we the daughters of sliced sunbeams
and those who chase gales in between
the pasture gates and barbed fences behind
the silo--

who think there's nothing softer than the way
honey sounds drizzled on toast or daisy petals at the supermarket
the women of ferocious silences, standing before
dozens with trimmed smiles and deafening inner beauty

squeezing our fingers down barley stalks and sewing
the roots into our dresses, we've tried six ways to sunday
the rules, the book on being wanted, before realizing that anything
born out of self-indulgence wilts away
all the work we did to grow and plait our hair with vanilla,
dipped in sweet almond oil we had no idea
that pretending
could only get us
so


far.

The misanthroes of mirthful damnation cast
this hedonism in the hopes of escaping,
It's a lonely heaven, lost in feeling,
Thinking without purpose yet meaning.

What am I if not seeking to be labelled, (am I
not? Does it just happen? So) why would I care to imagine
otherwise, that sometimes I feel;
And sometimes it feels too much
so I think less than a human does
(in-trying to "normalize" myself).

The question is one of human connection,
The human condition in all its conviction;
To feel less enables injustice but to think less
leads to ignorance, to feel more brings my mind
down a path of recursion, lo and behold: infinite
regression, insanity and all of my friends are jus'
chillin'. Better not fear them, the only thing to fear
is fear itself, so acquiesce to feeling lest their fear
becomes manifest, keep measure of it
in order to belay irrationalé.
4lpha-Masculine? 0mega keeps watch
for the manipulative 5igma. Relinquishing sanity
for a measure of phobia, just as Empathos does
when she wanders in Absudia.

In exile, 7ired and £rayed, as the 1and-of-Humankind is
ever-longing, tempting and taunting [us to join with them].

I call out our name, drawn to be, ever-longingly.

Lonely people
are always
up late
at night.

I'd last about an hour as a clerk inside a store
invariably I'd shoot my mouth off
about someone's daughter dressing  like a *****
or making comments about the dreadful things  consumed
which would include a good 99% of the people in the room

I'd eventually end up getting my lights punched  out
after  *******  someone as  a fat ***  undiscerning lout
or cracking  some aside regarding what comprises that crud
and making faces of revulsion "you'd be better off eating mud"
ewwwww, you really eat that stuff?
this store should be sued for selling such bluff

children with diabetes, a third of adults obese
the courtesy clerk dies a little  for lack of surcease
line after line of vapid consumers
mindless knee-**** impetuosity belay the rumors
what's an adulterant, what's a filler?
propylene glycol alginate, yum yum
sorbitan mono sterate, shut up and eat it, its fun!
I can't even pronounce it, much less do I  care
need I be a scientist to enjoyably savor fare

Go ahead and poison yourself
the quirky clerk exclaimed
its ever so clear you're stupid and lame
stay mired in your pig-headed muck of  ignorance
you're exactly what they want
another brain dead consumer
a regular culinary savant
stuff  your face with no remorse nor heed
no worries, the clerk of little courtesy knows your need
he'll limply wheel  out your cart of miserable choices for you
and wise-crack some snarky rejoinder
then promptly get  beaten,  black and blue

You ensnared me like a dog in its cage
Locked me down in your cellar
drove to my estate
told my son it would be okay
Massacred my family with my face
And made sure to replay it for me everyday:
recorded the depravity so I could see it on tv
-Said to me:
"I know your heart is bleeding.
I will set you free when you watch,
Without shedding a single tear."
-I remained locked up for close to a year
I needed to know why you would trap me here
just to let me walk away
when you finally released me at gunpoint;
I learned to keep my tears at bay
Your response when I pressed for a reason:
        
               "...its just a game I play."

You set lives on fire then set us free
How many suicides have you kept as trophies?
Does it tingle like a wet tongue on your neck,
When you rip a life apart?
Presenting to us the imploded pieces
Like a perverted work of art?

You psychotic shapeshifter you sicken me
You serial-stealer of sacred space
You think the human race is a plague
So you became, "The Locust-Eater"
Playing out macabre fantasies
With such swift shifts of physical features
You delight in deriving such clever machinations
To deceive us ...
...but can you deceive yourself?
Underneath the bone and sinew
- you are still just YOU
...even though you masquerade as everybody else

How can I spot a chameleon in a kaleidoscope?
Belay your false colors.
Show me your true shade.

