Saturday, December 08, 2012

Cut the Sail

(For Andrea)

I am sick and tired of flying without my wings properly attached.
Sick and tired of the dirty looks and dirty whispering behind my back.
It’s rarely ego and when it comes to paranoia I’m quite certain many are against me, but that comes with experience and burning too many bridges with gleeful abandon.

When I suggested you write a poem as a companion piece to one of mine I thought you might find it fun and not for one second was I looking for praise or to be preened like some champion show poodle.
When I dance I look like I am having some kind of fit and when I sing it sounds more like an exorcism, but when I sit down and focus on the words anything can and will happen as the page catches fire and the screen melts before my opaque eyes.
When I try the art of small talk, language becomes my enemy and I no longer feel comfortable in my own skin, but when I get up and read my poetry I know there’s no calling it quits.
I felt really relaxed around you and I will not apologize for that.
I am quite confused how we straightened out whatever weirdness there was between us, only to now have more strangeness existing like a moat of hungry, snapping crocodiles.
I was so excited to have made, what I believed to be, a real intellectual connection and am quite disappointed that it now appears to be over.

Charles Cicirella 12/2/12

Thursday, November 29, 2012

A Place of Apprehension

(For Andrea)

She speaks of the uncertainty of her words
But when reading her writing I sense nothing but a quality of determination.
She admits that sometimes she wrestles with insecurities
But I sense nothing but a warrior princess who understands the intricacies of peace.

A place of apprehension can too easily stop you in your tracks
And a place of apprehension can leave you wide open to unnecessary attacks.
Lowering your guard is not always the smart move especially when you are not entirely sure who to trust.
I was on a rocket ship heading toward the moon before I finally came to grips with the caterpillar astronaut inside and why gazing at the stars is not always the healthiest of pastimes.

When she speaks I listen because her truth is impossible to disavow in these days of red herrings and smoking cellphones.
If she told me to go underground I would buy a shovel and start digging because that’s how much I trust her instincts and know she’d never lead me astray.
There is a higher truth that is very much feminine not masculine and don’t let anyone tell you different.
A place of apprehension can be overcome if you only muster up the courage to swim against the rising tide and always pay attention to your innermost spark.

Charles Cicirella 11/26/12

Sunday, June 24, 2012

William's Blake's image of Albion from his
A Large Book Of Designs

(For Michelle)

I am channeling her river of sadness.
I heard her voice and knew I was home.
We break the speed of sound when allowing another person inside our Fortress of Solitude.

Standing by the river’s edge; sediment creeping between my toes.
I am lost in Mother Nature’s embrace, knowing full well civilization over stepped a long time ago.
I know she is a healer and that the cakes she bakes are edible poetry.

I cannot recall the last time I went the distance.
It has been too long since I shared my innermost secrets with an intimate stranger.
Falling in love with happenstance a fool’s errand and I’m tired of running that marathon solo.

I am channeling the sweltering heat of her beloved country.
I heard her animal symphony and knew I was heading in a positive direction.
We must break on through to the other side if we ever wish to share actual love in these strange times.

Her river of sadness is not about misfortune or placing blame.
Her river of darkness has nothing to do with justifying anything or locating an escape hatch.
Her river of light shines brighter than the Sun and understands just what is meant by a Glad Day.

Charles Cicirella 6/24/12

Monday, March 26, 2012

I Was Dreaming When I Wrote This

(For Mridara)

I was dreaming when I wrote this.
When I wrote this I was under the influence of only you.
Sometimes dreams sneak up on you, other times they come at you like a cyclone.

I was believing when I wrote this.
When I wrote this I was under the influence of a goddess.
Sometimes belief falls from the sky like hard rain, other times it wakes you in the morning with breakfast in bed and a big smile on its angelic face.

I was flying when I wrote this.
When I wrote this I was under the influence of high-level clouds and heavenly bodies.
Sometimes flying takes you away from the ones you love, other times flying brings you back to those who you’ve discovered you cannot live without.

You are a dream come true.
The living embodiment of what occurs when passion and intellect collide head-on.
I’ve always believed one day my dreams would take flight and I’d finally discover another soul who gets what it feels like to have a volcano raging inside and how the only calm you ever truly experience is when you’re scaling unbelievable heights in your mind’s eye.

Charles Cicirella

Sunday, March 25, 2012

Perfect Storm

(For Mridara)

She’s a perfect storm of Spiritus Mundi and existential angst.
She’s the primal fire that burns hotter than the yellow sun.
She’s Vincent’s “The Starry Night” and Frida’s “Self-portrait with Thorn Necklace and Hummingbird”.
She’s the one you wish would call when night presses down on you like bullets from a jealous gun.

I was alone.
I was quaking in my own ill equipped self-confidence.
I was rationalizing everything by living in the moment with denial as my co-conspirator.
I wasn’t and that was not much fun.

Break open the Earth with your hands and mouth.
Break down who you are by questioning everything and allow chaos to become your North Star.
Break through constancy with the passion of an invincible Saint and refuse any and all limits especially when they have been introduced through self-doubt and self-recrimination.

Our feelings are never counterfeit when we are an honest broker with the God that lives inside us.
Our feelings are never circumspect or circumstantial as long as we forestall addictive remedies by crashing through empty promises and empty declarations of love.
Our feelings will never let us down as long as we face them head on and stare straight into the dragon’s warring eyes.

I desire her.
She’s a perfect storm of questions questioned and answers left by the church’s door.
I am inspired by the word-poems she creates and how these structures float so freely in oceans of space.
She’s a perfect storm of new dawns and ancient autumns turning around and around like a cosmic pinwheel on a perpetual quest for self-knowledge.
I desire to hold her when the April rains arrive and our blue raincoats serve as no more protection than our blue moods.

Charles Cicirella