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Nan,
being slightly Victorian and
very old
would decant a bottle of Mackeson
into a teapot and
pretend to us children that she
was having her
daily cuppa.

We knew though,
could smell the sweetness
of the alcohol even through
the odours of Number 3 ***** and
macassar oil which seemed to
be an integral part of
Nan
and her Lodge street home.
Martin Narrod Feb 2015
Part I


the plateau. the truest of them all. coast line. night spells and even controlled by the dream of meeting again. the ribbon of darker than light in your crown. No region overlooked. Third picnic table to the drive at Half Moon Bay, meet me there, decant my speech there. the table by the restroom block. While the tide is in show me your oyster garden, 3:00p.m. at half-light here in the evilest torments that have been shed.---------------door locked.  The moors. Cow herds and lymph nodes, rancorous afternoon West light and bending roads, the cliffs, a sister, the need to jump. There is nothing as serious as this. There is nothing nor no one that could ever, or would ever on this side come between. Who needs sleep or jokes or snow or rivers or bombs or to turn or be a rat or a fly or ceiling fan or a gurney or a cadaver or piece of cloth or a bed spread or a couch or a game or the flint of a lighter or the bell of a dress; the bell of your dress, yes, perhaps. Having been crushed like orange cigarette light in a pool of Spanish tongues. I feel the heave, the pull; not a yawn but a wired, thread-like twist about my core. Up around the neck it makes the first cut, through the eyes out and into the nostrils down over the left arm, on the inside of the bicep, contorting my length, feigning sleep, and then cutting over my stomach, around and around multiples of times- pulled at the hips and under the groin, across each leg and in-between each nerve, capillary, artery, hair, dot, dimple, muscle, to the toes and in-between them. Wiry dream-like and nervous nightmarish, hellacious plateaus of leapers. Penguin heads and more penguin heads. Startling torment. The evilest of the vile mind. The dance of despair: if feet contorted and bound could move. The beach off Belmont. The hills and the reasons I stared. Caveat after caveat at the heads of letters, on the heads of crowns, and the wrists, and on the palms. Being pulled and signed, and moved away so greatly and so heavily at once in a moment, that even if it were a year or a set of many months it would always be a moment too taking away to be considered an expanse, and it would be too hellacious to be presumptuous. It could only be a shadow over my right shoulder as I write the letters over and again. One after another. Internally I ask if I would even grant a convo with Keats or Yeats or Plath or Hughes? Does mine come close? Does it matter the bellies reddish and cerise giving of pain? Does it have to have many names?


"This is the only Earth," I would say with the bouquet of lilies spread out on the table. Are lilies only for funerals, I would never make or risk or wish this metaphor, even play it like the drawn out notes of a melody unwritten and un-played: my black box and latched, corner of the room saxophone. Top-floor, end of the hall two-room never-ending story, I'm the left side of the bed Chicago and I see pink walls, bathrooms, the two masonite paintings, the Chanel books, the bookshelves, the white desk, the white dresser, you on the left side of the bed in such sentimental woe, **** carpet and tilted blinds, and still the moors and the whispering in the driver's seat in afternoon pasture. Sunset, sunrise, nighttime and bike room writing in other places, apartments, rooms where I inked out fingertips, blights, and moods; nothing ever being so bleak, so eerily woe-like or stoic. Nothing has ever made me so serious.

Put it on the rib, in a t-shirt. Make it a hand and guide it up a set of two skinny legs under a short-sheeted bed in small room and literary Belmont, address included. Trash cans set out morning and night, deck-readied cigarette smoking. Sliding glass door and kitchen fright. Low-lit living room white couch, kaleidoscope, and zoetrope. Spin me right round baby right round. I am my own revenge of toxic night. Attack the skin, the soul, the eyes, the mind, and the lids. The finger lids and their tips. Rot it out. Blearing wild and deafening blow after blow: left side of the bed the both of us, whilst stirs the intrepid hate and ousts each ******* tongue I can bellow and blow.

