"bifocals" poems
same setting from a year ago...
i am not sure why, but
before the clock strikes twelve midnight,
my eyes would surely open
no matter what.
coffee in bed right now,
with a few cookies to munch....
my bifocals, where are they?
i need them now...i could vaguely see
something crawls on the carpet,
making rounds, circling my bed...
oh, no, it is hopping towards my comforter...
I stretch a leg beneath the pillows
something moves very near my toes.
i withdraw my leg, alarmed,
as it quickly disappears...
...then reappears! now stationary...
this is starting to annoy me...
I poke it with a pencil,
fear no longer present,
now, with my bifocals found.
but it hops.....and hops...
and hops into hiding
down.....down.....below,
somewhere inside my comforter.
In lieu of me, it is now the comforted.
it is taking too long to come out.
.....something i realized just now.....
could it be possible, could it remember...
i was kind enough not to use a swatter before....
why, i feel like i am being welcomed!
we are playing hide-and-seek,
a welcome dance it is!
here and now, just like before
from last autumn,
we are finally reunited,
my cricket friend and i....
S a l l y
Copyright 2013
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
Prologue
casual glance at my notifications while driving even though
I’m all ready a bad bad boy, cruising at a sedate,
cruise-controlled 70 mph vs. the bureaucrat bifocals 55,
a remnant regulation of the Eighties,
all the while humming with Gilligan
“a 3 hour tour,
2 passengers set sail that day”
then execute a four lane 180,
gotta get highway sideway grassed ,
cause i’m gassed...
by a Poem Breach
of the poems promised by me,
to write of thee,
you, my best inspiration,
the list grows longer, faster
than the hours provided
pull over fast emergency for my composure breached,
my vision wetted, my eyes hit by an unplanned unexpected,
sudden summer thunderstorm
<•>
The Poem Breach
***once more into the breach thy words breeze through my chest,
like on a flamed stick, night roasting, toasting beach summer marshmallows,
that cut direct to the ineffable sadness that resides resists within,
that sticky, white mess,
a human heart melting
a thank you message that I’ve read before,
many times more than once,
how my unasked poem, a sun unique,
arrived at the
precise time and place,
to lift and even save,
how could I’ve know?
I did not know
but these messages collect on my chest,
unsought words of purple ribbon metal that make a
less burdened cowardly lion,
grown man cry,
do crazy things for it is a possible solution to his
age old quest
Why do I exist, is this my purposed plan, don’t understand, all
but the answer peaked and peaceful accepted in the breach unreasoned,
my port of entry, a gateway to the scales, a bridge it is, over a time-life river styx and unstuck, yet certainly always confused...***
“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”
thank you so insufficient
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 11:56 AM UTC
I thought Van Gogh had it figured out
he fell in love
and cut off his ear
he died july 29 1890 from a self inflicted gun shot wound
He painted
He painted the sky
He painted men women bedrooms flowers shoes street corners chairs boats and fields
I thought Basquiat had it figured out
******
NYC
He painted memories in the present
August 12 1988
NYC apartment ****** overdose
I thought Picasso
I thought Warhol
I thought Stalin
******
Buddha
Had it figured out
but sand fills our shoes in dry texan sun
and the dog howls
howls for its mother
howls for its brother
howls for its sister
I thought the dog had it figured out
eating insects
smelling my hands
eating the ham on the floor
I thought Hemingway had it figured out
Late at night
reading Old Man and The Sea
Suicide July 2 1961
12-gauge English shotgun
I thought Fitzgerald had it figured out
I thought Ginsberg
I thought Kerouac did too
drinking across the neck and back bone and gutter lips of America and back
I thought Bukowski had it figured out
the cigarettes
the wine
the women
the type writer
the sad nights accompanied by cockroaches and a city that is indigestible
I thought Phillip Glass had it figured out
Beethoven
going Def
Mozart lost in his grave
writing symphonies for Death and his cruel tripled eyed angels
I thought
The drunkards were lost
The Junkies were ankle-less
The Mothers were done for
The Fathers had given in
The Young
True
The Elderly
gazing through the bifocals of heaven and hell
The Prisoners cemented in Time
I thought the Dead
were the ones who published our Dreams
I thought the painter
had it figured out
So I painted
I thought the pianist
had it figured out
So I played the Piano
and listened to the bilingual codes of the keys
I thought the Ballet dancer
had it figured out
So I watched her
I studied the movements
and the bruised toes
looking for a design of an answer
I thought the Poet
had it figured out
So I wrote a poem
and I saw the world.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
Oh my word, I remember
every little part of that weekend,
right down to the three-piece outfit
I had purchased at Bloomingdale's
the evening previous.
You know, ya hear stories
left and right about people
winning tickets to this n' that,
but ya never imagine actually
being the nineteenth caller!
When I revealed the occasion
this baby blue ensemble would
be worn in, the cute little saleslady
paused, looked up, and said,
"Why bother seeing him anymore?"
