Between

I know space can be cold and dark
a vacuum scarce on particles
and when you’re in the black
it might feel like death
the misery expands from you
with nothing to hold it back
and at the same time you can’t breathe
trying to gasp but there’s nothing
only your rising, then fading, heartbeat
to make the slightest semblance of noise
in your ringing ears
that burst from the pressure changes.
But before you give in,
let me offer you this lunar landing module:
if you must die,
wouldn’t you like to walk on the Moon first?

If You Could See the Stars

Like a nebula you surround me
in a cloak of forming stars,
setting sail on astral vapors
across the heavenscape;
you softly light
in clouds’ delight
a cosmologic scene:
a cerulean sphinx, a verdant cove,
or eyes aquamarine,
a crimson girl with umbrous curls who delves the velvet deeps;
if this be dream,
then may I never waken from this sleep.

Within the deeping pockets,
I can spy chaotic scenes:
as the forming stars are burning,
as the gases storm and keen,
colossal
elemental forces are at work within,
sublime;
and I love you,
every particle:
we are fleeting, and we
did/do/will exist
at every point,
and past
the ends
of time;
my nebula,
my starscape,
my sea of astral rhyme.

In Case You Were Wondering

What essences I have dreamed,
what hearts and souls I have schemed,
What darknesses I have screamed,
I do not know;
what beauty I have made,
what shimmerings in the shade,
what wistfulness I have bade,
oh my soul;
what Whitmans I have been,
Dickinson again and again,
I’ve been wallflower, I’ve been spin,
and this grows;
you don’t drain the Poe out of me,
you give it heart and you set it free,
can I say, “What will be, will be?”
I do not know;
what dreams had I given up on,
how many times cursed the dawn,
now it’s here, and it’s simply wrong,
oh, our souls;
prisms dancing in rainbow hues,
music instead of morning news,
castles crumble for love of you,
this I know;
this is more than exotic love,
or melancholy erotica,
intoxicate me and take my blood,
and this grows;
neon skirt and transparent blouse,
among the stars living hand to mouth,
when we’re together it outweighs doubt,
this I know;
I can touch you without my hand,
I can clothe you in astrakhan,
I can love you without a plan,
oh our souls.

Cosmic Love

Sunshine and stars shine,
and it makes me wonder
if the only thing within the sky
or under…
if the only thing out of step
with its harmony
is the human race,
and the love of we;
but aesthetic perfection is not the same
as being truly perfect in the cosmic game:
the sun burns chaotic, the stars drift agley,
and the universe
unravels
infinitely.
If there is a grand design,
it must look like my room:
too far gone now to be helped by a broom,
and when Order itself stands against God’s intent,
is it really so strange Love has our consent?

50 Years Late and $7.37 Short, Adjusted for Inflation

Daydream darling,
I decorate a psychic space for you:
this space is filled with colors,
filled with textures
and tastes;
dark chocolate M&M’s
silken paisley, astrakhan
green and blue and purple and black
and every other shade has a turn
on its back.
Rainbows in bottles,
artistic banal
it might be mundane
but I’ll color it all,
I’ll color your world,
I’ll color it all.
Floral prints and gothic refrains
the goal is not to mask the pain
but make it palatable,
a bit more sane
in the madness of our love,
in antique daisy chains;
daydream darling,
awaken me
awaken all
that we could be,
as we defy
normality,
every law
including gravity,
connect and drift
on astral tides,
heal me and
consume my love,
my life.

One Hundred and Counting

I suppose I owe you all (or just owe myself?) a journal entry, if for no other reason than to commemorate this grand occasion: reaching 100 followers for my journal/poetry blog! I know it’s just a number, and I definitely shouldn’t start trying to measure some rating of “success,” but it feels like a little milestone despite all of that. Thanks to those of you who have put up with me since 2013, and to those who are just climbing on board: these are interesting times we live in.

I feel like maybe a recap is in order, a little summary to help guide you through the tangles and knots in this thread. It might give you some idea of who this Lord Rumfish person is, and with a little luck I might even drop back below 100 followers (I never said it would be good luck).