Last resort lake note in snow bank and my river speak and forest walk. Wrapped in blocks and boxes, Christmas packaging and giant over-sized red ribbons and bows. Shall I mention the bassinet, the stroller, the yard, several rings of gold and silver, several necklaces of black and thread? I draw dagger from box, jagged ended and paper-wrapped in white and amber: lit in candle light and black room shadow-kept and sleeping partisan unforgettable forever. Do I mention Hawaii, my mother dying, invisible ligatures and the unveiling of the sweat and horror? Villainous and frightening, the breath as a bleat or heart-beat and matchstick stirring slightly every friends' woe and tantrum of their spirit.

Lobster-legged, waiting, sifting through the sea shore at the sea line, the bright tyrannosaurs in mahogany, in maple, and in twine over throw rose meadow over-looks, honey-brimming and warehouse built terrariums in the underbelly of the ravine, twist and turn: road bending, hollowing, in and out and in and out, forever, the everlasting and too fastidious driving towards; and it's but what .2 miles? I sign my name but I'll never get out. I am mocked and musing at tortoise speed. Headless while improvising. Purring at any example of continue or extremity or coolness of mind, meddling, or temptation. I rock, bellowing. Talk, sending shivers up my spine. I'm cramped, and one thousand fore-words and after words that split like a million large chunks of spit, grime, and *****; **** and more ****. I might even be standing now. I could be a candle, in England, a kingdom, in Palo Alto, a rook in St. Petersburg. Mottled by giants or sleepless nights, I could be the Eiffel Tower or the Statue of Liberty, a heated marble flower or the figure dying to be carved out. I'm veering off highways, I'm belittling myself: this heathen of the unforgettable, the bog man and bow-tied vagrant of dross falsification and dross despair. I am at the sea shore, tide-righted and tongue-tide, bilingual, and multi-inhibited by sweat, spit, quaffs of sea salt, lake water, and the like. Rotten wergild ridden- stitched of a poor man's ringworm and his tattered top hat and knee-holed trousers. I'm at the sea shore, with the cucumbers dying, the rain coming in sideways, the drifts and the sandbars twisting and turning. I'm at the sea shore with the light house bruise-bending the sweet ships of victory out backwards into the backwaters of a mislead moonlight; guitars playing, beeps disappearing, pianos swept like black coffees on green walled night clubs, arenose and eroding, grainy and distraught, bleeding and well, just bleeding.






I'm at the sea shore, the coastline calling. I've got rocks in my pockets, ******* and two lines left in the letter. I’m at the sea shore, my mouth is a ghost. I've seen nothing but darkness. I'm at the seashore, second picnic table, bench facing the squat and gobble, the tin roof and riled weir near the roadside. .2 and I'm still here with my bouquet wading and waiting. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. My inches are growing shorter by the second, cold, whet by the sunset, its moon men, their heavy claws and bi-laws overthrowing and throwing me out. The thorns stick. The tyrannosaurs scream. I'm at the sea shore, plateau, left bedside to write three more letters. Sign my name and there's nobody here.

I'm at the sea shore: here are my lips, my palms (both of them facing up), here are my legs (twine and all), my torso, and my head shooting sideways. I'm at the seashore and this is my grave, this is my purposeful calotype, my hide and go seek, my show and tell, my forever. .2 and forever and never ending. I was just one dream away come and keep me. I'm at the sea shore come and see me and seam me. I'm without nothing, the sky has drifted, the sea is leaving, my seat is a matchbox and I'm all wound up. The snow settling, the ice box and its glory taken for granted. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. The room with its white sets of furniture, the lilies, the Chanel, the masonite paintings, the bed, your ribbon of darker on light, the throw rug **** carpet, pink walled sister's room, and the couch at the top of the stairs. I'm at the sea shore, my windows opened wide, my skin thrown with threat, rhinoceri, reddish bruises bent of cerise staled sunsets. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. I'm at the plateau and there isn't a single ship. There are the rocks below and I'm counting. My caveats all implored and my goodbyes written. I'm in my bed and the sleep never set in. I'm name dropping God and there's nobody there. I'm in a chair with my hands on a keyboard, listening to Danish throb-rock, horse-riding into candle light on a wicked wedding of wild words and teary-eyed gazes and gazers. Bent by the rocking and the torment, the wild and the weird, the horror and everything horrifying. There is this shadow looking over my shoulder. I'm all alone but I feel like you're here.