I studied you
Created a secret space- like you
Where I could stash you safe
Poured through claims of being kidnapped
By a being who could change its shape
Corroborated their claims-by the dates
Of misdeeds they were framed for
-And when they took their own life
In my research I found a smoking gun
-In your case your kryptonite
You must regress to your real skin
         once every month
So i set out ...
picked just the right target...
...and started to hunt

To lure out the chameleon...
I captured something...
      
        That I think you might love.

You wore Anessa's life like a glove
Was she to be your masterpiece?
You committed a crime so brazen- as her
it went viral within a week
you stole her child in the darkness of night,
Anessa's husband- that child's father
Must have been filled with such awful fright
He called authorities, you fabricated stories
you turned the victim into a suspect
Over a single fortnight
Not long after he was killed
in a drunken bar fight

As Anessa you were spotted months after
Ignoring a green light of a busy intersection
Parked in the middle of the road
Placed their child on that busy street
Then sped off in the other direction

Anessa was blindsided when you finally
let her go
Oh, i bet you waited with bated breath
For her self-removal from the world?
You ensured she would never again
Get to hold her baby girl
But Anessa never gave in
Did her steadfast resolve
feel like I rash upon your skin?
Where it festered forming feelings foreign
to a fiend such as you?

You scratched that itch
Began by sending her anonymous gifts
Even started shifting into her too
Stalked her waking moments
by engaging her as a stranger:
all the while unaware your sick infatuation:
Had put her in danger

I'm counting down the clock
I kidnapped maybe her or You
I left my address at Anessa's house
A note saying, " this is a game I play now too."
Soon now: a month will have passed
And it all comes crashing to A head:
at last.

So shed your skin
Prepare to fight
This vendetta ends here:

Tonight.

There is a lighter
          
           Just

waiting to ignite.

A knocking at my door
A knot in my stomach
Anessa...( or is it You)
bound beneath my floorboards?
I peer in the peephole then pull You (Or Anessa) out of that hidden hole
I drench us both( for every second You stole)
I  pour it all over
( my life will never be whole)  
I douse everything in here in gasoline
Confess your sins
(before the fire finds them out)
Its time to come CLEAN!!!

And it seems:
I will be dipping my hands in red tonight.
This will all end in the worst way.

I open the door
let Anessa( or You) In
She runs to my captive saying,
"Where do I begin?"

"I made something of my life
after it let me go
At first, it caused the Locust-Eater misery
You see it toys with humans:
ones it knows are weak
I was so meek and feeble before we met...
Yet,I'm the one person it failed to defeat
Its game gave me strength i never knew...
... resolve had always,somehow,eluded me
I do believe its games are vile...but,
They are necessary?
Please,**** me instead
"...but let the Locust-Eater free"

the captive Anessa(or You)
begins thrashing their feet
I yell," which one of you killed my family?!"
They both calmy respond:

" Me."

The lighter flicks in my hand
I'm unable to speak

A month has passed
Which one is the one I seek?
They both insist I let the other go
And you should know:
it slips from my hand
The lighter(like my grip of reality)
falling faster with exposed flame
adhering to the clear rules of gravity

The two Anessa's embrace.
They both begin to burn.

False colors from the chameleon fade out.
Hungry flames swallow me whole.
I am( am I?)...
seeing the Locust-Eater's true shade:

This is how I take control.

-

Tiger Wood's wins the Masters today
Another green jacket comes his way
Finally, his image stands large at the doorway
For it's been a knock and a hiatus of his cache
As the years after 2008 suffered from his play
No major championships one can say
Only gossip headlines, mugshots, and injuries in gray
Where once a phenom in his twenties on display
Such greatness and legend his star headway
His mid-thirties saw some of his luster fall  in dismay
With mostly self-injury to his ego in disarray
It was hard watching a once proud man's fall and decay
Especially one that held his world at bay
With his swagger, swoosh, and shine turning to clay
And like a good drama of accents and descents convey
With the wait and weight on his shoulders belay
He turned the storybook pages of dismay today
The pressure of his swing, swing, and putt on display
And how he uncorked his demons is a pure bouquet
After 43 years of his years, he took the fairway
Running, running, today after his prey
It was great seeing his game not get away

Logan Robertson

4/14/2019

A puff,
two puffs,.... A narrative or cleft notes for the Praxis exam.  Otherwise, as smart as a equinimity is, a expository form in writ.  The monkey's wait in Compton.  
I belay the last law they have and will naught forgive or forget a Jesus freak.

