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i dreamed a rattlesnake was loose in the closet i heard it rattling i was afraid to open the door



a man suffering a toothache goes to see his dentist the dentist administers laughing gas when the man comes to his numb tongue swooshes around his mouth he asks how long was i under the dentist answers hours i needed to pull them all out



he imagines when he grows old there will be a pencil grown into one hand and a paintbrush grown into the other they will look like extra fingers grown out from the palms extensions of his personal evolution little children will be horrified when they see mommy mommy look at that man’s hands!



what if we are each presented with a complete picture of a puzzle from the very start then as our lives proceed the pieces begin showing up out of context sometimes recognizable other times a mystery some people are smarter more intuitive than others and are able to piece together the bigger picture some people never figure it out



i wasn’t thinking i didn’t know to think nobody taught me to think maybe my teachers tried but i didn’t get it i wasn’t thinking i was running reacting doing whatever i needed to survive when you’re trying to survive you move fast by instinct you don’t think you just act



many children are relieved when their parents die then they no longer need to explain prove themselves live up to their parent’s expectations yet all children need parents to approve foster mentor teach love



she was missing especially when her children needed her most she was busy lunching with girlfriends dinner dates beauty shop manicure masseuse appointments shopping seamstress fittings constant telephone gossiping criticizing she was too busy to notice she was missing more than anything she wanted to party show off her beauty to be the adored one the hostess with the mostest



i dreamed i was condemned to die by guillotine the executioner wore black and wielded an axe just in case the device failed in the dream the guillotine sliced shallow then the executioner went to work but he kept chopping unsuccessfully severing my head this went on for a long time



1954 Max Schwartzpilgrim sits at table in coffee shop on 5th floor of Maller’s Building elevated train loudly passes as he glances out window it is typical gloomy gray Chicago day he worries how he will find the money to pay off all his mounting debts he is over his head in debit thinks about taking out a hefty life insurance policy then cleverly killing himself but he cherishes his lovely wife Jenny his young children and social life sitting across table Ernie Cohen cracks crass joke Max laughs politely yet is in no mood to encourage his fingers work nervously mutely drumming on Formica table then stubbing out cigarette in glass ashtray lighting another with gold Dunhill lighter bitter tastes of coffee and cigarettes turns his stomach sour he raises his hand calling over Millie the waitress he flirtatiously smiles orders bowl of matzo ball soup with extra matzo ball Ernie says you can’t have enough big ***** for this world Max thinks about his son Odysseus



when Odysseus is very young Dad occasionally brings him to Schwartzpilgrim’s Jewelers Store on Saturday mornings Dad shows off his firstborn son like a prize possession lifting Odysseus in the air Dad takes him to golf range golf is not an interest for Odysseus Dad pushes him to learn proper swing Odysseus fumbles golf club and ***** he loves going anyway because he appreciates spending time with Dad once Dad and Odysseus take shower together Dad is so life-size muscular hairy Odysseus is so little Dad reaches touches Odysseus’s ******* feeling lone ******* Dad says we’ll correct that make it right Odysseus does not understand what Dad is talking about at finish Dad turns up cold water and shields Odysseus with his body he watches Dad dressing in mornings Dad is persnickety to last details of French cuff links silk handkerchief in breast pocket even Dad’s fingernails toenails are manicured buffed shiny clear



Odysseus’s left ******* does not descend into his ******* the adults in extended family routinely want to inspect the abnormality Mom shows them sometimes Dad grows agitated and leaves room it is embarrassing for Odysseus Daddy Lou’s brother Uncle Maury wants to check it out too often like he thinks he is a doctor Uncle Maury is an optometrist the pediatrician theorizes the tangled ******* is possibly the result of a hormone fertility drug Mom took to get pregnant the doctor injects Odysseus with a hormone shot then prescribes several medications to induce the ****** to drop nothing works eventually an inguinal hernia is diagnosed around the age of 9 Odysseus is operated on for a hernia and the ******* surgically moved down into his ******* the doctor says ******* is dead warning of propensity to cancer later in life his left ball is smaller than his right but it is more sensitive and needy he does not understand what the doctor means by “dead” Odysseus fears he will be made fun of he is self-conscious in locker room he does not comprehend for the rest of his life he will carry a diminutive *****



spokin alloud by readar in caulkknee axescent ello we’re Biggie an Smally tha 2 testicles whoooh liv in tha ******* of this felloh Odys Biggie is the soyze of a elthy chicken aegg and Smally is the size of a modest Bing cheery



one breast ****** points northeast the other smaller breast ****** points southwest she is frightened to reveal them to any man frightened to be exposed in woman’s locker room she is the most beautiful girl/woman he will ever know