Part II




I wake up in Panama. The axe there. Sleeping on the floors in the guest bedroom, the floor of the garden shed, the choir closet, the rut of dirt at the end of the flower bed; just a towel, grayish-blue, alone, lawnmower at my side, and sky blue setting all around. I was a family man. No I just taste bits of dirt watching a quiet and contrary feeling of cool limestone wrap over and about my arms and my legs. Lungs battered by snapping tongues, and ancient conversations; I think it was the Malaysian Express. Mom quieted. Sister quieted. Father wept. And is still weeping. Never have I heard such horrifying and un-kindly words.-----------------------It's going to take giant steel cavernous explorations of the nose, brain cell after brain cell quartered, giant ******* quaffs of alcohol, harboring false lanterns and even worse chemicals. Inhalations and more inhalations. I'm going to need to leap, flight, drop into bodies of waters from air planes and swallow capsules of psychotropics, sedatives beyond recalcitrance. I'm requiring shock treatments and shock values. Periodic elements and galvanized steel drums. Malevolence and more malevolence. Forest walks, and why am I still in Panama. I don't want to talk, to sleep, to dream, to play stale-mating games of chess, checkers, Monopoly, or anything Risk involving. I can't sleep, eat, treaty or retreat. I'm wickeded by temptations of grandeur and threats of anomaly, widening only in proverb and swept only by opposing endeavors. Horrified, enveloped, pictured and persuaded by the evilest of haunts, spirits, and match head weeping women. I can't even open my mouth without hearing voices anymore. The colors are beginning to be enormous and I still can't swim. I couldn't drown with my ears open if I kept my nose dry and my mouth full of a plane ticket and first class beanstalk to elysian fields. It's pervasive and I'm purveyed. It's unquantifiable. It's the epitomizing and the epitome. I have my epaulets set for turbulent battles though I still can't fend off night. Speak and I might remember. Hear and it's second rite. Sea attacks, oceans roaring, lakes swallowing me whole. Grand bodies of waters and faces and arms appendages, crowns and more crowns and more crowns and more crowns and more crowns and I'm still shaking, and I'm still just a button. And I still can't sleep. And I'm still waiting.

It is night. The moon ripening, peeling back his face. Writhing. Seamed by the beauty of the nocturne, his ways made by sun, sky, and stars. Rolled and rampant. Moved across the plateau of the air, and its even and coolly majestic wanton shades of twilight. It heads off mountains, is swept as the plains of beauty, their faces in wild and feral growths. Bent and bolded, indelible and facing off Roman Empires too gladly well in inked and whet tips of bolder hands to soothe them forth.-----------Here in their grand and grandiose furnaces of the heart, whipped tails and tall fables fettered and tarnished in gold’s and lime. Here with their mothers' doting. Here with their Jimi Hendrix and poor poetry and stand-up downtrodden wergild and retardation. I don't give a ****. I could weep for the ***** if they even had hair half as fine as my own. I am real now. Limited by nothing. Served by no worship or warship. My flotilla serves tostadas at full-price. So now we have a game going.-----------------------------------------------------------­------------------------  My cowlick is not Sinatra's and it certainly doesn't beat women. As a matter of factotum and of writ and bylaw. I'm running down words more quickly than the stanza's of Longfellow. I'm moving subtexts like Eliot. I'm rampant and gaining speed. Methamphetamine and five star meats. Alfalfa and pea tendrils. Loves and the lovers I fall over and apart on. Heroes and my fortune over told and ever telling. Moving in arc light and keeping a warm glow.

