Archive

Canvas

1122.2009

Beloved canvas—

in this room where silence has a pulse,

where words hush and only eyes remain,

we move together, slow and full of need.

You let my hands surrender onto you,

and caress against your bloodless face.

The walls are thick with echoes left behind,

and yet, you breathe into my quiet life

the forms and gestures of a shared belief—

faces we know, and promises we shape

when everything feels holy in our hands.

The pale white serpents of my fingers wind

around weathered brushes with patience,

their tongues awake the sleeping hues beneath—

the bruises of cobalt, the violence of red,

the gold that melts upon your skin.

I barely hold the joy you let me feel—

a lover who gives fully, never asks,

who stirs release with slow, deliberate touch,

who lets desire rise like smoke through me,

and gives as much as I am willing to give.

My fevered one.

My canvas.

My breath.

My own.

m.c.f.

Photo by A.N. (with edits by me.)

Superatio Proditionis

Warring With Ghosts

0404.2025

(For the record, I wrote it in ink you cannot see.)

To war with ghosts

Is to bloom where their blade passes.

I bloom where their blade has passed.

To eat with ghosts

is to accept their meaning—

to drown in their purpose—

I am the meaning.

I am the purpose.

She drinks from gold,

but does not taste its weight.

She peels the pomegranate

without knowing its offering.

Their echo isn’t worthy of the chase,

it’s just my silence for the spectacle.

I have walked through betrayal

and come out clothed in truth -

I am the flower and the fire,

The wisdom and the knowledge,

The honesty and sincerity.

Let the deceitful

and cowardly stage go quiet.

I carry the original script.

(Always did)

And I write in ink they cannot see.

(Much less know.)

m.c.f.

❦

A Small Note

{These poems were written in the dark

between presence and disappearance.

They are not answers, and not apologies — and most importantly,  not open wounds.

The words I wrote are the echoes of what passed through me when no one was listening—

and I chose to speak anyway.

They are part of my journey to transcend.

Read them softly…}

To Concede

Becoming Elation

0402.2025

(a four-part meditation on love and transcendence)

I

My last love ripened,

then withered on an unrequited vine,

and it was the fruit of that vine—

filling the cup of love’s want—

that left me drunk on its final flame.

I carry its want—still alive with its need—

pressing hard on fragile conviction,

threaded with memory and history,

leaving my longing loud and alive,

buried beneath the ache of this heart.

⸻

II

Who knows what love is?

Perhaps to know

is to feel it, first—

unimagined and strong—

the one pull toward a life worth living.

Perhaps it’s to touch the sun

and die by its fire-beam and heat—

to fall to the wound of its golden arrow.

Or maybe it’s the long, exhausted sigh

while held in the arms of night,

then letting the moon’s kiss

set you free from yourself.

Perhaps it is death’s own moment,

when your soul is mirrored—

or losing time, entangled in atoms,

suspended among the stars.

⸻

III

Never knowing love,

I’ll become a honeybee—

carrying life from flower to flower,

especially the dying and loveless

beneath dry soil and fading fields.

The ones reaching, barely breathing,

pressed beneath the weight of stone—

oh, cruel journey of life!

to let their lives begin in shadow

while being beautiful,

but unseen and ignored.

⸻

IV

Let me be the bee

that finds the beauty in flowers

during their time of dying—

so my elation survives

in another form of love—

a kind worth carrying

in the grace of surrender

and purpose.

m.c.f.

❦

On Emptiness

Receding

(For The Dead Inside)

0402.2025

You are receding—

falling into the horizon

like dusk devouring light.

I struggle saving you—

but even your shadow vanished.

When our thread tore,

it took the scent of spring—

the flowers had just begun

to color my smile

with the lie of joy.

Then came the light—

unforgiving,

unblinking—

dragging the dead

from my heart

into their graves,

and beneath time’s silence,

which keeps them

as captives.

They are like you:

a goodness,

a fragile fire,

burning out

and falling

into a lesson

inside a thousand

lessons.

I must be thankful somehow—

but the gratitude burns.

My eyes have turned to deserts.

The sun devours me.

