A soul is a nebulous thing,
immeasurable,
almost immaterial in today’s world.
The preacher man tries to scare you with it,
tells you it’ll be damned by your sins.
Maybe he’s right.
Or maybe he just wants to ruin all your fun.
I’ll tell you what,
why don’t you let me take that weight off your hands?
You want to have a good time,
I want numbers to take to the boss.
Win-win if you ask me.
It’s not like you have any use for a soul, anyway.
You’ve been hellbound since birth.
Sins of the father,
I’m sure you understand.
Might as well embrace your fate and run with it.
Sell me your soul,
and I’ll make it worth your while.
Tag: Published
currently published and available in a book for purchase
tonight I am [poem]
Tonight I am empty like
a clean cup open and unfilled on purpose
paused and waiting for something
I am still like
a seed that slumbers in the soil
awaiting spring and the chance to grow
I am quiet like
an unstrung guitar
full of potential sound and
the echoes of past vibrations
I am guarded like
a newborn child, precious and
so very in need of nurturing
while existing in such a helpless state
I am new like
the first line of your favorite children’s book
ten years after the last time
you bothered to crack the spine and
allowed that sense of wonder flow over you
I am strong like
a spider’s silk where
technicalities and reality disagree
in their measure of what it takes to
break the thread holding my web together
the Black Dream, melas oneiros [poem]
I can smell you
your scent tantalizingly sweet with fear
as if maybe you know or
at least think you know
what I am and
what I’ve done and
I imagine it’s hard for you
to close your eyes at night and sleep
knowing I’ll be there in the darkness
watching
waiting
hungry
and you know it’s too late
your dreams
my hunting grounds
your nightmares
my delicious delicacy
so give in
and close your eyes
and go to sleep
I’ll meet you there
Persephone [poem]
I walk in the crisp, cool air of spring
and everything is budding green. It’s beautiful
and bittersweet. Love is
buried under the thawing earth and
fresh-grown grass, just barely
out of reach.
Mother doesn’t understand. She never has,
really. I’ve always been an odd child,
an unexpected hybrid of dandelion fluff and
pomegranate seed. I know she looks at me and
sees a stranger in place of her own blood.
What did she expect? I danced over Death
as the harvest remains rotted in their fields
every autumn. I reveled in the end of the cycle
as well as Life’s beginning. I touched the dryads and
ignored their cries, watched as their leaves
turned color, wilting and falling
to the ground,
a gorgeous ending.
He was everything I ached for. His hands
rough and heavy with the weight of
bringing souls to harvest. Death
never tasted so sweet as his kiss, and I
was gladly lost to his touch.
He knew the ripeness of my
womanhood and
ate it whole.
He made me a queen. Do you know
how intoxicating it is to
hold a soul in your palm, to
weigh its worth? A man’s life is
infinitesimal against the measure of
the entire cosmos. And yet
the soul’s my king has in his keeping
are rubies and emeralds and diamonds and gold
and all of the precious things mankind
tries to collect in vain. He holds the power of
Death
in his hands. No one is immune,
not even Mother. Let her try to keep me here
among the mindless nymphs and
their dancing forms. Let her try to make me drink
of Lethe, to forget his teeth
on my neck.
We are the embodiment of Life and
Death, the divine cycle. We are a forever thing
that even the gods must bow before
and nothing,
nothing
will keep me from my love.
To the Muses [poem]
The ancient scribes before me wrote first of you,
of those who guide the pen to paper
and voice to song.
They wrote of your names and deeds,
extolling the virtues of your creative grace.
I am nothing like them.
I am a digital scribe, a lost child
in a world overfilled with meaningless words
and forgotten stories.
My tongue won’t wrap around your stories
like vines around a tree,
because my spirit hasn’t walked with yours
and embraced the beauty of your inspiration.
I am limited, but I am open.
Hear me.
Listen to the words of my spirit
as I attempt to reach across the ages
and find divinity.
I may not know your names,
your powers or your praises,
but I know the way it feels when the creative juices flow
and fingers dance across keys
and everything distills down to me
and the story
and the words
as they burst into being.
Writing is the magic of the gods,
given to humankind like a torch in the night.
For that light,
I am grateful.
You? [poem]
you?
you are…
you are magic
you are everything
the power of a prayer and
the light of a brand new day and
the incense smoke in my offering and
the constellation guiding me back home and
the one more breath when I want to stop breathing
and you are the proof of divinity in this world
and the life pulsing in each heartbeat
and the circle connecting us
and the winds blowing
and the chanting
and the love
all love
is you
selkie [poem]
You always said we could clean out the attic later,
only later never came. I thought I’d surprise you,
clean out the bits and bobs and old junk and
get the job done.