the fish line caves. the shimmy and the shake. Bluegrass music and big wafting bell tones. snakes and the river, hands on the heads, through the hair; I look straight at the Pacific. I hate plastic flowers, those inanimate stems and machine-processed flesh tones. Waltzing the state divide. I am hooked on the intrepid doom of startling ego. I let it rake into my spine. It's hooves are heavy and singe and bind like manacles all over me. My first, my last, my favorite lover. I'm stalemating in the bathtub. Harnessing Crystal Lite and making rose gardens out of CD inserts and leaf covers. I'm fascinated by magic and gods. Guns and hunters. Thieving and mold, and laundry, and stereotypes, and great stereos, and boom-boxes, and the hi-fi nightlife of Chicago, roasting on a pith and meaty flame, built like a horror story five feet tall and laced with ruggedness and small needles. My skin is a chromium orchid and the grizzly subtext of a Nick Cave tune. I've allowed myself to be over-amplified, to mistake in falsetto and vice versa. To writhe on the heavy metallic reverberations of an altercated palpitation. The heart is the lonely hunted. First the waterproof matchsticks, then the water, the bowie knife, crass grasses and hard-necked pitch-hitters and phony friends; for doing lunch in the park on a frozen pond, I play like I invented blonde and really none of my **** even smells like gold.--------------------- There are the tales of false worship. I heard a street vendor sell a story about Ovid that was worse than local politics. As far as intermittent and esoteric histories go I'm the king of the present, second stage act in the shadow of the sideshow. Tonight I'm greeting the characters with Vaseline. For their love of music and their love of philosophy. For their twilight choirs and their skinny women who wear black antler masks and PVC and polyurethane body suits standing in inner-city gardens chanting. For their chanting. The pacific. For the fish line caves. For the buzzing and the kazoos. For the alfalfa and the three fathers of blue, red, and yellow. For the state of the nation. But still mostly working for the state of equality, more than a room for one’s own.-------------------------------------------------------------­------"Rice milk for all of you." " Kensington and whittled spirits."
(Doppelganger enters stage left)MAN: Prism state, flash of the golden arc. Beastly flowers and teeming woodlands. Heir to the throes and heir to the throng.----------------------------------------------------------­--------------- The sheep meadow press in the house of affection. The terns on my hem or the hide in my beak; all across the steel girder and whipping ******* the windows facing out. The mystery gaze that seers the diplopic eye. Still its opening shunned. I put a cage over it and carry it like a child through Haight-Ashbury. At times I hint that I'm bored, but there is no letting of blood or rattle of hope. When you live with a risk you begin at times to identify with the routes. Above the regional converse, the two on two or the two on four. At times for reasons of sadness but usually its just exhaustion. At times before the come and go gets to you, but usually that is wrong and they get to you first. Lathering up in a small cerulean piece of sky at the end turnabout of a dirt road
Brandon  Apr 2011
Monday
Brandon Apr 2011
The cold grey clasp of Sunday
Skies blocked by an eternal ****** of crows
Fingers engrossed upon the neck
Asphyxiate existence from seamless seams
Decant the ocean obscene
Where once we were gone in a reverie
...Now only Monday is a day away
Waiting like a shadowed adversary
We obstruct our eyes
And wish the days away
David Williams Apr 2013
He enters looking bedraggled, tired and worn out, his skin like vellum, blank and pale.
Lifting his eyes to catch their gaze he gives a slight nod to acknowledge their presence.
He scans the room as he would a poem seeking an indent that leads to a quiet corner.
A half-lit light casts a shadow on the flock wallpaper, ink stained.
He sits hidden from view, away from plagiaristic eyes. Head In hand
Scribbling while listening for a new word, a muse sings, emanating an un-heard
Beat that guides his rhythm while searching for that elusive vowel. On the floor
Is a scattering of pencil shavings and broken lead, frustration at the loss of an adjective.
The half rhyme squeezes like a tourniquet on the brain…
Frustration runs high as enjambment slips off the page and gathers in reflective pools.

The Lay Pastoral reads an Elegy to the passing of Sir Rondeau Redouble, he lead a very lonely life ascending and then diminishing becoming less Didactic, the Footle holds a Lanterne for the loss, while the Limerick found it quite humorous.