NOTEWORTHY TRAITS

1. Creative. Whether for good or ill, whether talented or lackluster, I just can’t stop creating things. This tends towards writing and gaming (many various forms of both), although recently I have been dipping into fashion, and even thinking about interior decorating/design and how the mundane spaces around the house could be given an artsy facelift.

2. Quixotic. I am a hopeless romantic, a defender of lost causes, and in many ways a somewhat ridiculous human being. Somehow I manage to balance this with other traits, including logical analysis. Humans are so conflicted and nonsensical.

3. Open-Minded. This stands in for a lot of other labels, things like “bisexual” or “independent voter” or “agnostic” or whatever. Part of having an open mind is challenging your comfort zone every so often; it doesn’t have to be all the time, but you’ve got to practice what you preach.

4. Depressed. Even though I try to see the world through rose-colored lenses, I have grappled with depression my entire life (I have had other diagnoses at other points in my life, such as Tourette’s Syndrome as a child, and social anxiety when I was in high school). It saps my energy, makes me sleep too much, and colors my worldview. If you are curious, I am unmedicated.

WHAT THIS IS

This is my poetry journal, my journal/poetry, my… somewhat-edited thought stream. I let my hair down here, but maybe not quite all the way. I have used this forum to discuss politics, economics, philosophy, dreams, my life (obviously), psychedelic rock, and whatever other interests motivate me such as writing, gaming, or edible wild plants. It’s a hodge-podge of stuff, not consistently one thing or another; on a good day, the “typical” entry would have a journal-y bit, and then a break for a poem that might be related to the journal writing.

WHERE I AM NOW

I am in the midst of a confusing and burgeoning romance that pretty well defies normality. All kinds of feelings are wrapped up in it, and I cannot go into prose detail; I’m likely to write a lot more poems and a lot less prose for that reason. If you like poetry about love, in particular messy forbidden love, then you’ve come to the right place. I’ve also been experimenting recently with psychedelic imagery and beat poetry. With any luck I’ll also feel inspired at some point soon to talk about my eternal disgust for Herr Trump, and the impending nuclear winter that will make everything else pointless.

For old times’ sake, here’s a poem.

Half a page, half a page,
Half a page onward,
All in the volley of Dearth
Wrote the one hundred.
“Foreword, the Lord Rumfish!
Charge for the words!” he said.
Into the volley of Dearth
Wrote the one hundred.

“Foreword, the Lord Rumfish!”
Was there a man who wished?
Not though the headline knew
Someone had blundered.
Theirs ought to make reply,
Theirs ought to reason why,
Theirs not to do and die.
Into the volley of Dearth
Wrote the one hundred.

Canon to right of them,
Canon to left of them,
Canon in front of them
Follied and sundered;
Stormed at with bot and sell,
Boldly they wrote and well,
Into the jowls of Dearth,
Into the hair from hell
Wrote the one hundred.

Flashed all their egos bare,
Flashed as they razzed an heir
Needling the gun-nuts there,
Heckling an army, while
All the world shuddered.
Plunged in the mirrors-and-smoke
Right through the lies they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the hairpiece bloke
Nattered and guttered.
Then they wrote back, but not
Not the one hundred.

Canon to right of them,
Canon to left of them,
Canon behind them
Follied and sundered;
Stormed at with bot and sell,
While Truth and hero fell.
They that had fought so well
Came through the jowls of Dearth,
Back from the hair from hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of one hundred.

When can this gory facade
Ease off from Leningrad!
All the world wondered.
Honour the razz they made!
Honour Rumfish’s page,
Noble one hundred!

Take Me With You

Silken joy descends upon me,
black lace love, diaphanous deep,
the night has not been made for sleep
and neither has this day.
Smooth and wet, you whet my stone
and sharpen our desire,
sparks fly when the whet stone meets
such soft and sharp edges
beneath.

We meet in the gap,
an opening
that creates life and love and good,
so fortunate I, tis welcoming
though I am a thief,
a corsair meandering
along this wood.

In mere moments,
unraveling
all the futures I had seen,
replacing them in shades of green
and love.

Disappear,
we are wandering,
two corsairs foreign and far away
together through the mystic days,
unseen.