Bayli Moutray is French/Irish 5’8” lean elongated with bowed legs knobby knees runner’s calves slim hips boy’s shoulders sleepy blue eyes light brown hair a barely discernable freckled birthmark on back of neck and small unequal ******* with puffy ******* pointing in different directions Laura an ex-girlfriend of Odysseus’s describes Bayli’s appearance as “a gangly bird screeching to be fed” Laura can be mean Odysseus thinks Bayli is the coolest girl in the world he is genuinely in love with her they have been sleeping together for nearly a year it is March 11 1974 Bayli’s birthday she turns 22 today Bayli is away with her family in Southeast Asia Odysseus understands what a great opportunity this is for her to learn about another culture he knows Bayli plans to meet up again with him in late summer or autumn in Chicago Dad wants Odysseus to follow in his footsteps and become a successful jewelry salesman he offers Odysseus a well-paying job driving leased Camaro across the Midwest servicing Dad’s established costume jewelry accounts Odysseus reasons it is a chance to squirrel away some cash until Bayli returns it is lonely on the road and awkward adjustment to be back in Chicago Odysseus made other plans after graduating from Hartford Art School he is going to be an important painter after numerous months and many Midwestern cities he begins to feel depressed he questions how Bayli can stay away for so long when he needs her so bad the Moutray’s send Mom and Dad a gift of elegant pewter candleholders made in Indonesia Mom accustomed to silver and gold excludes pewter to be put on display she instructs Teresa to place the candleholders away in a cabinet Mom also neglects to write a thank you note which is quite out of character for Mom Bayli’s father is a Navy Captain in the Pacific he is summoned to Norfolk Naval Station in Virginia the Moutray’s flight has a stopover in Chicago Bayli writes her parents want to meet Odysseus and his family Odysseus asks Dad to arrange his traveling itinerary around the Moutray’s visit Dad schedules Odysseus to service the Detroit and Michigan territory against Odysseus’s pleas Odysseus is living with his sister Penelope on Briar Street it is the only address Bayli’s parents know Odysseus has no way to reach them when the Moutray’s arrive at the door Penelope does not know what to tell them Mom and Dad are not interested in meeting Bayli’s parents it is not the first sign of dissatisfaction or disinterest Mom and Dad convey regarding Bayli Odysseus does not understand why his parents do not like her is it because Bayli is not Jewish is that the sole reason Mom and Dad do not approve of her Odysseus believes he needs his parent’s support he knows he is not like them and will likely never adopt their standards yet he values their consent they are his parents and he honors Mom and Dad let’s take a step back for a moment to get a different perspective a more serious matter is Odysseus’s financial dependency on his parents does a commitment to Bayli threaten the sheltered world his parent’s provide him is it merely money binding him to them why else is he so powerless to his parent’s control outwardly he appears a wild child yet inwardly he is somewhat timid is he cowardly is he unsure of Bayli’s strength and sustainability is that why he let’s Bayli go whatever the reason Dad’s and Mom’s pressure and influence are strong enough to sway his judgment he goes along with their authority losing Bayli is the greatest mistake of Odysseus’s life



he dreams Bayli and he are at a Bob Dylan concert they are hidden in the back of the theater in a dark hall they can hear the band playing Dylan’s voice singing and the echoes of the mesmerized audience Odysseus is ******* Bayli’s body against a wall she is quietly moaning his hand is inside her jeans feeling her wetness rubbing fingers between her legs after the show they hang around an empty lot filled with broken bottles loose bricks they run into Dylan all 3 are laughing and dancing down the sidewalk Dylan is incredibly playful and engaging he says he needs to run an errand not wanting to leave his company Odysseus and Bayli follow along they arrive at an old hospital building it is dark and dingy inside there is a large room filled with medical beds and water tanks housing unspeakably disfigured people swarming intravenous tubes attach the patients to oxygen equipment feed bags and monitoring machines Dylan moves between each victim like a compassionate ambassador Odysseus is freaking out the infirmary is too horrible to imagine he shields his eyes wanders away losing Bayli searching running frantically for a way out he wakes shivering and sweating the pillow is wet sheets twisted he gets up from the bed stares out window into the dark night he wonders where he lost Bayli



these winds of change let them come sailor home from sea hunter home from hill he who can create the worst terror is the greatest warrior
Pickled on quixotic tonics
he strives for a polyglot's poise,
balancing plaster peas
at the end of his tippler's tongue.

But the rough-surfaced pearls prickle
his too-ticklish bed of pink,
and gulped down, he administers
only a lessoned indigestion.

Flipping the flop, he prevaricates
himself into the tight-fit corners
of a parallelogram traced
by unsolemn processionals

bedecked in platitudinous finery.
Their porous smirks drip sticky
reminders of a plethora
of previously pernicious exercises

and dampen his fluffy ambition,
prodding procrastinations until
his drunken promise dries out
to become a posthumous wish.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
Nigel Morgan Dec 2014
The Open Studio

Usually the journey by car flattens expectation, and there’s that all-preoccupying conversation, so one only takes in the view where there’s a halt at a traffic light or at the occasional junction. A pattern on a wall, a damaged sign, a curtained window. Waiting, one looks and sometimes remembers, and what one sees later reappears in dreams or moments of disordered contemplation. A train journey is another matter: you sit and look, and when it is a trip rarely made, you put the book away and gaze beyond the ***** windows to a living landscape that scrolls past the frame of view. When you arrive there’s inevitably a walk: today through a town’s industrial hinterland, its pastness where former mill buildings have tactfully changed their use to become creative places, peopled with aspiration and strange activity. Walking reveals the despair of forlorn roadside business falling back into alleys ending in neglected and empty buildings, so much *******, silences of waste and decay.