And I tell ya, there's plenty
other, less Christian yearly
Graceland attendants who woulda
flipped their lids had they heard
such malarkey!
Still, I just couldn't deny it.
She had a bit of a point.
This was mid-70s Elvis,
mid-50s Elvis' drunk uncle.
He had gone from Rolling Stone
to National Enquirer in nothing
flat, it seemed.
So all I could muster was
an understanding smile, because
she couldn't help but join the
bandwagon, especially when his
gut got larger and the rumors
became more outrageous.
Still, their loss!
I say that to this day,
because what Little Miss Shopgirl
and the legions of non-believers
did not think to consider
was the charm in "has been" Elvis.
A week before this legendary
concert experience, I had been
forced by circumstance to purchase
my very first pair of bifocals!
It was also around the time,
I'm sure, Harry left me.
So, the main event, I'm there,
third row from the main stage,
seeing Elvis for the first time
since our crazed youthful years-
a bedazzled jumpsuit walks on stage,
and I'm on my feet before I know it!
There was a little less swivel in his
hips. He looked a little tired, too,
all those years of singing do that.
How did it feel, then, to see the King
make his way across a cheap fog
machine, mutton chops and
love handles galore?
It felt like two lifelong friends
growing old, losing all those
frivolous people together-
"Are You Lonesome Tonight"
was still asked with the same
dreamy passion in 1973.
I've still got the handkerchief
he threw to me that night,
**** near lost it when I
caught the thing.
It's blue with polka dots,
ya wanna take a gander?
Sep 28, 2010
Sep 28, 2010 at 5:21 AM UTC
1.
Inscribe all your heartaches on my lips.
2.
Convince me that I'm not worthless.
3.
You're my ocean and I'm drowning.
4.
She loved like she lived, recklessly.
5.
Brave words die on my lips.
6.
You and I were never we.
7.
Sometime you are your own trigger.
8.
You echo through my bruised ribs.
9.
Your heart needs bifocals to love.
10.
I'm getting lost on purpose today.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
I have fallen in love
With the air, the trees
The thinly paved and often cracked roads
And even moreso with those covered in cobblestone.
I have fallen in love with the tanned locals
Old shopkeepers with hats and bifocals
Their calling voices
The natural movement of their hands
The cool sea water
And hot white sands.
I have fallen in love with espresso
And how it feels in my throat
The smell of leather
Taste of gelato
Harbours full of fishing boats
The sound of a vintage vespa
Weaving its way through a crowd
The arguing couple, arguing loud
And this is a country of which to be proud.
I have fallen in love with the architecture
The vast and complex history
The more I learn the more I admit is a mystery.
I have fallen in love with the way the sun shines brighter
The air is fresher
And the fruit is sweeter
The men are bolder
And the books are cheaper.
I have fallen in love with the words they say
And how those words effortlessly roll off their tongues
I breathe in their culture
And try to hold it in my lungs.
Pizza, pesto, cute cafes
Absence of anxiety, holidays
The tourists who view it all through a camera lense
Adventure begins and tension ends.
I have fallen in love with it all
Every flower
Every hue
All those pairs of knock-off sunglasses
I love them too.
Every cloud
Every ray of sunshine
Every drop of ***** riverwater
Every painted line
Every brick
Of every church
On all those hills
In all those tiny towns
That populate the green countryside
And every visionary who in them has lived and died
I love
But most of all
I have fallen in love with the version of me
That comes out when I am in Italy
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
Check out my books www.amazon.com/author/richardratliff
Aging Gracefully
It gives you clarity, perspective and appreciation
Always thought cataracts were rapids in a river
Or a boat or something: fuzzy thinking
Don't think they give clarity
Even bifocals don't help
As a kid I wanted to be a king like Arthur
Didn't realize getting a crown would be painful
Like a poke in the eye: going down the canal
And not a canal in Venice either
Always enjoyed a smile with dimples
But time adds wrinkles to the smile
Causing ever so slow changes
As my dimples turn to jowls
I found out that PSA
Isn't a pro sport authority
Doesn't regulate the rules of golf
But It can affect my game
Copyright 2016
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 12:33 PM UTC
The wood and it's ashes
Suspended into the atmosphere
Embraced the fog and the curled up cat
Who purred
And drifted into her dream
While the old watchman
Watched the fire go out
Reflecting upon his bifocals.
Drunken boys
Walked with a drunken walk
Into their houses
Also
Drifted off to sleep
Wishing they woke up
To lust and money
That came from nowhere.
The homeless
Slipped into their rags and papers
Wanting to wake up
To, oh well,just another day
With promised food.
