4/5/2019

In the middle of my transgression,
That trap I’ve fallen in before,
I cry out with desperation,
And I find an open door.
Could it have been there the whole time?

When there seems to be no progression,
It seems I can’t bear it any longer.
Where is the inert deliberation?
Somehow I must ignore the anger,
But how can I find good in the grime?

All I can see: my inward aggression!
That fuse always burning shorter,
Only accomplishing obliteration.
As I make myself a martyr,
I am sacrificed for an unknown crime.

Though my face gains new expression,
New is just another word for darker.
Inward digs the outward oppression,
It must die, but never can I conquer.
Death bells don’t seem to chime.

My focus is always my impression,
I exist to make me look better.
If it were up to my discretion,
All would fall into disorder.
Does it ever end, this eternal climb?

My story now in compression,
I couldn’t resist anymore.
My biggest fears now in suppression,
The door is the way out. Therefore,
Step though, I must. It’s showtime.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is the end of all my repression!
All of me spilled on the floor!
There is no regression!
All of me, anyone can explore!
This exposed feeling is not sublime!

That open door, a misimpression?
Expectation missed, take it away, I implore!
My perspective, it doesn’t freshen,
My new life, why for it do I deplore?
Still I desire to go backwards everytime.

Is Your will bent for my depression?
Is Your love just folklore?
No! Doubt is sadly my profession,
Thank You for all that You restore,
You forgive my idiotic paradigm.

Maybe this was all to get my attention.
Though my soul feels sore,
I know I’m in a better position.
You’ve won, forget the score,
Although over time I worked overtime.

Results result from action,
What’s this all for?
Near extinction, is my confession,
But I’m no longer like that dinosaur.
I’m running out of words to rhyme.

In the end, I made the right decision,
It’s all so much more,
I’m thankful for my Implosion,
There’s less of me than before,
With you in side as my enzyme.

That first night, I pulled out all the pulp of my swollen, pumpkin heart and showed it to you.
All full and wet and messy
You cupped in your hands the filling from your own heart
Much the same as mine

And we shared a likeness
Two souls born real and rich
Out of garden patch dirt
Full of gourds and crickets

I trusted your blossoms and your stems and your weeds
But you stowed it all away as suddenly as you came
And I'm still standing here
With all my stringy
Sopping soul
Exposed.

They want to have you in their pictures,
And squeeze your fingers, thin like guitar strings
To play the lead role in the poet’s scriptures
And fit your chest gap like Saturn does its rings.

They will throw sugar in your tea;
Invent a sweet nickname to call you by.
Eventually they’ll tear off your neck the key
While renting space under your amber sky.

On Halloween they’ll party at the railway station
Tell me, are there any lonely ghosts to foster?
Watch spooky souls fill up the autumnal duration
I bet it’s fun to parent one shy fluffy monster

It must be staggering to see you so devout
To thoughts you sow and songs you reap.
How many romances does one write out
To finish songs that lull my heart to sleep?

That crystal ball in ginger’s hand..
I wonder what it’s for?
Is it an import from Red Planet where only dreamers land?
If so, how many smuggled feelings does it store?

I know, I will some day recycle
This dream of mine, a poet’s wish
Into a new desire, say, for a brand new unicycle
And once I get it, I’ll go search for a goldfish.

I’ll pick an urban goldfish from the pond,
And hand it to a girl, smiling with glee
It’ll grant her any wish due to our special bond,  Pray she won’t waste it on a music deity, like me!

Two friends, two lively runaways
Skin tinted light bulb white-
A vague starched contrast to pistachio Mays

So many tides of turquoise fears
Lave rooted feet in flight unseen thus far  
In moon parade resulted earthly years
Few never landing kites are brushed against a shooting star

Wait! Now listen. There he comes.
Vein lianas pierce his pale wrists-
Pan plants steps on earthy lumps -
This straying soul the aging still resists

You may spot him in a forest
Leaving seasoned feral brae
With some berries wild in August,
Sweetening strangers' welcomed stay

"Have you seen my Darling, boys?
She wears ribbons in her hair
Darns old lovely teddy toys
Pray this life to her is fair."