But here’s the space, there’s a sign on a board outside, OPEN STUDIO TODAY. Entering inside it is quiet and cold, the door remaining open to let in the December air and the hoped-for visitors. But it’s bright and light: a welcoming presence of work and people and coffee and cake. And here’s the studio, a narrow space between make-shift walls where the artist works, where the work awaits, laid out on the surfaces of desks and tables, on shelves and walls, specimens of making; ‘stuff’, the soon-to-be, the collected, the in-progress-perhaps, the experimental.

Good, a heater blows noisily onto cold fingers. In the turbulent air pieces tremble slightly from their hangings on the walls. They are placed at a good height, a ‘good to be close to examine the detail’ height, the constructed, the made, the woven, the stitched, the printed, all assembled by the actions of those quiet, intent, those steady hands. There, a poem on a wall next to the window. Here, photographs of places unlabelled, unrecognised, but undoubtedly significant as a guide to the memory. Look, a dead badger lying in a road.

Next to the studio, a gallery space. Two walls covered with framed prints, well lit, a body of work captured behind glass, in limbo, waiting patiently for the attentive eye to sort the detail, that touch of the object on paper, that mark found and brought out of time and place. Perhaps these ‘things’, some known, some mysteriously foreign adrift from their natural context, have been collected by that bent form on a windswept beach, by the hand reaching out for the  gift in the gutter, struck by the foot on the track, unhidden in the grass by the riverside, what we might pass as without significance and beyond attention. This artist gives even the un-namable a new life, a collected-together form.

Moving closer let the eye enter the artist’s world of form and texture - and colour? There is a patina certainly, colour’s distant echo, what is seen on the edges, a left-behindness, more than any subtlety of language knows how to express, beyond comfortable descriptions, not excitable, where the spirit is damped down and is restful to the mind, a constancy of background, like a capturing of a cloud but bulging full of hints and suggestions, where texture is everywhere, nature’s rich patterns colliding with things once invented and made, used once, once used left and changed, thrown away, to be brought before the selecting eye and the possibility of form with meaning its patient partner.



J.M.W.Turner writes  on poetry and painting

Poetry having a more extensive power
Than our poor art, exerts its influence
Over all our passions; anxiety for our future
Reckoned the most persistent disposition.

Poetry raises our curiosity,
Engages the mind by degrees
To take an interest in the event,
And keeping that event suspended,
Overturns all we might expect.

The painter’s art is more confined,
Has nothing to equate with the poet’s power.
What is done by painting must be done at once,
And at one blow our curiosity receives
All the satisfaction it can know.

The painter can be novel, various and contrast,
Such is our pleasure and delight when put in motion.
Art, therefore, administers only to those wants,
And only to desires that exercise the mind.



Twilight

A day aside and diaried into busy lives
So to a morning walk to Turner’s View
Above the River Wharfe and Farnley Hall
Where it is said the inspiration came
For his famous oil of Hannibal,
with elephants and storm-glad Alps.

On to lunch where six around a table
Souped with salad before we homed
Mid afternoon the day in decline
We were done with words so watched
The edge-timed light flow between our hands.

Inevitably we climbed the stairs to lie
In twilight’s path beneath the skylight’s
Square a sliver-moon we couldn’t see
Gracing the remaining daylight hour
Marbled with shadows our collected
Curves and planes lay as sculptures
In the approaching dimity and dark
Each experimental stroke of touch
Holding us dumb to speech and thought
As night’s soft blanket covered us entire


Northcliffe Woods

Oh nest in the sky, empty of leaves,
Those tangled branches
Reaching out from twisted trunks
Into the sullen clouds above, when

Suddenly a crow -
Corvidae’, she said -
And simultaneously pulled
a hank of ivy from a nearby tree.

Hedera Helix I thought
But did not say, instead
I whispered to myself
Those ancient names I knew.

Bindwood, Lovestone
(For the way it clings
To bricks but ravages walls),
A vine with a mind of its own. But

She, in a different frame that day,
Apart, adrift and far away
From our usual walk and talk,
Fixed her gaze on the woodland floor,

Whilst skyward I sought again that
Corvid high in the branches web
Black beyond black beyond black
Against the pale white canopy above.


