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*Posts from Before the Dawn to Cynicism and a Glass of Wine were written before the blog was created-(July 2008, November 2009- January 2010)

Sunday, February 28, 2010

The Lighthouse

The Lighthouse
By: Katie M. Moss

When I was young, I loved a boy.
His black tresses swirled in the wind of our restless nights,
His smooth lips touched mine more times than there are grains of sand on the shore.
Our nights were filled with passion-- eternal, slow-touch  rhyme.
I knew him that was certain.  I knew him for a time.

He left on a vessel bound for the waters, as I skipped rocks on the harbor--
--rubbing my hands to feel the friction, rubbing my hands on salty brine.
In his letters, he called me his lighthouse. His lone jewel on the glistening sea.
I tied my letters up in twine. I sent letters time- to- time.

He weathered the storms, he explained, because I was shining.
His skin smelled of salt, passion, and sweetened gin.--- Mine of the wind.
We slept under the same stars- a blanket of earth, and pine-leaf scatterings nestled our dreams.

--I heard no more of him, I believed him dead.

I woke up most nights sweating and reaching out--
My toes all jumbled up in the cotton-thread sheets, nestled by another.
I’d reach out and find him, unfamiliar, sleeping peacefully because of my presence--
I unmercifully because of his.

A ship sailed back into the harbor. Without a lighthouse, he said, they were lost in a storm.
He pulled my body close to his,
He placed his hand on my chest,
-and I knew--though waves were crashing all around us, he had been there all along.

He started skipping rocks on the shore, fumbling feet in the sand, only in daylight.
I watched out of my window, tasting the sea.
I dreamed I was a boat, tossed about in a storm that had no end.
He tasted gin and barley, he dreamt of the night.

He whispered, words uncertain-- As he clasped the rushing sand between his fingertips.
He meandered in the water, and then he closed his eyes.
He opened his mouth, inaudible words escaping his lips.
Only I could hear them, as I waded in behind him.
He said, the sea is endless- as is your love and mine.

I walk out to the harbor, past summers and slow time.
Dressed in white and dizzy--
Drop in a bottle, wrapped with  twine.
For you, it says, I am so grateful.
As I toast his soul and mine. 

Before the Dawn

Before the Dawn
By: Katie M. Moss

Red lips.
Hot Kiss.
Vodka tonic.
All-night frolic.

Freelance love.
Your mama’s glove.
Dizzy smile.
Please stay awhile.

Midnight flesh.
With no regrets.
You’ll never miss me.
So, baby, kiss me.

Mr. Prynn

Mr. Prynn
By: Katie M. Moss
(Summer 2008--British Studies--Children’s Lit)

Among the vines of Mrs. Prynn’s castle, there is a dog who’s become quite a hassle.
Every day he sits and stares--takes notice of all the Mrs.’ cares.
His droopy eyes, his dripping mouth--his stomach begins to wander south.
His canine teeth are brown and gruff-- his countenance says more than enough.
His doggy ears, his canine tears-- they all are more than they appear.

The widow weeps, the tears run down.
She thinks someday that she might drown.
Days go by--long and drawn out--
Her feeble heart finally gives out.
A coffin is laid about.
Her children all are dressed in black--
Heirlooms all are wrapped and packed.
The children shall see their mother no more--
They wave goodbye trifled and sore.
Two doggies meet them at the door.
Their bushy tails wag to and fro---
The puzzled children onward go.

Sweat on the Line

Sweat on the Line
By: Katie M. Moss

Sensory touch.
My fingers slide across the glass of the phone booth panel.
Flesh on glass.
Breath, foggy.
Heating up the night.

Insider’s touch.
Fingernails brush hips as they sway with the sound.
Tongue on teeth.
Teeth on the receiver.
Body pulsing.
Heating up the night.

Tangible touch.
Fingertips dial the numbers his frame knows so well.
Sweat on the line.
Aching, pleading.
Dial the right number.
Heat up my night.

Ambiguous Bodies

Ambiguous Bodies
By: Katie M. Moss

Mania drifts in through my dreams.
Awake, asleep--it’s all the same.
Manic-- Mania-- shifting brain.
Are dreams our life, or just pretend?
As cloudy bits we shape and shift,
The gods, our neighbors--molding rifts.

Our souls entwined with rubber bands,
The product of our one night stands.
A farce, a play, a slight refrain--
We’re all just waiting for the rain.


By Katie M. Moss

Brown leaves.
Yellow leaves.
Pink leaves-- brown.
You and I--my whole world-- spinning round and round.
The grass is dying, murky brown.
Summer’s ending, fall is too-- I lose hope and I lose you.
Coming home’s just not the same.
Facing what I used to be.
Learning what I still am not.
My heart more callous, over years.
My mind forgets --myself I fear.
Living day by day, new is old.
Old is never--story untold.

Your Move

Your move.
By: Katie M. Moss

Mysteries unraveling
Point us to the cloudy shapes
Point us to whatever takes- us in.
Solemn midnight goodbyes
Hang on while we watch and die.
Hang on while we sit and wait--wondering.

Tiny voices, tiny songs
Whisper to us all day long
Whisper to us till we’re grown-silently.
On a new embark we go
Onward through the wind and snow
Onward through, we laughing go-casually.

Are we wake or are we dreaming?
Desperately, we are screaming
Desperately, we are clinging- hopefully.
Never knowing always doting
Always painful, always moping
Always empty, always marred- carefully.

What we don’t we’ll never know
Never shapes us while we grow
Never tells us what is so-dutifully.

Apple Trees

Apple Trees.
By: Katie M. Moss

What’s this feeling I can’t control?
It creeps and crawls-- it’s midnight’s way.
My life, my loves, my silly heart.
My eyes don’t cry-- you’d never know.
This awful weight you left behind.
This feeling‘s cold-- I left my scarf.

You’d think I’d know a bit by now.
Like how to lose a deep affection.
Like how to tell my heart I’m no longer interested.
But, I’m just left here with an empty, black hole.
You left your shovel-- in my hands.
I can’t help but use it.
You forgot it on purpose, I think.

Cynicism and a Glass of Wine

Cynicism and a Glass of Wine
By: Katie M. Moss

Love is always, always fleeting
Never felt and void of meaning
Fingers slipping from the feeling
Fingers slipping, grasping, reeling
It escapes us turn by turn--
One more loss is one more earn.

Shadowy cane drags you away
It’s not your turn; it’s not my play.
My face is masked.
Every day.
Every day.

Fingers fold the cobwebs of dreams away.
I hope they’ll go-- I pray they’ll stay.
Cups of coffee, pints of beer
Sultry lips and hips so near.
Violent, violent aches my heart.
Dreadful, aching, tears will start.
Kiss me darling, till you’re dead.
Kiss me through my foggy head.
Dreams are made--- to forget.
Love is made, but never spent.