Discography

A Star

Come...

Come into my temple,

lay your shields aside.

Kneel before my alter,

and sacrifice your pride.

All I want from you,

is everything you are.

Dig out your heart for me,

and I will lick the scar.

Come into my world,

and lay your bricks down.

Pave a way to my heart,

with every pain you've found.

Give me all your memories.

Give me every dream.

Be my moon and glow for me,

and beneath you I will scream.

Come into my eternity,

lose your soul in mine.

This is all I will accept,

nothing less divine.

Bleed your life into my cup,

offer it up to refresh me.

And I will fill you forever.

Come... and be with me.

C.C. Guice

Editors Choice Award 2004

International Library of Poetry

Art by C.C. Guice

Silence, stillness and silence...

just this side of empty.

To be so close, I am infinitely too far.

-and what am I, a star?

Floating forlorn, forgotten, alone...

one large lost stone.

Flung endlessly from ebon sight.

-and slightly too left of all right.

And alright accepted...

yet no less detested.

Just south of heaven IS hell.

-as far as I could tell.

Hard and unrelenting, very hard...

never satisfied, this side of sation.

ever so, hitherto, denied.

-no real part of the tide.

Silence, stillness and silence...

blazing eternal yet never that bright.

Just more of what is night.

-and slightly too left of all right.

C.C. Guice

Best Poems and Poets of 2002

International Library of Poetry

The Vineyard

There is a vineyard in my soul that produced the sweetest wine.

And I was drunk on love of you.

Dancing truly, madly, deeply through,

A moonlit grove of hope; the playground of the blind.

All the grapes were fresh and tender, tended always in my mind.

There was no finer love or substitute,

No purer heart or sweeter fruit,

There was no better spell, this brew, for anyone to find.

There is a vineyard in my soul that produced the sweetest wine.

And all the grapes of all my faith

Now fell unheeded where I'd traipse.

For to everything a season, and to every love a time.

Finding that all my toil and all my tears couldn't undo the design,

That had left my effort useless,

And all the vines now fruitless,

That made the vineyard in my soul a place I go to pine.

C.C. Guice

Published By

Noble House

Art by C.C. Guiceere to add text.

Regrets...

When sweeping the fields of their golden dust,

Blown low beneath the marble moon,

And disregarding their touch of rust,

Autumn colors for winter gloom;

I allowed, just for once, my soul to wander,

Form one memory, to that, then another,

Finding one in which I wounded myself,

On the duel edged tongue of a lover.

It called to me from leaf strewn vales,

Like words now cracked and yellowed;

Bespeaking tomeless loves and other ails,

Dying whispers of things once bellowed.

So I slipped into the softer warmth of gray,

And whiteness aged to a darker shade.

I allowed the caressing fog to lure me away;

When all purer comforts had decayed;

But I realized tears were the blood of the soul,

On the pale velvet of my cheek;

Cried for all the passing dreams of youth,

And all the words I would never speak.

And the tongue numbing awe that stung my being,

Begging me beyond my scope not to forget,

Shook with the echoes of another’s pain.

It demands I escape further regret…

C.C. Guice

Published by

Noble House

Sitting alone

I sit alone in the semi-dark, with my feet up,

leaving the floor to the crawling things.

I wonder. Is it okay that I don’t feel it?

Because it is strange for me to be alone.

Hardly something I would have thought acceptable,

A year maybe two ago.

I might have lost my mind! Maybe I have.

Yet I feel nothing but wonder; if it is regrettable.

Here with the bugs; cold coffee;

a few cigarettes left and a muted T. V.,

I can’t decide if I like the deadness,

or if it’s slowly becoming the death of me...

C.C. Guice

Best Poems and Poets 2004

International Library of Poetry

Dust...

Dust on my pages, dried up pens.

The words have died

on my tongue again.

I drew in my breath,

and straightened my bones,

But I never told

about the feeling alone.

Of the dust on my fingers,

or the ache in my limbs.

I never spoke or wrote,

how it felt to love him.

And now the loss

that my weakness bred,

is the only companion

in my life's bed.

Made up in cowardice,

and perfumed with fear.

Dust on my pages...year after year.

C.C. Guice