In the cavernous expanse gilded out of silicon robes of Greece flattened into the diminutive spaces between crags and rock, the swimmers of the natatorium embrace to plunge in transparency where they erred in covert chivalry
Knighted partially by association but yet unofficially born of sentiments rebarbative to the well-heeled, I linger like tar heels lamenting that the supernova eventually bequeaths the death of the ultimate chapel hill a shining city on a valley masquerading as a hill
From past and repast, the nurture of former presidents calumniates if also embraces the possibility of unfettered liberty and prosperous futurity, they simper in silent lugubrious reflection at lives shortened by liberty prolonged, of hearts opened but death devolved
Latitude and the caress of brazen attitudes corners the ***** in a tightened alcove of a restrictive forest of livid and limpid dastardly deeds, the arm of hunched idiots grazing with dumbfound idiocy at their own protective duty to shepherd the forest only for the singular trees as though disease itself is only a tease in a flirtation too exposed to believe
I joust with giants in a town that brooks lions and lyon estates with too many GrayZe superintending too many fain and valiant graves littering the stream besides the Pennsylvania forest in a past sunken in intrigue slipping in and out of an ethereal time invented by a harvest moon too attuned to be a lunatic any time soon
Whither is the outcome of a Shakespearean demise of prattle becoming the pasture of specious but solid skies, gleaming that a science fiction theater isn’t hailing a fuhrer or jingoistic furor any time soon hopefully I do too croon.
Militant tapestries of unhinged madmen craven in their disregard for every bent temptation, we witness the downfall of scrounged indecency and lonely hearted thieves contemned as they condemn perdition upon an unsuspecting victim
The victim is the hope of galvanized promise, a regal flutter of liberty tracing the skies elaborately for the flight plan most likely volitant and most destined to succeed
Corporate heads shake hands with desperate beds that Damocles himself wishes blood himself was yet shed or never shed but cutthroat collapse is avoidable with the recrudescence of provident relapse and rejoinder, asunder the ships may seem but now aimed so directly like a laser pointer
Titanic is a father to founding fathers only in the regress of avoidant times, sheepish of the whispered grime of inutterable blithe sublime time, limpid in partial acknowledgment of a wretched fate as avoidable as possible with the proper introduction and the right heeded date of a love better than choice wine and the wineskins of an indian province live as well just as much in a Skinnerian time.
Read the palimpsest, pittance proferred for every skeptical and undeclared bet that skewers the coffers of a criminal ring of Barnum Brothers in bed with burned asylum, a sanitarium wider and menacing like the most minatory lion
But the jaws of these aliens in time, whether specious or not thrill only those susceptible to the flattery of swank and the travesty to which we thank our deliverance and suspected exoneration
Flanking the outstripped malls that sprawl in the orbit of cities engorged like a skyscraping promise littered by Walled Ease and regaled bleats that belay down the cliffs of rigid insurrection only partially courageous to noble and partial inflections.

The courage of a wistful day slipping into the fathomless depths of dudgeon and pain the dungeons clamoring of insanity willfully reign, we clip the newspapers to the walls and scrawl our loves into the fallen scrawl.

Crimson red beneath the spangled spars, the author of debauchery immemorial that swills and wassails its own heartrending blues. And this movie squandered in limelight but buttressed by blithe regards for morally debased frights. Sting me the police and see the wasps nest infest your hollow diatribe to the extent you are hobbled in the depths, ennobled aboveground but nevertheless widely pitied.
The mathematics of love and loss, cravings for distrusted sacraments on a blue bus swiveling though the recesses of aleatory or controlled time. But then I lament that fully loved and fully lived is a fluff of sacerdotal emulation rather than the true authorship of heaven blanketing the earth.
Polished polity renegades and the rumpus of crumbled heaped ashes in a cremated time, where sand itself is eternal and sentience is somehow the door to nothing but despair, in their blinkered hubris that scales the lizards back in order to be lifted by olfactory graft.
In that light I see a bright whisked wind carrying the secrecy of portentous spared revelations and the spate of intermittent lightheardedness blows away my skepticism, but sides have been chosen and the bluster of the past emulating the culmination of an amenable future scares the birds from their chavish
Chiliads chill like excellency dissembled as the husk of an eternal monument of punctuated emphatic glory lingering above the ground with intransigent resistance to gravity and an slaver of better sincerity in the attempt to become beyond guileless tourists.
Dressed rankled blue swayed news, always operative in militant conformity to an eradicated sentience but simulatenously a wider sing song enlightenment. I struggle for words in this debased state of pitiable futures plastered all over every billboard that ever matters rather than the closure of closed doors trampled by intermittent dreams and seamless cows becoming the heifers of unified peace.
Smaller that the ants the infest the hills but more glorified than the quiet pristine ponds that outskirt the skirts that need less descent and more ascendancy.