Franco*

Blow She Still
Ed insieme bussarono
Sweet Soft Frain
Cloche Lem Small
Spiri About Sezioni
Portrait Eco Agar
Le ruisseau sur l’escalier
Etwas ruhiger im Ausdruck
Jeux pour deux
For Grilly Fili Argor
Atem L’ultima sera
Omar Flag Ave
The Heart’s Eye*

play joy touch
code panel macro
refraction process solo
quick-change constrained
hiatus sonority colour
energy post-serial scintillating
aleatoric reuse transformation

A lonely child who imagined music
on sunday walks, he would talk about
how one lives with music as someone
would talk about how one might live
with illness or a handicap. He said,
‘You cannot write your life story in
music because words express the self
best whereas music expresses something
quite beyond words’.
This is collection of new and previous verse and prose gathered together as a gift for Christmas 2014 and New Year 2015. Each poem was accompanied by a photograph or painting. Sadly the wonderful Hello Poetry has yet to allow such pairings. The poem constructed from the words of J.M.W.Turner makes a good case I think for bringing image and word together - at least occasionally.
K Balachandran Oct 2014
The shadows get frighteningly long,
he watches in silence like a painter
whose mixed up colors in the palette
are found to be of no use, the pictures
are muddled by inept handling of colors.

once colorful skyline is suddenly
pecked in to pieces by winds,
the belligerent evening birds in discord;
the child playing in the park now gives up
her carefully structured house,
receiving cues from swarms of darkness,
looks at her mother as if she isn't  interested,
anymore, as if feeling the encroaching loneliness.

"Evening is a spoiler of beautiful things"
he jots down on the page of the day in his mind
"it's  enticing beauty is just a masquerade"
a truth he would vouch as a fact of life.

It's time to be back home, the dusk falls
holding mom's finger she goes
back to the lighted space of warmth
that has an assurance of kiss any moment,
on his way she sends a smile, just a stranger
till two days before, as if saying "See you tomorrow"
this little one is a fresh guest of breeze
a pure blessing, sunshine rare in winter.

This rusted garden bench knows him well,
the fragrance of mango blossoms from a land distant
in a season long past still spreads the scent of musk
touches somewhere deep, brings
memories from a land so far,  a land where
evenings were spent under the shades of mango trees
in exhilaration, awaiting the mango fruit season.

A change in the lighting of sky overturns everything.
time administers it's hidden poison drop by drop,
the memories of an evening from afar asks in a feeble voice
"Will the child come to the park to play tomorrow again?"
Ksjpari Aug 2017
My Principal is forever ready to explore
New things from students who implore
And set a new goal for them to outscore
In their own life. He is ready to restore
Intellect and discipline in school therefore
Stands out and administers students’ footsore.
Cherian sir the one who is fighting war
Against anxiety and worry on door,
Which pester children and occasionally gore
Their morale and self-esteem. They spoor
Away from study which he sojourns before
They reach to larger extent and be cocksure.
Never he criticizes without any reason poor,
As he is a positive thinker. All of us roar
Which is pacified by him but for sure.
He is the man of principles and decor
Whose blessings on all of us ever pour.
I am developing a new style of writing poetry where ending words of a line rhyme with one another, at least in last sound. I named it Pari Style. Hope readers will like it. Thanks to those invisible hands and fingers which supported and inspired me to continue my efforts in my new, creative, artistic and innovative “Pari” style. Thanks for your inspiring, kind, soft fingers.
Grahame Jun 2014
“My Lady! My Lady! Arise from your bower,
    I’d show you something, come down from your tower!”
The maid into the Lady’s chamber goes,
    she is intent on telling her news.

“My handmaid, my handmaid, what’s all the row?
    Don’t you know I’ve been asleep until now?
I am in my bed, in nightclothes I’m dressed,
    so please impart to me, that which you feel pressed.”

“My Lady! My Lady! Please get out of bed!
    it needs to be shown you, it can’t just be said.
In your private garden is something to see,
    you wouldn’t believe it if you heard it from me.”

The Lady arises, and in her clothes dight,
    descends from the tower in the still of the night.
“Hurry, please hurry,” the handmaiden said,
    “lest what I would show you has already fled.”

They reach the tower’s base, both breathing hard,
    go out of the tower, and into the yard
That they walk across, right up to the gate,
    which the Lady unlocks, though the hour is late.

This garden is private, the demesne of the Lady,
    hedged and bowered, everywhere shady.
With windy gravel paths, carefully laid,
    and only attended by the Lady and maid.

This is her refuge, her own privy lair,
    where she’d repair, far from the care
Of running the castle, looking after the keep,
    which often oppressed her, until she could weep.

Her husband, the Lord, is oft-times away,
    in ‘The Field of Mars’, in the thick of the fray,
Leaving the Lady in the castle alone,
    who, for a pastime’s made the garden her own.

She lovingly tends the plants and the trees,
    which were chosen to tempt birds, butterflies and bees.
And, by selecting ones with strong scent,
    she could know, by smelling, at night where she went.

She now knows this garden like the back of her hand,
    and loves to walk through it, or simply to stand
Admiring the vistas, or taking the air,
    now, lead by the maid, she follows to where
A unicorn lies, wounded with a spear,
    stretched out in an arbour, showing no fear.

The Lady and maid, now hand-in-hand
    slowly approach, and before it do stand.
“My Lady, my Lady, now do you see why
    to observe it yourself I have brought you nigh?
If I’d said, in your garden was a unicorn,
    I fear you would have treated my words with scorn.”