The night drinks my life.

What goes unnamed

because you lied?

What am I to think,

now that I see—

the joke is me?

I will think:

Turn me into a bird,

so my wings break

from my hiding heart

and carry its sorrow

from night

into half-light.

At least.

I will think:

Turn me into dust,

so I forget

what I have learned

ten thousand times.

I will think:

Let spring

cover me.

Let summer

end this cold.

Let something bloom

in the ruin

of my garden.

m.c.f.

Photo, 2024, m.c.f.

Love Without Ego

I Still Do

(for no one, and you)

I love with a silence blooming in bones—

My love asks for nothing,

but still lights a lamp in the dark

in case you want to come home.

I love you like a prayer

when nobody is listening—

even when you vanish,

and the leaving is drowned in your absence.

I love you when your words turn to shadow,

or are lost on the air,

and your care stops calling my name.

You don’t have to earn it.

I never meant to give it.

It arrives like sun in the spring—

slow, warm, and impossible to refuse.

There are still pieces of you in my life—

the tone of your voice

curled around a word,

the way you linger

at the edge of your own heart.

You may never hold my heart in your hands again.

You may never say my name out loud.

I may never hear you.

But I hope,

when the noise grows quiet

and people around you forget to listen—

you remember how once,

you were deeply seen

and entirely loved

by a rose who asked for nothing.

I loved you.

Not to possess.

Not to be chosen.

But because some loves

arrive like stars—

brilliant, distant,

and mean to be carried,

not kept.

And I still do.

m.c.f.

Photo, 2024, m.c.f.

One Morning…

Aubade

0331.2025

A poem for the dawn that never softened.

For those who enter the light only to find the dark.

This morning’s heart awoke to death—

not a glorious flower

stretching its neck

to its own dawn,

but something gray,

unfinished—

a breath that never quite

found its warmth or reason.

No fragment of beauty,

no hint of song or

well-meaning hour

could lift the heaviness.

Even the air moves

like apology—

but not around me.

Everything is darker

in the light of day.

The voices wear tones

like weapons,

gentle only with each other.

I walk into their fire

and they lay the bullets.

They name me

before I speak—

a blur, a burden,

a failed warmth.

Not one of them asks

if I am broken

or just quiet.

(They assume I am

what they would be

if they were I)

And the cruelest part—

the mirror they mistake me for.

m.c.f.

Image 2024, m.c.f.

On Broken Thread

March 29, 2025

(The quiet severing.)

0330.2025

I let go with no spectacle,

no stage.

Just a whisper sent through wire

to say:

I saw what you could not give,

and I release you

to the wilderness

you chose.

m.c.f.

Transition Into…

Goodbye. Love.

0329.2025

Goodbye, wild and unnamed love—

Age, with its hush, unclasps

the trembling flower

that opened in my youth,

arrogant with need,

drenched in want.

It bloomed

like tuberose—too rich, too ready—

whenever a golden-limbed boy

bent his gaze toward mine.

I see the last of you now:

your face, a soft pomegranate,

those quiet, knowing eyes,

that mouth and those brows

etched in my own reflection.

And I think—

we were meant to live

as one body,

woven in peace.

But the saltwater spoke.

It told the truth:

this kind of love

requires building.

So I unfastened my hands

and let this kind of love drift.

And still,

I know—

something greater waits.

A love unnamed,

needing no mirror.

m.c.f.

On Quiet Surrender

Night’s Mercy

0328.2025

The night’s splendor

pours through the window—

its silver secret sends me off

upon a sleepy sea of sorrow…

and I surrender gently,

like petals drifting,

learning to float

where I’d drown.

— m.c.f.

The Stars

Us, Astrologically, Astronomically

on elemental opposites

0328.2025

You come in quiet—

air and earth,

cool head,

measured thoughts,

a voice that waits

before it speaks.

I arrive as flame—

fast,

bold,

without warning.

I light what I feel

and walk through it.

You watch the flames.

I move with them.

Still—

my Venus

knows your rising,

calls to you

without sound.

We orbit close—

fire fed by wind,

truth held in silence,

closeness

without need.