Blitzkreig of cosmic wars swelters the torrid desiccation of a languor existing in human platitude but defiled of human gratitude. We swiftly wait for the erosion of sanity to become the author of a novella of craven deeds and bolted brimstone, serenading a rush towards sensation and an abandonment of rivers libation
Beneath which rivers flow, scrounged glowers endemic to a ruddy blush of sun-stricken grace, I clasp every remedy and every catholicon becomes more ecumenical and more rabid with stricken gaze of disordered streets in festivity but inured of nothing but lazy passions rather than sought rations
Dickens and hard hammers scribble the parched concrete with Chinese depths masqueraded as a suburban muse for canned applause and raucous crews relishing everything crude.
In the refinement the poet slings his garment over his shoulders and buys coffee for his ***** queen, and how to outfox such gallantry and how to temper so much enthusiasm. Only by the skullduggery of dead hands anointed with Greenwich bands.

On belay ? Scaling tall mountains and perilous outcrops , into the valley floor ! Great highs , perilous lows ! At mercy of wind  , rope , D-ring and intuition ! Slippery , moss covered stones , sudden changes in weather ! Possibility of cuts  , sprains and broken bones ! High above the blessings of terra firma at ropes end ! Looking out across the Earth from unique perspectives ! Far removed from mechanical , mundane , monotonous lives of the " Army ants" below , chart the course , pick the place , set the pace ! Belay on ! Cried out from below ! On your own , in control !

RECORD: INSOMNIAC OLYMPICS
FROGMAN: BLOCHEAD

Suzy's: Then it heard The Word:

You are not special.
You're not a beautiful and unique saltflake.
You're the same decaying mental laughter as everything else.
We're all part of the same info heap.

We're all singing,
all dancing
data of the word.
-- Tyler Durden, Tacky Frogman

I mean just try to

Imagine a Johnny waking up one moment and thinking,

"This is an interesting thought I find myself in —
an interesting wHole I find myself in —
guides me rather neatly, doesn't it?
In fact it guides me staggeringly well,
must have been made to have me in it!"

This is such a powerful throught that as the sun rises in the mind
and the clouds heat up
and as, gradually, the throught gets
smaller
and
smaller,

she's still frantically stinging on the notion that everything's going to be aulgburight,
because The Word was meant to have him in it,
was written to have her in it;
so the moment that reappears, caches them rather in reprise.

I think this may be something we need to be on the waytch-out for.
We all know that at some point in the future the throughts will come to an end
and at some other point,
considerably in advance from that but still not instinctually re-pleasing,
the Sun will rexploade.

We think there's plenty of throught to tarry on about that,
but on the other Read DeadHead
throught ’s a very anger-ous ink to lay.
-- Douglas Adams, Frogman

Johnny's: So,

We just ought To Be.
-- You and Me and Everyone We See

Suzy's: And it would be nice if

A Brad and Janet could change their mind,
plan a din-stinction,
butcher a clog,
conn-a-fusion,
design a dream,
write a union,
balance brains,
build a wall,
set a tone,
belay the lying,
make orders,
live orders,
cooperate,
act alone,
solve self equations,
analyze a new corruption,
throw info lure,
program a harmed-brain-puter,
hook a hasty mind,
fight self efficiently,
receive truth carefully.
But all-selfse destruction is their mode.
-- Robert A. Heinlein, Frogman

Johnny's: In other words,

Show me one Brad or one Janet alone and I'll show you a saint.
Give me two and they'll fall in love.
Give me three and they'll reinvent the char-ming thing we call 'Propriety'.

