone.


© CGT, 2018.

I Am Made Of Stone.

I am made of stone.

Cold, hidden by
black earth,
and all alone.

But, I glow.

I glow with the
radiance of
stars unknown,
buried somewhere
in their cosmic homes.

In my veins flows
gold, molten,
glowing like
the flushed faces
of drunken Gods on their
mountain thrones.

Yet, I am still cold.

When the burning flow
rises from the core,
it will cradle me.

“Fire the forge and bellow free!”

I will scream as She,
the newly-hatched Phoenix being,
melts my stone,
cinders from bones.

As the gold drips and flows,
She and I, Phoenix and Stone,

will no longer be alone.


© CGT, 2018.

Pareidolia Unfolding

Ink blots, spots,
Rorschach’s
thoughts,
on what is seen
when we pause
to consider
what might have been.

Or is.

Or will be.

Pareidolia unfolding,
in the shapes of clouds,
or a knot of dogwood,
or magnolia,
or the Jesus-toast…

(The broken bread? A chalice held high overhead?)

…can tell you
anything you want
and ignore the truth instead.

“It’s a moth!”
“It’s the face of God.”
“It’s Jesus’ face on the cloth!”

The Great Mystery is already
all-consuming enough,
so don’t complicate it
with dried ink
and Hermann’s deep-dive
into the psychological
gulf.


© CGT, 2018.

Hopelessly Caged

Where are the wild things?

I know of one…

He is the Lord of Beasts
and I can speak
to the vile creatures
that haunt my dreams,
because of he.

am a wild thing.

Hopelessly caged,
bewitched, entrapped
in a world that is not
of my making.

He is not misunderstood!

In his anger,
my crops are burning,
my village is razed,
all because of his
ill-kept rage.

I ask again,

Where can I find these wild things?

Show me a map
to their home,
whether it be
on a mountaintop,
in a fetid swamp,
or in a crystal cave.

Forget the ancient lore
and the curses of old,

I beg of you,

show me the way
to tell the Lord of Beasts
to leave me alone.

Leave me alone!


© CGT, 2018.

Labyrinthine Mazes

Crash, these waves,
their frothing rage,
through labyrinthine
coral mazes.

A haze

blinding…
salted, my eyes,
halting me…

I am denied

the air, the breeze.

The coral rakes me.

I bleed into the froth,
the foam, red,
splinters of bones,
herald my groan
as I am crashed against

the rocks.

Am I flotsam?
Jetsam?
A vile detritus,
coating the glory of life
in its fleshy dregs?

I am.

The sun rises,
horizon flying
higher
than the edge
of my waves’ pitiful
sighs.

“I will sink,”

I pledged,
drowning.

I died, only to become
one with the coral in time.


©️CGT, 2018.

Audio Remix!

Maps of Scars

The perfect brush stroke
is not needed,
nor does the clay require
the perfect kneading.

I don’t need reality
presented to me
in its vivid, unfiltered
detail, to see
how beautiful you are,
shattered glass and maps
of scars.

Even explosions have beauty…

I learned that the hard way
and I’m still digging out
the shrapnel
to this day.

So, my beloved,
your paint is running,
imperfect…

yet stunning.


©️CGT, 2018.

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