At the bar a Stanza of poets gather, disciples of Villanelle, and regale of their latest triumphs in Women’s Quarterly. Then silence falls as Suzette Prime performs her latest Burlesque she is in good Shape. The Epulaeryu’s compare their Diamante while eating their babba ghanoosh. At the pool table the movers and shakers decant opinions on the latest ‘form’ something to do with A,E,I,O,U…Acrostic looks it up and down looking puzzled, Blank verse remains silent,

They dissect, analyse the entrails, the faint hearted feel a little Grook. The atmosphere is tense. Verbs drift like dust in the light, causing confusion, they mop their brows with a tired senryu. The haiku’s have little to say on the matter…

A Quintain of intellectuals quietly sit, the Sicilian sipping slim line Monoku’s (no ice) hoping for a Couplet before the end of the night. On a stool sit’s the barfly spilling his Bio over the counter top exposing an Ode-ious life, metaphorically speaking. On stage the hottest group in town… Chant Royal and the Syllables… singing their latest Sestina it reached 39 in the hit parade, the notes drift across the room resting on the floor congealing into a poet-tree fountain…they feel at home as the last act MC McWhirtle enthrals with his latest Ballad…the barman Ric Tameter calls time, the evening is a Rap. The club is Epic…


© 27/3/2013
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
The dot by your name,
The yellow lighting bolt
High tide warning
You have sent me a message private.

A tap, a flick,
We are communicating,
Comparative woes and lives
That could not be more different.

There but for history's twists,
We would share the same country.

But here comes the confess.
I do not rush to read them,
A savory, a wine that must decant,
Just knowing that you care
Put me in your prayers
Is nothing short of insanity.

Who puts me in their prayers?
Who confesses to saying prayers, anyway?

The pleasure of knowing that a you-message awaits,
Eye candy for the my mind,
But more real more truthful is
I am afraid for myself.

Distance real and virtual cannot be overcome,
Your troubles, a surrounding circle.
No angle, no escape, and I am there,
Next to you, as close as I want to be,
I, cannot be close enough.

Do you notice that I write these days
Tween midnight and six,
When the painkillers wear off?

You gift me 97 pages of reveal,
After page 2, you make me squeal.
Wordy tears are unveiled at 100am,
Force myself to open, to it, deal.

Three times a day, with food. Pain killers.
So from now on,
I will eat at midnight, take that pill,
And maybe sleep.

But for now, but for you,
There is no pill that drives away the pain
That is ten years old and still haunts.
Different pains, different pills.

But what I can do,
Is put you in something
With which, I am way out of practice,
Knee'd, put you in my prayers,
Which always get answered, tho
Ain't necessarily positive.

This pain has me hobbled.
Besides, when in the past,
Knee'd, always made Him uncomfortable, so,
I write vertical, standing up,
Overlooking the East River
And you reject my your-composure admiration,

Ok.

Here is a funny word that captures you,
And me ironically, the now stand-up poet.

aplomb
— noun

imperturbable self-possession, poise, or assurance.
the perpendicular, or vertical, position.

You possess it by the kilo.

If you say it out loud,
One of us will laugh,
And one of us still be weeping.

100am and the prayer thing comes back to me,
Way too easy.

But reciprocity of kind
All I ask for.

I know the creator is up, listening.
Cause we talk, as you know.
None will be more surprised than
He,
To see a black dotted, yellow lighting message
From his earthbound buddy.

Will it be opened,
Or like me,
Left unread, for the savory pleasure
Of knowing he has me vertical too,
Asking for his intercedence?

I don't know.
So while we wait, I give you this poem
Free and clear.  You own it.
This lighting poem,
This prayer.
For whom this belle poem rings, will know it. Let it stay that way too, please.
Mariam Paracha  Sep 2013
De-void
Mariam Paracha Sep 2013
So,
you decided to go back
your mind on rewind
back to the days
where you were basking in praise
“she’s so clever with her impeccable grades.”
Through chai-flavored breath, the news pervades
But even before their breath can recover from the first cup of tea
Another piece of news comes buzzing like a bee.
The news and their views float like paper boats
Clumsily they drift as it climbs up their throats
So easy it is for them to decant their advice,
Sometimes your personal opinion will more than suffice.