Give me four and they'll build a panic.
Give me five and they'll make one a Number.
Give me six and they'll reinvent Master's affair.
Give me nine and in nine moments they'll reinvent ludechrist.

WhoMans may have been made in the image of nature,
but Brads and Janets were made in the tincture of their opposite Number,
and they're always trying to get back to The Hearth.
-- Glen Bateman, Frogman

Suzy's: Picking up the Data Crumbs as they go, like High Speech. And yet

Brads and Janets do not seem certain of how they gained the ability to speak.
It is theorized that they began dinning objects with iniornticulacy,
until eventually the din became more organized—

still tumultuous clamour,
just a bit more meat in the current day.

If this is true,
it means that to attain bsproken thought the Brad and Janet brain created a specific system for language and a way to code it—working largely off the constantly developing faculty for memory. It is an idea revealed by bit com-partitian-alization of throught data threw the structure of language; re-veiled in the way that Brads and Janets peak or wrighte using their memorized vocabularies and concepts.

This mind fore Toe-ing mortgaged itself to the e-x-ternal word,
and Brads and Janets found power in pontification of life.

Then dawned Ninetbeen.

If the systems of Ninetbeen were enhanced then a more dominant Reality presentce resulted. The most refissiont equation became the most dominant, but
the most efficient equation is not the best.

There are many sacrifices made for effishinsea.

For the most dominant Brads and Janets it became an obsession
to control every aspect of the nature from which they Rose,
sacrificing natural progression

(Of course, it does seem like this is the natural progression,
Brad's and Janet's predetermined path—
a relief that is a symptom of the most engineered systems of code).

Unfortunately,
these systems are destroying Brads and Janets,
and raw rEffissionsea,
Pure confusions,
will not save them.
-- Thrusher Swainson, Bear M.B.

STOP: TURN THOUGHT

Fear and infractions,
Basic senses,
Subtle subtractions,
Delayed response,
Relayed reactions,
Play off the hint,
Winter hue,
Malice tint,
Hateless tasteless,
Faceless placeless,
Placed placement,
Playful payment,
Frivolous and fevered,
Tempered beliefs,
Believers,
Belay the bounty,
Beautiful and temptress trite,
Fracturing county,
Past tense recite,
Fast forward rewrite,
Rewound and respun,
Locked and lead loaded,
Geared and gunned,
Sudden and semi-accidental implosion,
Rewarming,
Sickly hex,
Weakened flex,
Internally overcasted and overtly storming,
Outwardly warning,
Slowly learning,
Forever turning,
And in turn,
Burnt and still laid burning,
Waking a ghostly turning,
Soundlessly and -ly burning,
Smokey on the peripheral,
Ethereal,
Eternally external,
Forcefully feared,
Into inferno,
Out of opinionated opressionables,
Que wide and willingly willed questionables,
Wordlessly whispers with the whim of the wind,
Beget blindness,
Begets mindless,
Begets beauty bound by which beauty begins,
Found fearfully,
Torn tearfully,
Retold beautifully,
Molded after mourning,
Mourned before morning,
Night neared,
Sadness teared,
Tearing soundly on edges,
Destruction and dutiful pirouette,
Tasted tyranny teem and endance pledge,
Irony stills,
And the air dare not forget.

I walk the ****, the chasms edge,
occasionally dangling from the ledge,
I'm tied off, to her on belay,
only she can save the day.

together we sit and scan through pages
searching for knowledge of savants and sages
apart by wires and  spaces deemed cyber
together in some places besotted by  desires

for that which you seek and that which you share
your hasty interests  may lead you to stare
into the abyss of the nets'  unending
the maelstroms vortex you'll soon be winding

going ye here and going ye there
hopeful your meanderings
shall leave you fair
for within some sites there's the inveigle snare
ultimately constructed to leave you bare

go wittingly into the all- electric  fray
some sensitive toes you'll invariably  belay
don't fret over words harmlessly mislaid
to err is only human, short-circuits  allayed

An army is being made
Dead souls, crushed hopes
Our very minds they invade
They shout, they splutter, they slap red faced
Trying to suppress us

An army it is, in a way
Countless men, bereft of dreams
Nooses on our necks they belay
They glare, they sneer, they stare with disdain
Trying to suppress us

An army of the forlorn
Like switches, with two defaults
The *** of green turns them on
They follow the little antenna where plasures are born
Trying to suppress us

We think, we try, we hope
They follow, they attempt, and die
We are numbered, each death a loss
They keep coming, a stack of meat and a shield of flesh
And yet we survive
The very essence of humanity protecting our souls

The battlefield long now cleared
of corpse, blood and gore.
Belay the epic truth they tell,
knee deep in history and wars.

