pi in the sky
numbers dwindle-
division, subtraction...
zero times anything equals a zero

BOOM  BOOM  BOOM!
with the rifle pointed skyward-
perfect the trifold
presented to the widow

peacetime pride,  worn upon your chest...
("feel-good" print- she passed her final test)

banner waved,  reduced to ash by flame
(pantywaist) intimidating fame

"Stolen Valor" shouted by young gun
sharpshooter saved your life again,  my son

older,  wiser,  wartime conscription victim
against the volunteer, peacetime freeride
you,  younger knowitall
who never faced it,  
strutting like a cockerel full of pride

BOOM BOOM BOOM!
the fireworks you splay....
pride of your "sacrifice" on display

and your suckup ***** ***** your ego
blinded by distortion

bull's-eye bead drawn on the back...
did his death elevate your stance?
can you somberly raise your barrel skyward?
do you revel in your Victory Dance?

divide our numbers-
factor in subtraction.
bear witness to the emaciation of the faction

oh "King", did you come to find
the stolen glory within your midnight mind..?
or have the hearse's headlights left you blind?

DOOM DOOM DOOM
belief in you,  abating....
the voices of those who bought it,  fading...

My head is resting on the fog
that cushions Pillow Mountain.
My eyes are streaming waterfalls,
flowing like a fountain.

This misty dream, it seems
was but illusion, fleeting;
A second saved within a lifetime
on a random meeting.

The silken mist embraces you:
my feet are bound by clay.
The coldness of the Earth you left
binds me day by day.

I'm all right,  yeh?
Fulcrum point...  the four-way teeter-totter...
Circus balance act...

I am that center pivot-point
locked on the beams.
I bear the weight of those around,  it seems.

Bipedal tripod,
my cracks reduced to splinters...
Unending war
and I am at the center...
but I'm all right,  yeh?

Sloop the shoulders;
crack the back again...
Lesson learned:
to **** it up-  and in.

Muted life
will not offend a friend...

I'm all right.
Yeh...

"I hope to go just like my father did...
the final falling into aleep.
There is no need to carry on and weep."

She chases red-haired children 'round the floor...
awake, responsive, dreaming...
O2 low.
She falls into the air, a bruise to show-
swears she will not do that anymore.

She's addicted to the pump that gives her breath-
totally aware of her impending death...
(does she know I would take it if I could?)

Her lonely days in springtime haze,
window-watching birds...
in black and red, the records kept
of her final words.

A daughter, corporation-owned,
fear from far away...
one reduced to part-time job,
surviving day to day.

My sister/crutch, to whom I clutch
as I limp through the mess...
my lover and an angel
who guide me through the stress...

"You'll wake one morning to find me dead",
words to me, tonight, she said...

I wake all night and hit the light
to watch her chest rise and fall.

(Does she know I would take it if I could..?)

The ticking clock, like gunshots through my head
aimed at my youthful ignorance...
the scent of you still lingers in our bed.

I ghost through space, not living, not yet dead -
straddle chasms of our best intents-
the ticking clock, like gunshots through my head...

My mind still hears the poetry you read,
replays the laugh of youth's exuberance,
the scent of you still lingers in our bed.

I enter empty house now, filled with dread.
I feel your absence, all it represents-
the ticking clock, like gunshots through my head.

A fog billows in, begins to spread,
as death comes to erode all innocence.
The scent of you still lingers in our bed.

My nose has plundered through each precious thread
for faintest linger of your redolence...
the ticking clock, like gunshots in my head.
The scent of you is fading from our bed...



© Mar 2018, Winnie Carolina

Leather boots perched on a rail,
and not a speck of dust is showing.
A cigarette between the lips,
but there's no ember glowing.
A redhawk circles overhead,
but all I hear is chickens crowing...
All was then and all is lost. You're clinging to the final showing...

Number One and number Two were banished into cyberspace.
And further down the line the one who envied to usurp the space.

I was sitting on the Mighty Mountain. I watched the Wishanabes go
marching through the lowly valley,
following row by row.
But that was then and this is now.
It doesn't matter anyhow;
your fleeting sense of stolen fame.
You have lost your "toughest game".

Digging bones and brushing dirt,
abandoned in your lonely hurt...
a forgotten name, forgotten face
lost within cyberspace.


22022022 © Winnie Carolina

Where did you go
You know
The queens and kings?

All those who jumped on board?

What did you "win"?
Some celebration
at the anahilation?

You conquered this, your "toughest game"
You celebrated your "fame"
for a moment ....

You disappeared into cyberspace
You were replaced .

(Same fare you offered him...)

Fried Pickles and Jacks with Axes
The man who digs the bones.

Photo buried at dirt crossroads ,
Living Life old and alone.

Headlights crossing down the highway,
Hearse comes to take him home.
Cherry burst upon the highway
discarded like the fame you've known.

Two years too late...
Sealed my fate.
Compliant and Complicit.

No one left to defend.. banished into cyberspace.
The King and Queen since replaced.
Legacy erased.

His wisdom still graces pages,
One of Poetry's greatest Sages.