Now you sit prepped for the role you were made to obey
A woman, a daughter now you are made to relay
‘What a clever girl with a gifted source!’
So they decided its time for the accelerated course!
‘We like your daughter very much’ they said
A phrase young girls will always dread
‘It’s a good family’ your parents thought
So what are we waiting for! Let’s tie the knot!

Race past the basics, hypothesis and theories
Blindly trusting rulings without any queries
Your books, like yourself hold back their views
for being a daughter you must first pay your dues
They’ve found the divine answer so you can stop discovering
Your starry eyed youth reflected in the flashy hovering
Of women picking apart your choice of dressing,
While occasionally passing on their blessing
Bright scorching lights hang over your head
Your blush and foundation gradually spread,
Your proud family greets the guests with glee
You’ve been promoted to the next level, without a degree!

back on track
after two daughters you are finally twenty one
I guess we’ll just have to try again for a son…
“hmm what did you say” you ask so dazed
your complexion is dampened as you’re perpetually fazed
you keep staring down a path so dark and deep
a  path made void when you took the leap.
A doctor?  A poet or maybe a vet
But before you could decide the table was set
neatly laid out like a routine
now you can’t even recall when you were a teen
dark hollow rooms become your resort
lying in bed and brooding is making your sanity contort,
from what you were and what you have become
you wallow in distress as you have become numb
to the cries and needs of your child
the sounds that have you perpetually riled.

So I continuously wonder what brought upon such fate
She is a person before anything, especially a mate
Do not define her life before she grows into her skin
Only self - satisfaction brings upon that grin -
The one that we strive for throughout our existence
The one we proudly flash against any resistance

So give your girls a chance to stand on their own
Become their own person so they can never bemoan…
Or maybe sometimes they may
because us girls have our days
You know the ones that make all men say…
“Please God just take me away!”

So little girl I pray for your revival
you will find new meaning for your survival
“it’s never too late!” might be trite
but it is essential to help your mind ignite
and just in case you ever fall through a crack
always carry self worth in a backpack,
So you are always buoyed,
against the cavernous void.
Morning is moving molasses
seems like I need to wipe clean
the lens 'til it passes
Central line underground blues.

same story
he views
but still likes to choose
the way that he looks at
his life.

Red anorak lady
hold tight quilted baby
sleeping
in tune with the rest

fingernail scratchers
detach me of thoughts
as my eyes itch
to watch them some more.

stale odours
surround me

the Japanese girl
had a face mask on
she got off.

In listening to
the World through you
and your earphones
I come to the understanding
that
I have been standing
forever.

Dungarees a drag on
she's wearing them
a bag on
her shoulder
looks twenty
but
probably older


I think too much
must
have a touch of the Sun
or
a drop of the madness,
Nat Lipstadt  Jan 2014
My Curator
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2014
My Curator

I can't remember,
what I can't remember

new items arrive daily.
name of the restaurant,
where I ate dinner
last night

the name of the movie show
I saw last week,
the last place my glasses
went looking for me,
lucky me, only one key,
hanging around my neck,
easy peasy,
just trying to find which apartment
it's for

I can't remember,
what I can't remember

the first poem ever wrote,
the first poem ever loved,
written conceived while I ever wept,
cause
found some old ones and thought
hey, that kid is pretty good

I can't remember,
what I can't remember
when and how I knew,
what now you know
as well

what matters this, little

quote the kids,
last week is well,
so last week
or even better,
whatever...

yesterday, last week, last year
have all merged,
old men drivers, riding in the slow lane,
where the speed limit signs are reminders
go faster, keep up

the memory surplus, surfeit,
now purged, forfeit,
fear of droning,
my inspirations
grown decrepit,
forces desperate,
less than adequate creativity,  
trying to pour poems Beaujolais,
before they can age,
decant, evaporate,
poisoned by oxygenation
sour turning, stupid smiling,
cause I know you from someplace,
are you a clear and present danger?

