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 Jul 2018 sheila sharpe
SN
Through blinds
In this world
I watch from sidelines
So many voices raised
Heat seeking missiles
Just waiting to hit any mark
Anything that sticks out
Anything that gives off heat
And as the world burns hotter
I find myself colder
Trying to be indifferent
Feeling hands and tongue tied
I won't add fuel to the fire
I'm letting myself burn out

But inside
I'm silently crying
For all the hurt that comes around
Feeling out of this world
With each passing day
I've tried the blinds
Shutting peripheries
But I can't ignore what I see in front of me
So much hate and lacking empathy
And for the life of me
I don't know why
It has me wondering
If I'm alive just to see how love dies

I loved the world
For all her shades
Be they wonderful or horrible
I loved humanity
Flawed and flaundering
With the potential for the truly beautiful
I loved each element
Every nuance
Every single detail telling me the world is infinitely colourful
But now lines are drawn
Colours muted mutating slowly into
False sensations of black and white

I'm bowing out
This can't be right
I must be sleeping
Feeling, seeing something awful
So I won't open these wandering eyes
I'll keep them tightly locked inside
Not stare awake into this night
I'll pass the time in my own mind
And let this nightmare pass me by
Come sunrise I'll be in bed
Please don't wake me
Let me rest
Drifting into better dreams
Away from this broken world's unrest
breathing the turquoise like lavender,
and sipping the blue summer.
bitter cold clouds glide and morph lava lather,
floating whispers cut by sweet pineapple sunshine.

soon, a moment, now
rhythms ripple the sky like skipping stones
we jump the music like puddles
splashing in the frequencies.

cobalt bass rumbles the earth hungry,
pumps the air with springing spirals
pushing and pulling the senses,
reverberating through cells.

heavy mud humming, stomping
echoes through our atoms dizzy;
balancing tuned body to innate electricity
the fizz of circulating lemonade energy.

we jump the music like puddles
splashing in the frequencies.

strawberry melodies spilling ribbons,
dolphin leaps of the spaces inbetween beats,
lines of colours overlapping,
colliding, mixing, merging, blending
in with the forest.

washing over souls the life fire sparkles
like a clear water cleansing harmonies,
sound waves crashing against inertia.
phosphorescent glow of re-charged love
for the world, for being, animation

flowing through burnt smoky ashes
of sapphire charcoal skies;
dimmed radiation of chlorophyll emerald days.
the smell of salt, dry bark, fluffy carbon mists,
trembling lights softening the eyes'
grip on outlines, loosening lies.

watching the cycles of patterns
tumbling colours through a mill rotating,
and the silence of listening
when the music comes to an end.
Something I've been working on for a long time on and off since 2015.
 Jul 2018 sheila sharpe
L B
Can I tell you how seriously I take this poem!
_
Could the sun be
    just
    a hole up there—
    that if I could leap
    would enter that breach of light

Someone!
   Throw me a line!
   Give me a reason
   There’s never enough
   in this life of breathing!

Someone!
   Explain why dreams roll a soul
   toward the cliffs of day
   Wakes to ache
   then stuffs its mouth
   with necessary same
  
Inhale—
   button shirt—brush hair
Exhale—
   necessary glance in the mirror
   (yes, still there)    

A lifetime!
   in a shallow instant’s stiff clear water
   (Yeah— still there)  
   in endless caverns of tired eyes
   above mouth still trying
   to say SOMETHING!  
   from ever smaller eternities
   in the glass-flat empty....

Please! Someone explain!
   this draw of breath
   one forcing itself upon another's
   life
   of beating —
   Violence in my chest!

Why hearts don’t sleep—

and I wind up watching
again and again—till
I am the ******...

...Morning lies
   in the mists of a humid *****
   who moans and sweats
   and boils her hips—
   and I wind up watching!?

“Will someone please…!"

   ...and I wind up watching
   bedspread, bed sore, death bed
   till you’re breathing easy
   when she sits and picks
   her collapsed bouffant
   damning the makeup
   that got crushed in the sheets

…Morning
Lies--

   with no expectancy
   both tired of knowing...

   ...The Devil lost his balance
   in my presence one night


...tired of knowing—

THE WILL!  
THAT WILL!

  ...walk away
   or continue to play

   I could open this screen!
   watch the world STEP BACK!
                                 SLAP FLAT!
   as trees and dwellings flush like quail
   to prop their tottering panic
   against the blue—

You—assume composure...
   compose assumptions
   Await my next—

Move like a spy


1990


Take careful note:  

Why I don’t play chess or any other game
for that matter.
    
    
“...and when you're really out there
the windows all have opened onto nothing...
Death having long since-- left the scene.
When you get really out there
it's all--
and nothing…”
"he may have been sparklers and you may have been fireworks but i was waiting for the whole **** sun."
- self love
there's a fisherman down by the sea
sitting on the wharf
watching the sun sink into the western sky
a frown frames his house
he looks out the window
at his pole, gear
and especially that of his net
emptiness
metaphors that weigh on him
uprooting his garden
a garden of no delight
one lonely row of forget me not
and regret
all wilting
his foundation
lost
never found or realized
he pauses
runs his hand over his pole
like a belt without any notches
his grip slipping into the abyss
as the last of the orange
sinks
bleeds also
at where the sea  meets the sky
where his day slowly turns to night
somewhere out there he sees his image
in nature's mirror
at his crossroads
for deeply
and some may say shallowly
he looks onto the sea one last time
and he means what he says
and throws his fishing gear in
tears welling in his eye
as he watches his teddybear sink
lips gurgling
seemingly asking why
... why
he answers back
there were no fish or bites
in his lonely sea
or wind at his back
... there
his window opens wider
the sea not singing or dancing
he sees the ambient light
correlations
... here

Logan Robertson

7/06/2018
If one reads between the lines the poem reads like a eulogy with a
harbinger to come.
 Jul 2018 sheila sharpe
Myrrdin
I pick up the pieces
Gently, carefully,
Place them down
In my bathroom sink
Wipe away debris
Collected and caked
Onto your being
I meticulously clean
Each part of you
Warm you up
Pat you dry
Give you back
To the world
And hope you
Don't return here
Broken and filthy,
Yet again.
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