Poetry through the Seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer
It’s too quiet.
Hooded men chase me
through graveyards.
I fall into an open grave,
feel lonely when I think of kissing you.
Broken glass, flying horses,
think I’ve had too much to drink.
I see shadows on the stairwell,
boys in lipstick, girls in chains.
Long legs, black dress,
think I’ve had too much to drink.
Little girls, all in a row,
sweet offerings.
Boys can be such snakes.
The wizard
would be cool
with a pocket protector.
No status required.
He’s striped van,
lead guitar,
sweet harmony.
He doesn’t need to sing.
Maybe a girl
in an eskimo suit
could turn him on.
She looks snug
*sigh*
standing in furs,
spear in hand.
The wizard spots
her through the crowd,
can’t look away.
(Nothing distracts
the great Oz.)
Eskimo girl flees
as her dreams
are inhaled
by a princess.
She doesn’t
see the wizard
come to ask
for her hand.
But he,
as patient as he is cool,
is more than
willing to wait.
There’s plenty of time
to find love
among the fishes.
He rolls up,
heavy metal boots,
cigarettes,
flowing coat.
Nice smile, but
don’t believe it.
Darkness softens
as he looks upon
his icy princess.
Long and white
she wilts,
a daisy
without sun.
She’s roses
and thorns,
always thorns.
Lay your head
for a comfort.
Lay your head
for a song.
Toss the birdy
in a cage,
twirl me ’round,
twirl me ’round.
Music box,
she must play.
Fires burns,
we can’t stay.
I’m bored
waiting for you
to wake up.
Jealousy flutters
the air.
We fight.
Sometimes
it’s the only
interesting part.
Girls come in pieces
blonde
and there are parts
brunette
I like best.
The red head is dead,
he said
with a smile.
She screamed.
I feel dirty all over.
And the fire
burned as hot
as the sun
on that day
we walked home
together.
tender moments
are broken by fear
fear led by
tender moments
* * *
It hasn’t been the same since I died.
I feel distracted.
Disconnected.
I never want to open myself up to hurt again.
You’re on the hook for my pain.
If we hadn’t been close, I might have stayed safe.
I’m building up walls.
No windows.
Only doors that open outward.
I can take care of myself.
I can.
Who needs you anyway.
If I’m in control, I’ll be protected.
No one can touch me again.
Had I known
love would turn ugly,
I nevertheless
would
have eaten you
whole
and enjoyed every
bite.
The final days.
1.
Skylights above
the end of the world
shine light on the words
of the prophecy.
I can’t tell you how much I care
or I may die.
You may die.
And I care so much
it hurts.
2.
Shadows haunt me.
Nothing to protect me.
No one understands.
Death touches me
in my living room.
I still don’t want to die,
but seeing you cry
makes me know
I can
if that’s what it takes.
3.
I am the lamb.
A little child
leads me
through the shadows.
No arrows
can pierce me.
My sacrifice was made
long ago.
4.
Arrows above
the flow
of my dress
guide me to you.
I follow because I know
who you are.
You are the boy
who thinks he loves me.
The man who loves me
sees it
in your eyes.
5.
I can’t stand to see
you there,
drowned in the pool
of our pities,
for even if I love you,
I can’t put breath
back into
your beautiful
face.
6.
The dress encircles you like my heart
and I am risen,
revived by your veneration.
As the music swells
I reach for you,
soon to die,
to fly away
and send them all back
where
they came from.
7.
Dying
only made me more
secure
in my beauty,
in my strength,
and you can’t take
that
from me.
cut off my face
serve it up for dinner
for beauty exists
only
if you can taste it
* * *
A flute trills the night air,
sorrowful notes
of my existence.
I blend into the wallpaper,
no flowers
or stripes to stand out
against the background.
You see through me,
my despair stuffed
like laundry into
a canvas bag,
dirty and wrinkled,
smelling of sweat.
Rag dolls and
stuffed animals,
past lives comfort me
as I melt into thin air,
the notes of my flute
seeking audience
so I won’t be so alone.
She stands frozen,
pigtails in the master’s lair.
He hisses.
For a moment she believes
it’s just a bad dream . . .
The sad faced boy
brings tarantulas to class.
Someone breaks in
to kill us while we sleep.
Lost in the forest
we stand naked, vulnerable.
It’s dark and I’ve misplaced you.
I did so many things wrong.
He’s there,
over and over again,
letting me believe he might still love me,
then fades away,
laughing at my silliness
for believing he loved me
in the first place.
I find myself in despair and he comes back,
over and over again,
to tell me he doesn’t want me.
I used to be afraid of snakes,
but their soft hiss no longer frightens me.
Over and over again,
they come to me
speaking serpentine soliloquies,
then slide away.
Lost in the forest,
I stand naked and vulnerable,
but awake.
In blood or in lipstick
(I can never tell them apart),
I awaken to see
shining upon my mirror:
STEPPUP
What can it mean?
Step up to the plate?
Take responsibility?
Some comment on how
I lost the dog in the divorce,
the new wife now sporting
a step pup?
But I digress.
What am I scared of?
The dark?
The madness of drunken fathers?
Not really.
PUPPETS!
Yes.
What could be more frightening?
Whitney Houston songs?
Maybe.