Dead stacked like cords of wood,
burnt on unsanctified fires.
Log by log of rigored souls
sent the flames up higher.

years later make shift morgues sat 'bout
to hold the fallen heroes.
Kept in dungeons and deeper colds,
till springtime thaw for burials.

Those that live on to build
and keep recording life.
Never thought once and all
war would end their daily strife.

So it goes, axe to sword,
Cannon to machine gun.
Scud missles to nuclear.
Who will be left to say they won?

Touch softly now, your sweet lips-
gently, as I am in your fingertips.

Within this touch I leave a kiss.
You bring me near by doing this.

Unnumbered times, I think of you,
I wonder if you’ve done this, too.

The door is not bolted nor on the catch.
Should you come by, there is no latch.

There is warmth and comfort here
A welcome meant for you, my dear.

My heart will never turn away,
Though well, I know, you cannot stay.

Your heart still whispers back to me,
betrays a love is there, you see.

When you need what I hold true,
drift on a dream, I’ll come for you.

We’ll feel each other close and warm
to calm the winds, belay the storm.

Then gone again, on your way -
free to return another day.

I am left to wonder, still -
Will you return, have you the will?

If I softly touch my lips
will you be in my fingertips?

Within a soft touch, by doing this,
will you warm me with a distant kiss?

Lin Cava©

To wake in the morning and hold the sun in your hand
To see a dream come to be after thoughts you had planned
To laugh with a child and to share in her tears
To hold and protect to belay all her fears

The sound of a blackbirds enchanting sweet song
To admit to yourself when you know you are wrong
To shout out aloud when you know your alone
To make good of a sin, to admit, to atone

To bathe **** in the moonlight with the one you adore
To win or to lose to miss or to score
To feel dew-wet-grass, slowly squeeze  through your toes
To share with the bees the delights of a rose
To write to compose to compile to make prose

To go on a diet, then to fit into your cloths
To be happy with life to make do with your lot
To finish a poem to the end with a dot.

The jaundiced eyes that yellow skin,
won't someone open up and let me out or let me enter in,
and be frolicsome,indulge in sin.


Time.
The *** bellied pig dancing its jig while my bones start to crumble away,
Come time and lay with me or do you just play with me, is that the game you prefer?
I see you and your hands and those cruel metal bands that you hold
and tell me time if you can,
why make this man old,why can't you stay, the hours of the hours of the day and belay any thought of letting the minutes walk on right through me,
why can't we be friends?

You look at me lovingly while plotting to smother me,why don't you just Mother me,nurse me not curse me,don't bother me
there are so many others to go out and disturb with your hands that perturb and your chimes only chime to mock at my rhymes.
I need more
I need more time
I implore you to hear me,
not sit there and laugh while you hungrily feed on me.

The end.
It will come
just when I started,
Aye,aye just when I began to have fun and the bell of the last round has rung
It's a knock out
a lock out
and try as I might there is no way to continue the fight,the referee has decided that time is the winner by three falls to one
and thus
I am gone.

Not forgotten
I hasten to say,
time laughs and still laughs at me where I would lay
and a long time it will be
I see that as a certainty.
I rest between the pillows of grass,waving willows goodbye,aye and I sigh
as will we all, when time gets through with me and you and wipes her hands clean
meanwhile,
I shall dream of the time when time stops and everything
drops into place.

When I first saw her arms
they made me feel so afraid,
Those scars that betrayed the masquerade.
I would have killed to save her.
Now I belay this oxymora charade;
But I'm still here, with my broken passion,
Even if you all seem to have forgotten.

Scratch me, I ain't got nothing.
I'm parched and it hurts something.

And so it was his past caught up
a dread for many many years
it was time to face reality
and belay his darkest fears.

A time to face a painful truth
he’d never known this child
he’d left when he was just hours old
and the loss had made him wild.

A soldier he’d been sent abroad
to fight for others’ errors
and in the deepness of his mind
he remembered years of terrors.