“My handmaid, my handmaid, yes, you’ve done right,
    to bring me here, to show me this sight.
And now, we must help with this poor creature’s plight.
    We’ll pull out the spear, I hope that’ll be right.”

“Return to the castle and fetch water hot,
    and cloths to clean, and what simples we’ve got,
And needle and thread to mend this wound.
    Hurry! Go now! Don’t just stound!”

Back to the castle the maid does hurry,
    while, for the Lady, she does worry.
They’ve neither seen such a creature before,
    and know not if a grudge it bore.

Slowly the Lady approaches the beast,
    cinching her kirtle around her waist.
By its side on the ground she kneels,
    and slowly reaching out, she feels
The unicorn’s flank, to try to decide
    how far the spear has pierced its side,
While the unicorn, with lugubrious eyes,
    gazes at her face as still it lies.

Soon the maid returns with the gear,
    which she lays on the ground, conveniently near
To where the Lady is stroking the creature,
    staring in wonder at each feature.

Two brown eyes, limpid and large,
    a spiralling horn crowns its visage,
Muzzle and feet, all black as jet,
    hide as white as milk, unset.

Ears pricked up, alert and keen,
    tail and mane both long and sheyne.
They know not how long there it has lain,
    with open mouth, panting in pain.

The maid hands the Lady a dampened cloth,
    which she uses to mop up the blood, then doth
Grasp the shaft of the piercing spear,
    and with one pull, draws it clear.

The unicorn gives just one start,
    then lies there, still, although alert.
From the wound comes forth a little blood,
    which the Lady staunches as best she could.

The Lady does the wound clean and dress,
    and stitches the edges, neat as a seamstress.
She wipes the unicorn’s fevered brow,
    then she and the maid wonder what to do now.

The sun’s rays over the garden wall creep,
    So the arbour, still in shadow deep
Slowly brightens up, and then
    the beams light up the unicorn, when
A flash of light blinds their eyes,
    and when they can see, to their surprise,
At the place where lay the unicorn
    there’s now a girl lying, looking forlorn.

Amazed, the Lady and handmaid stare
    at the girl, with a stitched wound, lying there.
Seeing her naked, exposed to their sight,
    they cover her form with a length of samite.

The sun does slowly the arbour warm,
    and they think she’ll now be safe from harm,
Then gradually, she opens her eyes,
    looks at them, and then she cries.

Her whole body with her sorrow shakes,
    the arbour echoes with the sobs she makes,
She appears so fragile and delicate,
    and seems to be inconsolate.

The Lady, sitting by the girl’s side,
    is concerned that the wound might open wide.
So violent is the girl’s paroxysm,
    that she fears it might cause the suture to schism.

So taking the young girl in her arms,
    she cuddles her closely, to soothe her alarms,
And with gentle rocking to and fro,
    the girl, exhausted, to sleep does go.

Later, the Lady feels the girl’s hot,
    and realises she a fever has got.
From the simples she makes a febrifuge,
    which she administers in the arbour refuge.

The sun is almost overhead,
    so fleetingly the time has sped.
The arbour now is cool with shade,
    while the Lady continues administering aid.

The samite cloth is soaking wet,
    so some of the Lady’s clothes does the maid get.
Also fresh water, because she does think
    the girl might like a cooling drink.

She sees the girl is sitting up,
    so offers her water in a cup,
And then offers her a silken gown,
    though wonders if she can dress on her own.

The Lady asks, “Can you put this dress on?”
    Weakly, the girls says, “I’ll try anon.”
Although, when she tries, she cannot stand,
    so the maid offers to give her a hand.

With the help of the Lady and the maid,
    in the dress, the girl is arrayed.
And then she says, still seeming dismayed,
    “Thank you for your help, I’ve been so afraid.
And if you’ll continue sitting near,
    I’ll discover to you just why I am here.”

“My stepmother did me cruelly treat,
    though when with my father, she seemed so sweet,
And because his love, he between us divided,
    to separate us, she then decided”

“She semblanced gaity by day,
    while always looking for a way
To make me seem as a fool, or worse,
    and to appear in all things as perverse.”

“At night she magic studiéd,
    while my father, drugged, lay asleep in bed.
I tried to tell him of her deceit,
    though he always maintained she would not cheat.”

“Eventually, she found a way
    of letting me stay a fille by day
While becoming a unicorn filly at night.
    Against her magic I could not fight.”

“I knew it would break my father’s heart
    to discover his wife had used black art,
And so I thought it a kinder way
    to pretend to go on holiday.”

“I forged a letter from a friend
    inviting me to go and spend
A few weeks visiting her home,
    and took the chance to distantly roam.
And that is why I happened to come
    into these woods, near your home.”

“Because I’m a unicorn at night,
    I live in the woods, like an eremite.
I try to keep to my cave by day.
    I have found this is the best way.”

“As a lady in the wood,
    it’s difficult to find any food.
My clothes are ragged and all torn,
    I’m better off as a unicorn.”

“As a unicorn, I’m able to eat.
    There’s grass all around, and shoots so sweet.
There are ponds and streams where I can drink,
    and this is my best chance I think.”

