Poetry - Arbor Apollonis


Fool's Light

A breeze quietly slips by, hushed and soft,
a rustling leaf announces its sure path,
a whisper turning heads, sweet words aloft,
inspiring more in its still aftermath.

Surrounding haggard strangers, soothing worn
and tired minds, the quiet hum drifts past,
as eyes like sun peer through branches adorned
with vivid blooms in forests rich and vast

Light laughter lilts behind the lonely souls,
a frail and distant light, unhurried, curls
along the wind, delicate sigh console
wild, shaky breaths, a feather-light chill swirls.

The trees call out, luring blinded hearts to
deeper parts of endless woodland, further,
till Direction lost its compass, into
a starlit marsh the scene turns, the creature

dances ahead, joyous and lively twists,
enchanted eyes trail behind its spirals,
silver threads trickle down from the sky, mists
igniting into a pale haze, tendrils

wrap around clammy wrists when the faint flare
abruptly stops, extinguished by night, gloom
engulfs unseeing eyes, the hollow stares
in awe at fairy lights sealing their tomb

Did you know? Reprise

My messages are for you.

Here, a fact I've learned
that you might appreciate.
Take this picture of
a pretty sky, gold and pink
and purple-blue-grey.

A slice of the life I experience
without you, given in an attempt
to live it with you,
like an orange part, or an apple
sliced like a bunny.

And you hold out your hands,
smiling and soft and sweet,
and say thank you in a million ways.

The unsaid words dont need to be said.
They are laced into our fingertips.

In the lap of the universe

At times, I long for the dark embrace of night.
I wish I could lay in a meadow
and see a sea of stars reach into infinity.
To sit in the lap of the universe,
gazing into the millions of dizzyingly bright blinking eyes,
cradled in the warm hands of wonder.
Instead, I open my window
to let the sounds of the city spill in
and count the stars on one hand.


Isn't the question
"have you ever visited a haunted building?"
kind of redundant?

Isn't everything haunted by the ghosts of the past,
whether their former tenants be laid to earth
or to bed?

I would hope a part of me stays in this room,
because it proves my presence in this world,
even at a time long forgotten.

I would hope the next inhabitant feels at home
with this knowledge, reassurance.
Whispers hidden in the creaking of floorboards.
"My time was good, is yours?"

Nights frigid and days sweltering I have lived here,
and I've laughed and cried and made and loved
and I've felt.
And all I can do is hope the next person feels as well.

Alone, praying

The rain plays the windows like drums.

Alone, in a stiflingly dark room,
surrounded by dust and age, he listens.
Monstrous figures stretch out on the walls.
The stars shine above the clouds.

The fire is kindled.
Smoke surrounds him like a dress,
accesorized with cuts and blood.
The same dark clouds gather above,
scrunching up their faces with emotion.
Looking up, he can but think one thing,
"I hope it doesn't rain."


The smell of suffering glides
through the air, as eerily silent as
an owl (or maybe a ghost.
Inescapably present.)
It's sharp, pungent, violent
and I have to
take a few deep breaths
and blink away something
clawing its way up my throat.
Bile rises as easily as tears.

This poem was written for and about my grandfather, who was dying of cancer. He passed away three days later.