I remember plenty
of glimpses and snatchery.,
but the incoming data flow
has strained my 50's circuitry.
these memories, onboarded
now a single product
of a mass hatchery,
all eggs are indistinguishable,
therefore they exist,
therefore I was once

electronic calendar
keeps my schedule,
thus my native personality
type A,
kept in line,
the pills work,
from time to time

so I am
where I was supposed to be,
a necessary
but insufficient conditionality,
pour justifier mon existence

the mission critical stuff,
the weave, the sensibility,
the collections of sensations
of another's hand
on my back as I write,
declining, felt their dying,
having arrived at the
skinny part of the tail
of the normal curve
of natural ability

alas,  alack,
too many poems dying stillborn

I have newly employed
a curator

sadly he (she?) will not
cure me,
nor save my soul,
tho he wears
a collar of white
around his neck,
and a stethoscope
over one wing,
a recorder on the other

his wage dear,
sold him my best jewels

Paying costly
for my Ponzi scheme
of reusing
words previously employed,
deeded ownership of the accidental newbies,
the old ones in the sewing box,
both now his property,
but at least, saved.

I cannot write
the name of what stands between  
you and I,
tween tip of tongue
and visions of past,
but future visions, pace taken,
they will survive
should they arrive again

you reader, you are
a familiar face

are you not my
savior,

My Curator?

10:45 AM
Sept. 3rd, 2012
Labor  Day
Clem C  Sep 2013
En Masse
Clem C Sep 2013
Crystals huddled together in the cold,
don't they gather,
insisting that together they are bold.

The secret of how they hold together is
in their salt-less tears
no regret at losing individuals you quiz?

One crystal, one snowflake, is insignificant
but a billion, billion, billion,
that might make a freshwater lake, to decant.

En Masse if, voices fell like hail or snowflakes,
on the ears of those who hear,
and can do, there would be change in the stakes.

One crystal clear thought, choice
one human beautiful snowflake,
one can become the voice, wrought
                                            that rings of common sense, decency and love.

En Masse.


©ClemC092013
I stand alone lost in a night sky
without even a silent wind
to decant a silent world,

all I can hear are the  whispered
dreams of the fallen,
not liberators,
just more trepidation,

Where are the Horizons?

its light
Where are the proud
, the leaders who never ceased
to claim its glorious rays?
the real stars

as I weep for what is lost
a scarlet tired world begs for them
Their love was never possible
It could not allowed to be
So deceptively decant
The way the beach consumes the sea

Amid the fields of flowers
Where no one would ever see
He stripped her heart so bare
She begged him willingly

Exchanging dangerous glances
It made her heart to race
He consumed her every thought
They made it do in haste

But their days began to narrow
The path became unsure
Deceit flared out it's nostrils
For their lust there was no cure

The parting was barely visible
She went about her way
He chose the other path
That lead down to the cay

She sails in luxurious ships
He sits in a craber's shack
They both turn their shoulders
Always looking back

Their love was never possible
Scott Mitchell Jan 2013
Adhering to social norm, and
obligated duty at the ball
I ask Her Majesty for a dance
and she gracefully extends a hand
Then we step, spin, and sway
as eyes behold in awe

But, who am I in late e'en
to command the silence of a queen
She lay motionless in the cuverie
as I savor the côtes
rousing deep breath and sigh

And I, not befittingly
command a vineyard of floral unfold
The sun riseth not, but heat is known
as lord of land tends each blossom
and shall forsake none

Who am I to drink as a noble
and taketh of fruit so divine
Thy hands remove the canopy
which adorned all I aspire
Seized and raised to mouth
Engaging in gluttonous frolic
as the queen declares 'halt not!'

I shalt not forbid thee
a request for royal execution
Assign thy sacrifice as mine
descending on my dagger
Exhaustive love for loss of life
conquers and consumes thine eyes

Mine end too, be not untimely
as harvest comes to pass
And I, decant into your grasp
Rims of the barriques break
and a peasant dons a crown

~
Scott Mitchell

— The End —