Opposite signs,

but something fits—

a click,

a spark,

a pull that says:

don’t change,

just be close.

m.c.f.

A Study In Goodbye

Soft Exit Tactic

0328.2025

You don’t vanish—

you drift.

A pause lengthens,

warmth thins,

messages arrive late—

their meaning lost.

You choose silence

like chiffon—

folded neatly,

placed just so.

The silent cut,

of unsaid words.

You ask to meet

knowing I can’t,

as though forgetting

is easier

than refusing.

(Maybe for you, true.)

I’ve read the script—

at first,

the slow retreat,

the soft descent,

the affection turns static

without a storm.

You’d rather fade

than fall,

slip the tether

without warning

or respect.

No reckoning,

nor flame—

Just distance

disguised as time.

But I feel you

exiting the room

while you smile.

I know

how goodbye sounds

when it tries

not to be heard.

m.c.f.

On Some Bonds

The Red Thread

0328.2025

You once took a photo—

of two needles pierced,

a single red thread

running through their bodies.

I imagine the needles are us—

and the thread,

the binding of our hearts and heads.

(It makes sense.

I’ve often felt

we share blood.)

But then something broke—

and now you’re gone.

When the thread snapped

from the house of my heart,

I learned

how sorrow can be stitched.

No one loves you enough

to see how the knots

hold us tighter

than clean seams can.

(Woe.)

Your life pulses in mine.

Your lessons linger.

The love I hold

is now something else—

I lost you

and understood:

what I desire

cannot be held

in time’s fist.

And so I love the world—

most of all,

you—

freely,

with enough peace

to let your heart unfold

its wings and wander.

Without hope—

but for the little seed

hidden in winter soil,

hoping she’s strong enough

to rise and open

when love’s voice

calls her home.

I carry you still,

and pray too much—

it’s your voice I hear

when the thaw begins.

m.c.f.

Another Level Of Knowing

The Poetics Of A Truth

0324.2025

There is no such thing as spirituality.

Only scaffolding made of breath and panic,

held together by trembling hands.

We dream up gods in the fog,

hammer our fear into folklore,

make shrines from rot.

It’s theater.

Not beauty.

Not truth.

The most exquisite, unbearable freedom

is knowing there’s nothing behind the curtain.

And if something is there—

we’ll meet it when our mouths go slack

and the light in our heads gutters out.

The fairytales harm more than help—

Chewing at the edge of reason,

keep us looking up instead of at us.

We are compost and calcium.

We are the tantrum of a star

pressed into meat.

We are brief.

We are breakable.

And because of that,

we should be kind,

but kindness is too quiet a religion for most.

Nobody wants to sit in the dark

long enough to see what’s real.

They want halos and handbooks.

They want their own dread

wrapped in gold.

So they keep making believe—

stories with teeth and wings,

the heavens with rules,

hells to burn us all in—

because creating solutions

requires admitting the house is on fire

and always has been—

that we’re all arsonists

and the only way out

is to put the match down

and rebuild.

But that takes nerve.

That takes stillness.

That takes looking directly into the unknown

and realizing it doesn’t belong to anyone.

(It never did.)

And what a sick, glorious thought:

that maybe the only sacred thing

is how ruin

keeps handing us

a hammer.

m.c.f.

On Differences

Two Languages

0324.2025

I talk in storms

so the truth can rain.

You speak in safety,

and seek the storm’s shelter.

(I can’t hear whenever you call out.)

And my much is much too fast,

too alive to be placed neatly

into the quiet rooms

you live in.

You call it chaos—

but it’s just another truth,

burning and raw,

the way a soul burns

when it connects.

And yet,

I learned some stillness,

the measured replies,

your way of caring without words.

I learned to whisper when I wanted to sing.

I learned your language.

You wanted the echo,

but not my voice.

And now,

I sit with a lost companion—

two friends who made something,

but couldn’t read the same page

without translating every line.

Still,

I wish you peace,

in your quiet house

of quiet love.

And I’ll keep speaking storms

to those who understand

thunder can be beautiful.

m.c.f.

