Sirens and the Meadow

Sirens and the Meadow

Poetry

Silence under the surface;
The din shatters
Wasted expectations

I’ll spread myself over the open meadow—but I might snap back
And want more from you always
Let me down
From what I built
You always
Amplify the din
You always
Rise to the occasion
When I want it all
Falling in cascades

The meadow burns; the sirens blare
Does it matter what we fed the fire
When ashes lay in shame

And if you had listened closely
The silence of my pulse
Never asked for you
Never asked for me

Melanie Falconer is a freelance writer and editor living in Portland, Oregon. Her writing mainly concerns philosophy, personal experiences, cultural commentary, and her love of the visual and performing arts. If you’d like to reach out to her, you can do so here.

Put it Together

Put it Together

Poetry

Shine that light on me
I didn’t know much
In a life that’s just like
Breaking right over me

Watch me run
You’ll be sorry, father
Born but it’s not enough
Maroon from
A cracked champagne glass
Laughing as I put it together

Just watch me, break me
Suck me out of venom’s cries
But there’s just sound and steam
With no exit

Heaven is on earth, father
The reasons for creation
Too gone for me to know
Shine that searchlight on me
And put it all back together

Melanie Falconer is a freelance writer and editor living in Los Angeles, California. Her writing mainly concerns philosophy, personal experiences, cultural commentary, and her love of the visual and performing arts. If you’d like to reach out to her, you can do so here.

No Transmission

No Transmission

Poetry

The mountains are calling me
But you just see crimson play
And I’m falling in electric dust
There isn’t much else, is there?

Father, lend me a hand
There’s no emergency sign
No matter what I throw over the wall
Or my tally marks in white
There’s no transmission

And no one is awake anymore
No one can mend my eyes
What happened to endless sound
cutting into the rough of our spirit?

There’s nothing to understand
It’s all over the edge
Everything is just fine; it’s OK
Only pipers pay the penance

Ropes and chains and paper planes
Cracks and faint light
And the transmission isn’t going through
Fury and meaning but I don’t know
If the mountains are calling my name
Anymore

Melanie Falconer is a freelance writer and editor living in Los Angeles, California. Her writing mainly concerns philosophy, personal experiences, cultural commentary, and her love of the visual and performing arts. If you’d like to reach out to her, you can do so here.

Hot Beams, Tear me Apart

Poetry

Can you float above me—but don’t watch me fall
I try to keep this in line, but trying is peril

Watch his finger strike lightning
Watch the pink dust kick from his feet
Watch as every word cascades around us
Like some kind of thirst I knew when I was young

The crowds a sea
Blasts, faint hearts
What will it take, father to tear me apart?

Growing shadows from fading hot beams
Please, showman, don’t go away
Oh, the crowd’s pace is heartbreak
You can’t mend it
Growing silence as your passion-cries are gone
The voices inside me are a din

And sometimes I imagine this paper is touch
And that the light of my lamp tells me your secrets
That what you started never finished
That I can float where nothing’s cast behind me
That there is a land of pink dust
Hot beams, tear me apart

Melanie Falconer is a freelance writer and editor living in Los Angeles, California. Her writing mainly concerns philosophy, personal experiences, cultural commentary, and her love of the visual and performing arts. If you’d like to reach out to her, you can do so here.

Sweep Ruptures

Sweet Ruptures

Poetry

Living in a lack of want
Every part of you is perfect —
The gods are smiling
But the electricity is gone

All around is sand —
Strangled by the hourglass
We make our way down
As time makes us

Grasping for “material”
Scraps of narrative
Buffers for normalcy
Climaxes pass
But we’re numb to edges

A stale air hovers as I wake
Every part of me so intact —
I am all too connected
Praying for my rupture

Melanie Falconer is a freelance writer and editor living in Los Angeles, California. Her writing mainly concerns philosophy, personal experiences, cultural commentary, and her love of the visual and performing arts. If you’d like to reach out to her, you can do so here.

Below in the Great Valley

Below in the Great Valley

Poetry

Where is my little life
Below in the great valley
I looked for a home
Never returning anywhere

They all went out to discover
So discover; that they did
Milky way reflected in a dust floor
Must be why its lost some luster

I watched a stranger’s eyes die
And my life with his
There are no more guns in the valley, they say
But there are dried out rivers
There is more death when there’s no killing
And so I should feel so blessed
In this slow fading
Among our stellar remains

I’m looking at my little life
A cactus flower blooming
Never to know a glimmer of dawn
Reaching in the coyote’s midst
Who knew two beauties to meet and part
In a land of no sound

Melanie Falconer is a freelance writer and editor living in Los Angeles, California. Her writing mainly concerns philosophy, personal experiences, cultural commentary, and her love of the visual and performing arts. If you’d like to reach out to her, you can do so here.

Wetland Abandon

Wetland Abandon

Poetry

The lungs of the bog
The fire in the forest
Low hanging weep-ends
Must is in the air

A life may begin in the ocean’s deep
And be swallowed beneath a confusion
Of fireflies and a night sky
In this wetland abandon

It may claw and bleed
It will praise and plead
But no wildflower will ever please
The salt and the choking air

Heaven or Hades it’s yet to be seen
A life wants to run, but fears
What it will be
A life wants to move, no traction
Will give leave
And it may pray, but the mind conceives
A certain death
The quiet release

Marsh, mud, locked vines
Comforts, sweat, and ache
And is it so much better
In the sunlit awning steps away?

Melanie Falconer is a freelance writer and editor living in Los Angeles, California. Her writing mainly concerns philosophy, personal experiences, cultural commentary, and her love of the visual and performing arts. If you’d like to reach out to her, you can do so here.

Night Walk for Gatorade

Night Walk for Gatorade

Poetry

Glowing fridge lights
Spilling on the floor
Laughing faces, expanding spaces
They all seemed so sure

Tonight, I wanted to fall into a hole
Coupled me, in a pair
In a room with gatorade bottles
With a rice krispy treat
A glowing TV
And a tin fold out chair

Am I a fool?
But a fool is so unaware
It’s not for a lack, but an excess of wanting,
That I dream of my determined despair

So he walks into the blanket of city, darkness, and laughter
As I grow nauseous, a jest for their court
The freedom to forgo, forget, and set fire to
My surroundings,
Please, relentless me, abort

I don’t want to look back on this poem
And fix a stanza or three
I know these words to be economical
I know these words and their edges
I know them to be me

Nothing about them is special
Nothing within them is a cure
Nothing about this night is glowing
So I stumble home, just as drunk
Without a hope, a match
A distant cry resonates within me
Fall, no catch

Melanie Falconer is a freelance writer and editor living in Los Angeles, California. Her writing mainly concerns philosophy, personal experiences, cultural commentary, and her love of the visual and performing arts. If you’d like to reach out to her, you can do so here.