“I left my cave early last night,
    however, there was still some light.
The sun had only just then set,
    and I, some grass, was eager to eat.”

“It was then I did realise
    I wasn’t alone. To my surprise
A band of hunters, going home,
    by chance through your woods did come.”

“They, straightway, their horns did sound,
    and then let slip their pack of hounds.
I desperately fled away,
    and from my cave was forced to stray.”

“I managed, in front of the pack, to keep,
    meanwhile, my strength, did slowly seep.
On reaching a river that did rapidly flow,
    I desperately leapt it, and over did go.”

“Just as I landed on the further bank,
    I felt a sharp pain in my flank.
A huntsman had chanced a spear to throw;
    I thought I’d been given a mortal blow.
Because the hounds couldn’t the river cross,
    they had to reckon me as a loss.”

“I carried on, full of fear,
    until, to the castle wall I came near.
Then seeing a garden gate open wide,
    I managed, painfully, to struggle inside.”

“I staggered into this arbour deep,
    hoping it would me safely keep.
Then, passing close by, walked your maid,
    and I made a noise though I was afraid.”

“I didn’t want to die alone,
    so I made a sound before she was gone.
I only wanted someone to be there,
    I didn’t expect to receive any care.”

“Your maid came in, quite unafraid,
    and saw me, as on the ground I laid.
And from her eye fell down a tear,
    so then I knew I’d naught to fear.”

“I could now die in company,
    except your handmaid said to me,
‘You stay there, some help I’ll get,
    I will not let you die just yet.’”

“So she brought you, and you helped me,
    and for that I’ll always grateful be.
And now, if you’ll kindly open that door,
    I’ll return to my cave and you’ll see me no more.”

The Lady and her maid said, “No!”
    adding, “from here we shall not let you go.
You have still got a crippling wound
    and for it to mend it needs to be bound.”

“My maid can fetch some serving men.
    They’ll carry you to my chamber, and then
We can give to you the care you need.
    With this plan I hope you’ll concede.”

The girl said, “Nay, this I must gainsay,
    I really must now go away.
How do you think you’ll cope with the sight
    of a unicorn in your bedroom at night?”

The Lady and handmaid thought about this.
    Then the Lady said, “I wis!
My old nursemaid lives near the wood.
    We’ll get you to her, I know we could.”

“She has a cottage and a little land,
    a stable and outbuildings round it stand.
For love of me she’ll look after you,
    I think that is the best thing to do.”

“My handmaid, fetch some serving men,
    and ask them to bring my litter, and then
They can carry the girl to my old nursemaid.
    You’ll be safe there, look not afraid.”

The handmaid goes to find some men,
    while the girl and Lady stay snug in their den.
The girl tells the Lady about her life,
    and the struggle to cope with the constant strife
Which arose from the stepmother treating her ill,
    while her father seemed totally bent to her will.

The maid returns with the men and the litter
    and though the girl said she does feel fitter,
They place her on it, and she’s then transported
    carefully to the nurse’s home. All is sorted.

To alert the nurse, the maid goes on ahead,
    and the nurse listens carefully to what is said.
She quickly makes a spare room ready
    to look after the girl, who is so needy.

The girl is gently placed on a cot,
    while the nursemaid, making some water hot,
Gives the girl a sleeping potion,
    and covers the sutured wound with a lotion.

She binds the wound with cloth that’s clean,
    then asks the Lady what it does mean.
The Lady asks her nurse, so dear,
    to keep it secret, which the nurse does swear.

The nurse then listens, quite bemused,
    how the wounded girl’s been so badly used.
And the outcome, really tragic,
    of the stepmother’s evil use of magic.

The nurse says that of course the girl may stay,
    and the garden’s enclosed, so she will not stray
At night, when become a unicorn,
    so she should be quite safe there alone.
And, furthermore, while the girl is there,
    she’ll try to find a way to save her.

The Lady and maid walk back to the tower,
    and start climbing the stairs to the Lady’s bower.
The Lady asks the maid about the gate,
    if she knows why it had been open so late.

The handmaid said, “I must confess,
    I knew the gate was open, yes.
Oh please try not to be angry with me,
    I had unlocked it with my key.”

“Why were you out, my maid, at night?
    Why couldn’t your business wait until light?”

“My Lady, I have made a match,
    a soldier who’s in your night-watch.
His duty’s at night, he sleeps by day,
    so I have managed to find a way
To see him sometimes, if I can,
    Together, we have made a plan.”

“Although he’s always on duty late,
    he’s occasionally stationed by the gate
Of this garden, near the bower,
    and then he lets me know the hour.”

“When he’s there, I use my key,
    to enter the garden secretly.
I go through it, to the gate,
    then open it, for some time with my mate.”

“So I suppose, when late last night,
    I had opened the gate for a sight
Of my leman, I must have forgotten to
    close it tight when to him I did go.”