A Taste

Instead of Saying It (A Taste Of Cherry)

0321.2025

He didn’t explain the man in the car.

He just said, watch this.

And I did.

Dust roads.

Dry silence.

One request:

bury me when I’m gone.

He never asked me to save him—

just showed me how the man moved,

how he slowed at the edge of nothing.

No love interest.

No woman waiting.

Just an old man,

and the story of the cherries—

a taste that made life stay.

He gave me that film

like a confession folded—

not addressed to me,

but still pressed into my hands.

Now he hearts my poems,

shares them without introduction,

and likes cherry shoes

on someone who’s not me.

But I remember the road,

the dust,

the hollowed voice asking,

will you bury me?

And I wonder—

did he think I was the one

who’d know where to dig?

m.c.f.

To Someone

Father

0514.2013

My mouth blooms like yours—

sharp-edged, it’s bloody full of

the things I should’ve swallowed.

Sometimes I think about

matching my eyes to yours—

the ones you gave to my face

and lit with defiant flames.

Then I’m freckled like you,

say god damn too much.

Piss and vinegar.

A little chaos.

A little poetry.

You gave me that, too.

I still can’t tuck my life into neat tidy corners.

But, you couldn’t either.

All my creations—

The paint, inks, and mess,

carry the weight of your absence

and your wild blood.

If there’s anything left of you out there—

on the wind,

in the chords of a song,

In the pluck of your strings,

in whatever heavenly body—

may you find my work,

and know your daughter by it.

m.c.f.

On Overthinking

Going Green

0510.2014

While snubbing my history,

all I see is green—overgrown

with too many possibilities—

and I think: these must be my salad days.

Terms set the distance

between me

and various mixtures of vegetables;

my tending’s broken down,

reconstructing the dish

one failure at a time.

Suddenly I’m breathing,

exhaling,

moving mountains—

metaphorically.

(Except mountains have a point.

The point is to be

quietly unmoving,

and sometimes mystifying.)

It’s not just the salad, though.

It’s my victory garden.

Sometimes, trying to make sense

means becoming the spiny vegetable—

all this bloody mess

just to survive,

just to be consumed.

And though there’s no more pain

than I allow,

and though some green things

don’t sustain life—but eat it—

and it grows faster

than I can see it coming,

I’m brandishing woodcutters,

just in case.

Really, I just want

to snub some history

(and maybe the present day),

especially at 4:40 a.m.

when all I can think of

is the alphabet,

language,

the chocolate pudding chill in the fridge,

and fading with the stars.

m.c.f.

For Veterans & The Patriotic

Ghost Of America

0321.2025

I’m a red, white, and blue pulse.

I bleed in silence for my home,

carry the weight it won’t shed,

and you turn away as if

my hands were never dirtied in ash.

But I have lived its grief,

and eaten the sin of its striving.

Don’t define me

as war-stitched denim,

a rusting wound,

or the shadow and the dark—

No, I am the doubt and the belief,

the fade and the flowering,

the exile and the homeland,

the cradle and the tomb.

m.c.f.

A Word About The Poetry

Some of my poems have taken nearly two decades to fully come into being. Many were first drafted in my thirties, then tucked away—revisited every few years with fresh eyes, adjusted gently, and returned to their quiet place among my files.

When I’m at ease, language often arrives effortlessly. The words flow, the rhythm settles, and I’m left only to decide whether the piece holds up—or quietly lets go.

Earlier this year, I unearthed several older poems and, over the past few months, felt called to revisit and reshape them. In their original form, they carried a more esoteric tone, sometimes messy, raw with emotion. I write politically, too, and I was struck by how some of those early works now feel oddly prophetic—though perhaps it’s less prophecy and more the quiet ache of how little truly changes. That thought unsettles me.

But my voice returned—full and fierce. Even my hands remembered. I’m now spending twelve-hour days immersed in my work again, and in many ways, it feels like I’ve come home.

I’ll be sharing several of these older pieces in the coming days. There’s still some organizing to do—tags to add, structure to build—but for now, I offer you the language of my heart. I hope something in it speaks to yours.

2024, Self Portrait