You always said I hated the sea, that the ocean terrified me.
It wasn’t until my fingers slid across the silky pelt
that I remembered. I loved the smell of the briny waters,
more than almost anything.
You always said I was yours, and I guess that was true
in the way you can own a fish kept in a bowl or
a bird with clipped wings and a gilded cage. A pet
is kept when it is tamed. Safe.
You always said you loved me, that you couldn’t imagine
a life without me. You must’ve, though, to do this.
To take my pelt and hide it in the old curtains meant
to know what would happen if it were found.
You always said you’d do anything for me.
I took you at your word when I led you out into the waves,
your voice calling me back, your hands gripping to
hold me, catch me, keep me.
You always said you’d die for me. And so
I held your arms tight as we sunk, ignoring the way
you thrashed for one last breath you didn’t really need
if you wanted to stay with me.
Your body floated like a newborn pup, tangled in the seaweed.
I kissed your pale eyelids shut one last time before
turning to swim out to sea on the next wave.
I always said I loved watching you sleep.
my gods [poem]
my gods are not kind and
they don’t care about you or
me. they want entertainment and
sometimes pleasure and
maybe helping us can bring them that but
most times watching is better. and
they watch your life crumble when you pray and
your desperate calls mean nothing, because
they know you will survive and
recover without their intervention and
that’s easier. always easier. and
sometimes they are terrifying and
harsh in their disinterest, but
invoking their involvement can be worse and
a bored god can be malicious and
you remember why we stopped the sacrifices and
closed the temples. the belief didn’t leave but
instead was replaced by reality. and
we figured out that the gods don’t care, because
the gods are not kind, not really.
on balance and opposites [poem]
power can be found in the strangest places
like in the broken body of infertility
or in the aching heart of the betrayed
but it’s found in the simplest places too
like in the inhale and exhale of each breath
and in the decision to climb out of bed each day
beauty is like power in the way it exists
in the obvious places we’re taught to look
but also at the clenched jaw of anger in check
and in the white knuckles from holding back
or around the dark circles from sleepless nights
and between the teardrops rolling down cheeks
life needs a bit of everything good and bad
from the bullshit in a liar’s words
to the moans from a lover’s touch
because the darkness can be terrifying
and the brightness can burn your eyes
but we need both light and shadows to thrive
the Moon [poem]
the Moon comes and goes and
I ignore Her because I can’t handle it
when She tells me to smile and
Her brilliant beauty in the face
of my aching patchwork heart hurts and
I hold myself apart from others
hoping to cut the ties now and
free myself from a world too painful
full of colors far too vibrant and
eyes too sharp when they see me
they see every broken piece of me and
I can’t sit here exposed like that
with every scar uncovered and
not hate it or them or myself
for letting it get this bad and
not having the power to save me
brave [poem]
You are brave
in the way you climb out of that bed
each morning and dare to face each new day
breathing. Inhale, exhale, repeat. Brave
in the way your dented tin heart keeps
beating in your chest, ignoring the rust and
refusing to stop pumping life through
your unwilling veins. Brave
in the way you insist on taking up space
when the urge to curl up into a knotted ball
of useless paper hits you, hard. You spread out
to make others feel your presence, saying
I’m here. I’m still here. Brave
in the way you don’t hide your scars and
your voice can be heard even when broken and
the wounds aren’t shameful secrets. Instead
you honor your survival with the admittance of
your weaknesses and their brutal beauty. Brave
in the way your soul fears the light and
the dark in equal measure. The light, a bright
unknown happiness. The dark, a seductive
and familiar pain. The fear, a sign you know
what’s necessary versus what’s easy. Brave
in every way. Brave.
something from last time [poem]
this body is temporary
it’s my home this go around, but
it could’ve been a cat again,
a falcon flying high,
a starfish in the deep blue sea,
or even a dragon!
okay, maybe not a dragon
but this spirit is formless until
it settles into a body again and again
and maybe sometimes it remembers
being a wolf pup once,
or being a minnow in a creek,
or maybe a unicorn?!
okay, so probably not a unicorn
but still, I think
it remembers something else
something from last time
on being pagan [poem]
I feel spiritual when
I step outside on an autumn evening,
just after work, and
I take in that first breath of
cold air that stings my lungs.
I look up and
see the purpled clouds and
reddened skies, and
I feel the beautiful cycle of
day to night to day
all at once. And then
I walk down the steps to the parking lot,
jumping in the car to
beat campus traffic on the way home.
Because life is spiritual,
always.
Larissa Lee 