Nothing savored Nothing cherished
Chewing wood, spitting silk
Hating every creeping moment
till darkness lowers and laps at my toes
Blessed darkness gives me a cave
where I may retreat from all hateful, glossy life -
oblivion with eyes wide open
Monumental sorrow grinds my guts to dust
Hopelessness, a ********** that licks my ear,
whispers obscene melodies.
An ache to take out the tools
used to mark my hatred on myself
Hope is a lie believed by fools and sinners
That baked desert called my mind
spits dust on dreams
Trapped by iron bars
bleeding despair,
my face, a pale moon of desolation
peering out on savage scenes of normalcy.
Fingers tremble on the keyboard
longing to smash its plastic against my head.
Some say how sweet and gentle I am
I can’t wait to escape and laugh at their gullibility. . .
had I an ax I would chop off my haunting countenance
and hide the pieces in brown paper bags
flung into back yards around the town
Am I sweet and gentle as they say
but refuse the treacle of the words
Or have I acted upon the stage so well
I have become what I loathe to be
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 6:45 AM UTC
Transformation
Ebon night is seeping away,
like spilled ink slips on satin.
Curling its toes, yawning wide
and ready for bed and sleep.
Quicksilver shadows dart
like lightening bugs in August.
Knowing their end is coming
soon, they scatter to hide away.
Little stars tiptoe off to their room,
dragging slip streams behind.
Mother moon counts her children,
tucks them in in satin blankets,
kisses their cheeks with pale lips,
and then taking herself by the hand,
climbs the stairs in the wake of dawn.
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 8:09 AM UTC
May I go in grace at my time,
slipping into that dark black void,
never knowing fear or panic
May visions of sweet memories
bring me peace for my hour of death
May I soar with what angels come
to guide me to that place waiting
where eternity will carry me
Let there be good I can do then
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 6:43 AM UTC
made myself a promise
no more men for me
then in a moment of self-pity
your smile was there
spreading hope
over me
like warm jam
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 6:41 AM UTC
Journey
I have often bent my head
to rest on a pillow, not linen
and feathers, but concrete
and small squalid stones.
Like the breath of
a thousand butterflies,
a little wind has covered
my exposed and tested bones.
My lips have often whispered
in God’s ear, and He has
answered with a bit of stale bread.
Now I sit quietly in corners
listening to the gossip of honeybees,
whose wings are translucent
in an August sun.
I watch my skin grow thin and fragile
as sheets of onion-skin or the wings of moths.
It has been a journey - harrowing
and flush with revelation, leaving me
gaping at the wonder of it all.
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 6:39 AM UTC
Memories hunker behind
a door marked “Blessed Oblivion”.
The key is under the mat.
To choose one, open and peek
inside would be
a foolish flagellation.
Secrets simmer in cannibal pots,
lids held down by tenuous fingers.
Some truths deserve to be buried.
Some memories must be held
as closed as a spinster’s knees.
Doors opened less than judiciously
trigger popping puppets that scream.
A mind is only as strong
as its most heinous memory.
Some minds are olios, badly stirred,
their orts floating in a brine of insanity
that needs a pinch of salt.
Reality paints itself as a circus clown,
and changes the rules of life
without warning...
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 6:34 AM UTC
I woke up this morning in
an America I did not recognize
So many years of just drifting,
certain of her elasticity
her ability to shake off
the parasites and naysayers
Now I see a buffoon where
lesser buffoons have capered
Why do I imagine that under
that bleached wave, are the
numbers 666?
Wake up all you who have
slept beside me, drifting
in the false safety that is not
We must dust off our shoes
and march again, doggedly
and without reservation.
We must demand justice and change...
peacefully and forcefully.
For this nation is one person
who stands up and says - "Enough!"
My wheelchair and your legs
must gather others and refuse
to be silent - evermore.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 5:09 PM UTC
How many more springs will be granted.
Springs where seeds and flowers are planted.
How long will the filthy rain sustain the vigor
Of tender shoots so green and innocently eager.
We spew out human seed to take root on earth,
Lessening its space, its value and its worth.
How long until we are world of ants scurrying,
Everything trampled by the constant hurrying.
We have chipped the beauty away into rows
of ticky-tacky houses where nothing grows.
Where are the jungles, the forest primeval.
Not now but air and water that are lethal.
Oh, mourn the earth of beauteous expanse.
Now no beauty can be found with a glance.
Mayhaps we will survive - but maybe not. . .
between progress and the lessons taught.
Sleep well sweet Earth, beautiful orb.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC
Scent of pine lingers
over the deep labyrinths
beneath the trees.
Black beetles bump chests
like Sumo wrestlers
as they try to avoid each other
in the warm scratch
of detritus dark with shade.
Baby snakes lace the meadow grass
where deep sunshine heats their cold bones.
A deep hush is suspended
by the erratic leaps of pond frogs.
One sails on a limb through
water yellow and noxious as nicotine.
The day carries its own rhythms
and paints them on a peaceful canvas.
Where I would love to be.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 7:51 PM UTC
Saturday.
He fondles his roses
as little Beth walks by,
holding her mommy’s hand.
When mother and daughter
are up the street a bit,
he palpates petals,
lets thorn press into his crotch.
He is that nice old retired preacher
from the middle of the block.
He babysits Beth while her mommy
goes to the gym.
His predilections are private...
secret...
No one knows.
No one knows but little Beth...
and all the little girls before her.
Not everyone is who they seem
and evil can live forever hidden.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 6:40 PM UTC