"No, but say the author tells the truth
Lives your Wendy in a city
And her children know the sooth
They are little, yet so gritty"

Peter smiled :"Well, then I will bring them all
They'll attend the fairies' ball!
Now close your eyes and let us fall
If muffled in a fairy dust no harm will ever you befall

Onward, over a forgotten cave
Peter's flute in silence lays
Upward for a foggy cradle crave
Three flying figures in ablaze

They come out of nowhere
And can be as simple as a word
Intrusive, flashing voices
Who refuse not to be heard

These opinions with biased force
Keep ringing in my ears
Burning through my retinas
And searing their mark upon my fears

Like a thousand prickling itches
That cannot be soothed by a scratch
Stifling does not contain them
They constantly find new ways of attack

The mind is a delicate balance
Of inner and outer cues
A slight shift can cause a deafening
Where clear thoughts spiral to confused

We lie amidst Ripe mountain herbs,
The nightingale has just begun its summer trill,
This hymn for golden vocal cords
Composed no owner of a writing quill

So sweet were melodies produced
That I mistook the front row lady’s cheap perfume
For blossoms, above which haunting hornets mused;
For an aroma of our Shakespeare love in bloom.

The serenading cardboard creatures –
Those thieve their voice from birds with no address.
Meanwhile a glass raised in a playhouse features
But colored water, as red as gipsy’s dress.

When the last spectator goes,
Having not found at least one genuine sun,
As actors, we recede into descending roles;
Electric blood in lamps’ capillaries feels numb.  

A lovely ladybug, I doubt, I will ever catch,
A lifelike flower, dipped in a painting fusion:
All this, fine artists tenderly attach  
To lifeless decorations, for aid they do us in a willful staged illusion.

Three burnt sienna pearls run down your spine
Yet after a big round of applause
These jewels are no longer signs of the divine,
But witches’ marks or, rather, unalluring flaws.

After the play I went to buy a notebook from my shopping list
To store the overgrowing verses, such as these;
A sheet of paper guarantees
To treat them like extinguishing bees

Cashiers ****** the change into my hand,
You purchased hothouse roses with;
And up those pretty useless beauties stand
In someone’s vase, whose name remains a myth.

They give me back those polished dimes
You traded for a pair of shoes.
I’ve seen you marshal through onstage lifetimes,
Yet to disclose personas’ traces the theater walls refuse.

Your chocolate hair has just fallen from the hairdresser’s hand,–
That’s how I know the summer’s coming to a bitter end.

Héroes

You and I, You and I –
Are heroes who are misaligned
With countries, guilty of restraint
With folks, born under quite a different reign

With foreign thought repertoires
That couple monolingual stars;
With fledged serenading creatures
Behind shut windows of indifferent teachers,  

And alien, dry air in one’s
chest,
Deserting lungs after the heart had been undressed.
Yet for a brief period of time
Whilst a busker performed for a dime

There was a pact between jet setters:
To roam the Roman soil no matter
What it takes, for it has been professed
That we embark on this exhilarating quest.  

As much a blessing as it is curse,
It has no expiration date, unlike this verse.
Dear designer of a multi-universe!
Please make, at last, a place come forth

Where writers, both rereading Keats,
Could start a revolution on your paper sheets  
Would you allow?
Might never know, because for now...

...You and I, you and I
Are festive effigies they call their shrine.
Rising above confetti-covered streets,
We regenerate to liberating pagan beats.

Who knows, perhaps, this self-repeating theme
Is, indeed, a dream within a dream;
Perhaps.. The nightly waves after demise
Are morning rays that make up the sunrise.

One autumn evening on my phone screen
Appeared an exquisite music ad:
Pine-thin, with eyes – distilled blue gin, marine–
There chased someone a British lad.

Amidst the turquoise color, the deck of hearts he serenaded;
And even though he was untouched by morning ray,
And even though he stood in pensive thoughts so deeply barricaded –
This hardly cheapened his array.

His voice committed a break-in
Into my catalogue of outmoded dreams:
As soon as music penetrates my skin
I feel as if we’ve synchronized bloodstreams.

The queen of hearts may one day cease to reign
Won’t cease the magic of a boy with hazel mane.

never date a poet because they’ll
expose your lies with the stroke
of a pen and leave you to bleed out
your sorrows.