Her mournful eyes fixed
on some distant invisible point
In all her life
she rarely opened her arms to anyone
rarely returned affection
her heart an icy chamber
stoic, closed
Half the time she was penned up in isolation
trapped in an asylum
a life cruelly altered by thorazine
and shock treatments
her soundtrack a choir of madwomen
their voices running riot
in a snake pit
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 3:18 PM UTC
He remembers the tightrope
in ring one
A chant dulls his ears
and he falls, dreaming
A madwoman's icy fingertips
skim down the side of his head
Shrieks explode
inside his throat
Childlike, he warms himself
with brown, vibrant blankets
He can almost feel the tightrope
tugging under his feet
The memory jars him
His hand leaps endlessly
through a somersault
sky, hand to head, hand to
chest, then to thigh, while
blood spots the dirt floor
Like dying sheep, he bleats
The moans are lonely
ghastly, ricocheting off
the cold walls of his brain
remembering again the
stiff cord pressing
against his trembling frame
the taut stretch
distracting him
He stops and sees himself
carrying an aged man
to a snowy grave
He turns to watch the knife-thrower
turn the knife around
while a liquored mob shouts
Jostled, he sees memories
scatter everywhere
Withdrawing to an empty room
he craves the lack of light
the falling sensation overwhelming
the dreams collapsing around him
like an ancient ruin
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 2:44 PM UTC
Sometimes I just want to break free
from pen on paper
I want to get away from the sound of
my ancient typewriter clacking away
my fingers creating images dialogue feelings
the actor inside me wanting to
crash through
Sometimes I want to break away
from the pool of words
I want to startle someone
make them understand
my search for clarity
my desire to
take down the
fourth wall
brick
by
brick
the mad architect
shuffling through
a mass of blueprints
looking for the one
that shrieks order
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 3:59 PM UTC
it's like me
landing suddenly
on an empty island
drifting on a sunless beach
stumbling over cold shifting sand
waves roaring
strong winds pounding me
like a dazed prizefighter
going down for the count
me
lost and alone
wondering what hopeless hell i'm in now
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 3:50 PM UTC
I may as well warn you.
This poem will not end in death.
I haven't decided what it will be about.
But it won't be about death.
I don't have any desire to explain it
or peddle it
or wrap a ribbon around it.
There are so many other things to explore.
Why waste time on something no one really
knows anything about?
I'm being rhetorical.
Sort of.
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 1:10 PM UTC
Alliterative alliteration
always amuses
and excuses
my silly muses
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 5:56 PM UTC
most of the time
he drifted
in and out
of cindy's life
the man she once looked up to
was now enslaved
by the bottle
his hair receding
his face lined
his smile
furtive
he told her he had a new girl
in atlantic city
a dancer he met
in one of the resort's
endangered casinos
cindy pictured the girl as
young
brunette bangs
hard eyes
emaciated
a lap dancer
hooked on something
forbidden
the next morning
he threw a few twenties
on the kitchen table
left a note
in his hung over scrawl
about catching a
greyhound bus to a-c
he was already
out the door
on his way
to nirvana
when she read the note
all she thought was
'bye daddy...see you whenever'
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 7:23 PM UTC
late morning
we're asleep
the phone rings
i hand it to her
she tells me
it's the drugstore
her prescription's ready
later i'll remember
her voice sounding
a little weary
but there's
no pain there
no urgency
yet there's something
not right
about her voice
something disembodied
like a lost voice
a little later
when i wake up again
she's facing me
her eyes are shut
then three rapid exhalations -
three in a row -
escape from her mouth
then there's silence
i call her name
there's no response
i scream her name
nothing happens
i touch her arm
she's warm
but her eyes remain closed
her hands are still
i phone my daughter
she says call 9-1-1
9-1-1 tells me what to do
i do what they say
then rescue people show up
and take over
then they rush her
to the hospital
my daughter drives me there
we go inside
but we don't want to
we don't want to hear
what we already know
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 5:15 PM UTC
towels mingle toss tease
in an unforgiving rush of water
merrily tumbling through waves
rich with detergent
meanwhile dark fabrics twist
in an angry climactic surf
while lighter colors undulate elsewhere
in a wet frivolous frenzy
dainty lingerie -
in yet another machine -
gently sails in a delicate ballet...
whites, pinks, muted yellows and blues
intermingle playfully as they wait
for the cool rinse cycle to commence
and perform its own unique magic
finally the dryers prevail
and the folded garments rest on a table -
the warm spent players basking
in a glorious afterglow
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 5:16 PM UTC
She was a shy, detached woman
shortchanged at birth
In all her life
she never opened her arms to anyone
never returned affection
her heart an icy chamber
stoic, closed
Half the time she was penned up in isolation
trapped in an asylum
a life cruelly altered by thorazine
and shock treatments
her soundtrack a choir of madwomen
their voices running riot
in her only home -
a snake pit
She was trapped in a Bronte novel
her mournful eyes fixed
on some distant invisible point
She remained disconnected
unknowable
a doomed woman
a doomed time
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 4:27 PM UTC