They’d captured him and half his men
his captain they had killed
and made the rest including him
dig the grave and get it filled.

When he came home he was a wreck
who drank himself to sleep
and though he had had several jobs
they were impossible to keep.

He later found his faith again
and now he has a certain peace
but the fear of meeting his son at last
was filling him with unease.

He wonders if he’ll understand
and how it will work out
but the boy had come and sought him
now he waited full of doubt……..

©Joe Wilson – His regret 2014

Detach the mournful profile from youthful embittered emotions ..
Sad , dark hours preceding death are merely curtain calls , rivers that peek inquiry from birth to ocean swept , delta epilogue ..
Reborn of Spring storms , the memoires of blackberry Winter ,
gray day maritime gales , thundershowers of September , yellow daffodils of March foretell the onset of today , gleam in the abiding sunlight of their anticipated hereafter ..
Behold the cliffs whom covet the turquoise exposure of the sea , imperiled flowers that belay their certain capitulation amongst the sharpened bottom .. Gulls shriek in suspend animation , black shorelines echo their resignation , carried across thick ocean breezes ...
Our physical days quite aware of the future at each subtle turn , the payment of debit with every expensive hour ...

As he'd flip his hat
his ties have shone
though quaint in fact
just belied and bade
his call of freedom yet
his mapping afield where
he'd belay topography
and his harmony too
with hint of something new
even enticed quite averse
that hastened to implore
he cherished that linen
more refined in his attire
as he must wear it again.

'Tis fierce mild out, said he to himself
one mild February night, breeze so bare
and an atmosphere to match that cool air.

At a later date he went east, out on the town for a night
in the Big Smoke, the next day thought to himself:
What pleasant languishing the coke had left

in thee, though tenderized the 'auld cardiac muscle some.
Awoke another day, some time after noon, and thought of how
he'd dreamed again during those couple months with her. Now those

nightly travels were less remarkable, an immemorable mush
full of fading oneiric sensations, a hazy sleep, it'd returned to
that somnolent jumble; the vitality, gone. This clue, to notice it

has been missing from thine mental life. It is a strange tiding
when one realizes how awry things've become; oh yes, dear
retrospect will you ever succumb to a more prudent future?

I know too well the drugs which captivate
my soul
and have held me spellbound since youth.

Aye, there are ways to regain what's lost, to
recover what's missing, but interactions in the world
should be the cause of dreams, their form and content.

It worries me some to suppose other than that. If it was
some other world or part of the soul that imbued our dreams
with meaning, that would imply something has cut me off, or out.

Even were this not the case I think the implication still stands.
I mean to say that the presence of those who are known to us
in waking life may carry over in dreaming, forms transmuted

and content apparent only as metaphor. I should think there are
too many coincidental symbols, ah belay that,
I shan't dismiss post-hoc interpretation. All I wish to say is that

the presence of persons weighs heavy
on the scales of horn and ivory.
As we get older it's too easy to become

One, the friends you shun.
Two, darkness they eschew.
Three, a caged bird will die when set free.
Four, you are the hunted, the prey; the boar.
Five, nobbut a bee in the hive.
Six, they've forseen your deceit; belay your tricks.
Seven, a cursed soul shan't return to heaven.
Eight, death is every living being's fate.
Nine, if God is the Devil himself, who do you worship at the holy shrine?
Ten, time tells the day of your damnation.

I miss the nights we called out to each other
I miss the ones spent sprawled out on one another
like long lost lovers the first time our lips met
Barely ready, but on you my heart was set
the wind came in and washed away my worries
You send the butterflies I’ve got into flurries

I’m thinking of all the things I should have said
But now I will never have the chance
Of all the cute little things I kept in my head
As I reminisce in our recalled romance

your skin was a map guiding me to safety
With your soft arms you did belay me
I’ll trace your tattoos with my tongue
Because we are happy and we are young
Hoping the later doesn’t make the first due
Because I’d love to grow old with you

I’m thinking of all the things I should have said
But now I will never have the chance
Of all the cute little things I kept in my head
As I reminisce in our recalled romance

I hope that these hopes don’t remain so
Because you mean more then you’ll ever know,
That tale would take a life time or two to tell
and the full attention of you, my beautiful belle
So I guess that’s all ask of you, a life time to say
How perfect you are in every single imaginable way