“Then, later on, when going home
    through the garden, I heard a moan.
And tryi
Kalyani S Jun 2013
You are the enticing novel
I love to curl around on a rainy day
Like a steaming mug of hot chocolate
You thaw the freeze covering me inside

You are the never ending box of tissues
Dabbing at the overflowing crest of my tears.

It’s as if you are the doctor
Who administers me my medicine

You are my sanctuary, my confidante, my love
But most importantly,

You are mine





(K.R.S)
Scrap Metal Jan 2018
i dont get it
i dont get us
sometimes im not sure i get anything
it might just be my downfall;
trying so hard to grasp it all
helplessly adrift, i fee like a rag doll.
people have the gall to portray what they are not,
we fight for equality
when honesty is an anomaly,
give credit to the pathetic
while the empathetic medic
administers an anesthetic
so he/she can save a life, unnoticed
but focused on which celebrity, out of Beverly
who got another synthetic appendage, unsatisfied with their genetic
aesthetic over utility
delusion over reality
we as a society coward away from reality
Shyloh Hatfield Mar 2016
Her lipstick venom with a blood stained tank top, I'm an upbeat victim on a vertical bed,
shackled and locked.
She's my sinister nurse she administers pain, like a clinical curse swiftly corrupting my veins,
one eyes forced open, one eyes sewn shut, one heart gets broken while the other one's left
covered in blood.
Asylum love fell for her shy little smile, tried to bait me in for her next human trial.
The sickness goes viral as I'm lured to the test room, my senses bloom
like I'm probably dead soon.
I barely could think, let alone could I contemplate, that my own fate was to be shatter by the first date.
Forgot where it went, all the love in her locket, guess we've been spent by the drugs in my pocket.
I looked to her eyes like she had something different, only to realize that my lenses were twisted
Journey of Days Nov 2017
the faerie is unwell
sitting alone
schooling her blank stare
and feigning apathy
while her shadow
administers botox to her brow
in a game of darts by candle light.

@journeyofdays
after rigorous analysis of observations and field notes now conclude that  faeries have personality disorders.
Leydis Jun 2017
He did not care,
He did not hesitate,
not for a second did he ponder on the consequences of
risking his own life…..
to save that of a stranger.

He did not hesitate
to immerse himself in the violent waves of my life.

He did not care to find me,
lifeless, ethereal,
with my swollen stomach from all the bitter fluids imbibed throughout my life.

Did not care,
to find me with numbed hands,
my lifeless eyelids,
caused by the cruel cataracts of my life.

He did not care to find me without a pulse,
impulses nailed in tumbled dreams,
impetuously begging God for a little bit of oxygen…
for mercy,
I just need to breath!!

He did not care,
He just didn't think!
He threw himself in without hesitation,
to save an empty life,
without thinking about it,
he administered first aids,
watching my puffed chest, he closed in,
placed a kiss on my lips,
transferring all the oxygen from him to me,
causing me to expel all that poisoned water,
all those ungrateful fluids that sickened my body,
harassed my soul,
destroyed my fragile heart from all tsunamis, I’ve endured;
From torrential waters,
stagnant waters, where life doesn’t happen at all,
contaminated waters that poison the soul,
violent waters-that destroy homes.

He did not care
he did not hesitate
he thought to himself
“that lifeless woman..deep in the waters..
                                I will bring back to life”

I breathe with the verses and kisses he daily administers!

LeydisProse
6/20/2017
__________________

­


A él no le importo,
en ningún momento pensó
que posiblemente perdería su vida, rescatando la mía.
A él no le importo hundirse en las profundidades de
los escombros de las oleadas de la vida.  

A él no le importo,
que me encontró cadavérica,
con la barriga crecida por los estragos
de todos los tragos amargos
que por no saber nadar, tuve que tragar en la vida.

A él no le importo encontrarme con las manos adormecida
con los párpados sin vida,
palpando las crueles torrentes que azotaban mi vida.

A él no le importo encontrarme sin pulso,
con impulsos clavados en sueños caídos,
a pulso rogando ¡que Dios me diera oxígeno!

¡A él no le importo!
Él no pensó,
él se arrojó a salvar una vida vacía,
él socorrió a mi sin pensarlo,
me dio los primeros auxilios,
viendo mi pecho inflado,
acerco su mejilla a mi boca,
con un beso lento, transfirió de su ser todo su oxigeno
hasta que de mí se expulsara;
toda esa agua envenenada
todos esos flujos ingratos que mareaban mi cuerpo,
hostigaban mi alma,
destruían mi corazón, por tantos maremotos que naufrague,
por las torrentes aguas,
las aguas estancadas donde no pasa nada,
las aguas tan sucias que envenenan el alma,
las aguas violentas que derrumban casas.

¡A él no le importo!
el solo pensó,
“esa mujer…casi muerta,
¡la revivo yo!.

Hoy respiro en los besos y versos
que él me suministra todos los días!
LeydisProse
6/20/2017
https://www.facebook.com/LeydisProse/about/
Gadus Oct 2017
incite expletive
insides erupt
medial temporal
mediates chaotic
administers quell
regain yourself
doctor jekyll
Forgotten
- she falls apart.

