Carl C: Three Poems
They may not claim him as their own
as the blood rivers and the black hills
still run deep. He may endure the suffering,
but he does not know what it means
through lineage, just as his ancestors
become stranger misgivings.
The burden of guilt he carries,
weighed down by ancestry,
only gets heavier throughout the years.
He promises like father not like son.
Understand there is no middle ground--
only them and the enemy.
Even time can not heal particular wounds.
Nocturne in Black and Gold
Archaic tiles of a dark mosaic
mesh and mash on the shore of stars
where the night sky embroidered
mirrored onto thin moon water,
pooling in and laying its framework.
An artist's sigil beams, divine seams laced and woven
of a gold thread, plucked and hanging from phantom vines.
The lone figure, clothed in shadows,
stands alone and braves the cold air;
the mystery of his mind as he alone bears witness
to this miracle of a night.
The stars kissing the moon water, lapping gently
like falling angels from distant heavens--
a plume of white dust and gold sparks.
Then pierce deep within the water's dark emerald surface,
sinking to some unknown abyss--
there to remain until the end of times.
On the Nature of Dreams
The shadow of the cypress
falls uneven with the hard rock.
Where the moonshine and the caked dirt
ethereally piece into one form.
It is as if you’re walking upon the craters of Mars,
walking upon the soils of your dream world,
planting the seeds of futile growth
for the long night and the others to come.
Between the seams of the memory house,
you reach behind the cabinet
unattached with strings. No placement, none of that,
only to pull out that one dream you always dream of
yet fail to remember.
The touch of it--
amorphous in your hands,
cool like a drop of water
melting into your pores and the spaces within,
flowing deep through your veins.
They say every dream is not random;
it’s something you’ve thought of before.
They say it is irrelevant; it is not reality.
Wake up son, come back to your rightful home;
yet this, this is the only place you’ve belonged.
You reach farther than the void could distance,
farther than the ship could sail,
farther than the lone swimmer’s arms could carry.
Apart from the baked clouds, hues of all colors,
draw back the curtains of the mist
and the poetic wonder is nothing more
than eternal bliss.
Carl C. is young writer living in Los Angeles, California. He has always found poetry to be therapeutic.