Monthly Archives: January 2014

Love Is A Lexicon

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There are only 26 letters in the alphabet
I would need so many more characters to create an infinite possibility of words
That could be skillfully crafted into sentences
To form a language that would adequately express
How much I miss you

“Gone”
Is not a long enough word
To describe the emptiness in my heart or the aching in my bones
That comes when the echo of your name being spoken
Reverberates back to me, unanswered

alphabet jumble

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This work, “Love Is A Lexicon” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

In Poetry No One Can Hear You Scream…

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spirit photograph

This poem is haunted.
This poem is haunted by a ghost who is willing to commit itself to an eternity of torment.
This poem is haunted by a ghost who is willing to commit itself to an eternity of torment where you failed to stay committed to me for even a year.
Yes, this poem rattles like Jacob Marley’s chains and staggers like a George A. Romero zombie.
It will not ever rest peacefully.
It will not ever slumber sweetly beneath soil or in lily-scented mausoleums.
Instead, it scrapes its claws against the satin lining of caskets.
It tears holes in shrouds with its teeth.
For every time you swallowed whiskey instead of telling me the truth,
This poem stretches skeletal fingers through the crack beneath your bedroom door.
For every time you chose to press a joint to your lips instead of kissing me,
This poem sends armies of spiders to scramble across your pillows.
For every time you held me in your arms and contemplated what else you could get from me,
This poem makes the walls of your house bleed.
No amount of sage or sweetgrass can chase the ghost from this poem.
No holy water or sea salt can re-consecrate this poem.
No amount of prayer or chanting can take the evil from this poem.
It screams like a lost soul burning in torment.
It smells like sulfur and decay.
It tastes like rotting meat and mould spores.

This poem is angry.
This poem is angry because you couldn’t be bothered.
This poem is angry because you couldn’t be bothered to say goodbye.
Yes, this poem bubbles up poison like a swamp polluted with bitumen.
It will not be soothed with tender embraces.
It will not forgive, forget, feign formality, or friendship.
Instead, it stabs sewing needles into poppets.
It stuffs your chimney with scarred effigies hoping for sympathetic magic.
For every time you made a promise you had no intention of ever keeping,
This poem leaps from your bathroom mirror to attack you.
For every time you couldn’t make room for me when I did nothing but open up for you,
This poem causes your childhood teddy bear to shift one inch forward.
For every time you used my rarely-given trust against me,
This poem knocks inside your closet.
No amount of patronizing apologies can scrub the curse from this poem.
No greeting card or bouquet of roses can heal the disease found in this poem.
No amount of token public gestures or even radio silence can satiate the demons in this poem.
It is coming for you.
It knows that you are afraid.
It will not show you mercy.

This poem is unfinished.
This poem is unfinished because it is scarier.
This poem is unfinished because it is scarier to not know what will happen next…

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This work, “In Poetry No One Can Hear You Scream” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Necromancer

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Call me “necromancer”
Because I am here to prophesize to your dry bones
And conjure the ghost of love in your chest, languishing in the chasms of Hades
I will use all my magick to crack open the hard shell of your heart
So that I may hear the whispers coming from within
And then call back to those yearnings deep inside you
The ones that you are so afraid to let fall from your lips

I am the force that you didn’t reckon on
My soul is thirty feet tall
And I am stronger than all of Hell itself
I have looked into the face of Death and laughed while undoing his work with a flick of my wrist
What makes you think that I cannot resurrect what lies sleeping within you?
What makes you think that I cannot change fossils into feelings and boulders into blood?
And, if I have the power to reduce palaces to pebbles, and skyscrapers to stones
What makes you think that I cannot also hold the weight of your heart in my palm as if it were a feather?

Yes, there are fingerprints that someone less skilled has left on your ribcage
There are cracks where amateurs have fumbled and dropped the vulnerable parts of you
But I can smooth away damage with the caress of an eyelash
I can spread mortar over splits with a brush of my lips
I am no ordinary womyn
I am a professional prophetess
I possess a cunning wisdom that was handed down from burning pyres
To pass under church pews, pressed between the pages of hymnals
To be planted by creek beds and harvested at summer’s end

Trust me
The only shadow to fear is the one cast by opportunity passing by
The only phantom to fear is Loneliness
And he hides under a sheet that we can use to drape over our bed
Let’s charm the freshness of spring from the decay of winter
And open up a window to air out the mustiness of pain and self-doubt
I am here to raise the dead
And I’m not above coaxing your skeleton with a swing of my hips
Or inflating your lungs with my own hot breath

Rise

 Necromancy
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This work, “Necromancer” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Conflagration

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firestorm

“Sometimes I’m terrified of my heart; of its constant hunger for whatever it is it wants. The way it stops and starts.”
~ Edgar Allen Poe

A phoenix obtains new life by rising from the ashes of its predecessor
I wonder if the fire is a long, slow burn
Gently flickering like candles at a dinner party
Or if a column of flame shoots down from heaven
With G-d Himself claiming purple poultry like an over-enthused picnicker

My heart is not a subtle ember
It has never needed coaxing
My love’s combustion does not occur on a minute level
Once a spark meets my heart’s tinder
It burns like an open fire
With changing temperatures and evolving dimensions
Creating its own wind systems
Racing through forests and across prairies
Constantly hungry despite all it consumes

It scares me

I’ve tried to douse my heart with lake water
To smother it with the wet dirt kicked up by careless boots
I’ve made circles around myself with smooth stones
But my heart is no respecter of boundaries
My love will torch your house
My love will leave the corners of your mouth singed
Because each of my kisses are fire storms

I’ve performed enough forensic analysis of my fires
I’ve spent too long sifting through bits of melted plastic and chipped bone
To know that no magenta bird is hiding deep inside of me
Readying itself to burst forth from the scorched earth womb of my body
I don’t know if it ever existed
But if it did
Those feathers have long since been reduced to oxidized minerals
Calcium and phosphorous traces cannot take flight
There is no nimbus to be seen in this collapsed ruin
There is no sunlight to be refracted and reflected in this tomb

Swailing can inspire dispersion of seeds and the germination of new trees
There are those whose hearts offer a controlled burn
Respectful blazes that confine to perimeters
Perhaps those are people who harbour phoenixes
Feeling the beating of wings against their ribcages with potential miracles
I cannot offer what I do not possess
My brain is a matchbox
My belly is a volcano
My mouth is a sudden burst of hot gas
My eyes weep tears of tephra
A pyroclastic surging love is inevitable

It scares me

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This work, “Conflagration” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

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