She curls up on her side of an empty bed.
His memory burns her eyes as his touch had stained her skin.
She cries,
"Lord, let me hold him, one last time."

She buries her head in her pillow as she would have buried her head in his chest.
Too tired to keep fighting,
her lips barely muster the strength to whisper that she loves him,
as she says goodbye.
In a desperate attempt to alleviate her pain,
she administers herself a lethal potion of sedative-hypnotics and alcohol,
drifting her into a deep sleep
where she is no longer bound
by suffering
and freed
from the possession
of her demons.

He found her
tightly clutching her pillow.
God, if only he had told her how delicately beautiful she was.

In that moment,
he was just as broken as she
and tears tenderly flowed down his cheeks.

He walked over to her
and kissed her on her forehead.
"Lord, let me just tell her that I love her."

He sat next to her on the empty side of the bed
and held her hands in his
- one last time
Aye admit, an author's adept
and adroit mastery
to link words together subtly crept
(expressing contents
in a matter of fact

understandable fashion, except
for dissertations and/or kept
jargon for exclusive specialty)
posits, that my wordy verbosity,
revelation, viz "EUREKA" suddenly leapt

administers cerebral, harmful
offal psychological usury
verdict I accept
fomenting gobbledygook concept
might create notion, yours truly inept,

plus incorporating confessional backswept
facets of writerly person,
as sigh nearly wept
(drafting previous poem,
sans book review

like an emotional bit torrent windswept
"And I Don't Want
to Live This Life" anchored in concept,
qua raw maternal did severely intercept
the motherly bond Deborah Spungen

felt toward zombified miskept
incorrigibly, horribly, grievously...
tormented first born
or momentenous insept
begetting impregnation and early labor
Nancy Laura Spungen since birth,

perhaps seeped when aye slept
into nooks and crannies of subconscious,
though one could breeze thru said book
such evocative anguish left
me numbly bereft, yet acutely aware
to vicariously experience devastating agony!
which achievement, deportment,
endorsement, and indictment
(more serious than rigging an election)
jump/kickstarts (a divine comedy of errors)
not reason enough
to be deported),
but necessitates more than a facile effort
linkedin to a working knowledge
of familial genetics ofttimes

discovering, revealing, and unearthing
locked up figurative ghosts in the closet,
and/or shocking insights
courtesy vis a vis mapping lineage
of descendents whose deferment
being proactive when deciding
with absolute zero or
very little shadow of a doubt
versus someone analogous

to yours truly (me),
who offtime fumferes concerning
the course of action one will
assertively, decidedly, and proactively take
and keep to their word,
whether the issue in question
rather classed as superficial,
I will iterate after writing
a particular for instance as follows.

When asked (courtesy the missus)
if I ever plan to use the new hair brush
purchased at CVS a short time after
getting substantial lovely locks clipped,
yours truly responded
"when my hair gets long again"
despite promising myself
that donning the guise
of a baby boomer
long haired pencil neck geek
got nipped in the bud,
but subsequently (hypocritically)
explaining to her
the necessity to practice making excuses
lest one forget the delicate art
to thwart due diligence
to maintain irresoluteness.

Whether avoiding taking
figurative bull by the horn stance,
(particularly risky business
if one happens to be
the matador enraging
a monster red eyed bull
by waving red cape
in front of said animal -
analogous to Ke-mo sah-bee)
or evading asking Bill Thurman,
a portly non ambulatory resident
here at Highland Manor,

(whose Tuxedo patterned therapy feline
one of the most common coat colors
for shelter kitties -
a bicolor also called piebald cat  
with white fur combined
with fur of some other colour,
for example, solid black, tabby,
or colour pointed named Corbin
an affectionate loveable kitty,
who administers love bites),
who rightfully owes me five dollars

for asking me to clean his carpet,
but hate to remind said person,
cuz he promised to pay me,
and would rather
he square the marginal debt
(rather than triangulate him
by circling round the issue courtesy the missus)
of his own volition,
and thus resorted
to communicate with him telepathically,
and perchance a whim will prompt him

to leave a voice
and/or text message
gently coaxing poet of Perkiomen Valley (me)
to lend him a helping hand
such as withdrawing cash
from an ATM machine
or whisking boxes away
to be recycled or reused
at Liberty Thrift store or Worthwhile
offering perfect opportunity
to jog his memory nonchalantly.
Julia Nov 5
The forlorn tree
reaches its demise
Profiting fungi to envelop
To revolutionize

Buds encompass its place
Sprouting one by one
Mounting space
Shooting, sprying
Up toward the sun
Growth abounds
Limiting none

The forest’s harmonious dance
Working together, Peacefully
Creating a world, Genially
In which each piece is paramount
Impossible to discount

I marvel At the designation
Without communication
The systems inherently
Collaborate, Integrate

The woods intrinsically
Administers
A synergy of fixers
Not resisters
Creating harmony
Conjointly

It is time that
The world Realize
And utilize The allies to civilize  
The impossible feat
Of this impossible world

— The End —