While rats re-scavenged
On the scavanged morsels
The women sang songs
Of elves to their newly born
Who understood none
Yet slipped into a world
Of ambiguity
Till the dawn
The day slept
Within the blanket of darkness
And a moon
Full of cheese and a rabbit within
Made of a whole bunch of craters
That soaked up
Hunger,thirst,failure and fatigue
Of the day
Love
Falling in and out of people
And tears
That only fell out
Whispered into the ears of tomorrow
To be better
To be less deceitful.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
a home of unrest survives in my old town where
madness seeps through jaundice colored halls,
lapping life from rotted brains.
grim photos of grandchildren
deform walls,
but old folks don’t remember.
they wear nametags.
who am i? residents wail
for mommy, their ’86 kitten,
a bus pass from chicago or
the wrong god.
her eyes are sallow.
tunnel vision, they say.
cloudy hues without purpose.
bags under gramma’s lids hang
like dead gangsters
and bifocals settle around her neck,
in case she gains a pang
of clarity.
Lovely Rita,
once a fat cook is now slender as a fang.
she forgets to eat.
my guttural granny, she stutters
incoherent, mostly.
but today, she babbles
an omen.
watch o u t
thing s are
g o nn a
h h h appen
she retreats,
deteriorating.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
i am an actress
according to my uncle
my ma and pa were not wild
he called me peaches as a child
he views life through the lens of foggy imaginary bifocals
he says god sent me to test his faith
i suppose as devil's advocate
he looks me in the eyes
and laughs
and asks how much they pay me
i once saw him during a trip
he may have appeared obsessed with the maryland rails
but he also may be wildly pursuing a withheld pension
he will introduce himself as henry VIII
but that is not the name my mom-mom gave him
Jul 20, 2010
Jul 20, 2010 at 10:02 PM UTC
benjamin franklin was created by benjamin franklin
one of his most ingenious inventions
you could never read all the books about him
when you finish one, two more have been written
i party in his colossal footsteps
thanks ben, for lending me all those volumes from your library
you invented bifocals, i see clearly
your stove warms my heart
i give away my **** too -- no patents for me either
let’s jam sometime on your glass armonica
i’m packing one of your divided soup bowls on my next ocean trip
i’m sick of losing my clam chowder to the waves
these terms you added to the lexicon:
"battery," "positive," "negative," "conductor," "discharge"
i’m positive i bought a battery the other day
you designed the first penny – only now an anachronism
no matter how many of those saved pennies have been earned
all those aphorisms, my god
i bet you mumble them in your sleep
you started the philosophical society, me the secret music society
you studied whirlwinds and gulf streams when sailing to london for a cup of coffee
you designed flippers, hung onto a kite for windsurfing
used the kite to summon lightning
invite me next time you blow up a thunder house with an ungrounded lightning rod
we’ll make pittsburgh tremble
and congrats on the grounded lightning rods
you saved millions of people and neutralized religion
it’s not the deadly finger of god, the vengeance of the lord
it’s just a buzz
lighting the streets at night comes in handy
though the night watchman concept has gotten a bit fascist
brokering the french alliance was stellar for our onion soup supply
but your suggestion that we unite these states
i’m not sure that one’s gonna stick
and thomas jefferson was a cockblocker
we declare independence from his scolding us for all our mademoiselles
Jun 20, 2019
Jun 20, 2019 at 5:12 AM UTC
Bleary, dreary bifocals looked out through seeing eyes. At the maze of apiculture before him. He pushed a cart his whole life, never stepping up on the ledge to ride it.
Every Tuesday night, his fist packed tight full of ones. Uncrumbling, Washington from his back pocketed jeans. He'd lay him out flat, on the desk, like I should be impressed. One pack of cigs please.
He'd take his cart, around the world & back. Show kaleidoscope girls a good time. Because no matter how pretty that **** picture was, no matter how many times you tore it a part...it was always ugly. Just like the make up, that caked up the beauty on her face.
Parking lot pickups, corner cat-calls, was all she would be worth, a penny in the gutter, if she was lucky. Face up, grasped by hands that'll never love her. Such a steep price, for such a cheap use of love. Generic.
He tells them, he loves them as his boots slide on, comfortable. Too much in a hurry to take his socks off. Humming, Spin Doctors under his breath. He breaths heavily, like he worked so hard that day.
She holds onto morales like lose change, change is lose when you're use, to anything. That shows up on the corners on a Tuesday night, with something new to ignite. Not just the ciggerate between his lips. Lion skin, hipocrathy.
I lay the bills neatly in the drawr, wondering what price he really pays for the stress to relieve his mind. What price does the girl pay, how many clinics does she visit in a year. Baby girl YOUR NOT AN ACCIDENT, YOUR WORTH MORE THAN THE WORDS THAT HIT YOUR CHEEK LIKE A SLAP YOU HAVE MORE POTENTIAL THAN THE MEN YOU LET COMFORT YOU INTO THIS ABUSIVE SOLIDTUDE. YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL, I WOULD SPEND EVERY CENT I HAD JUST TO SIT & TALK WITH YOU.
**Luke 7:47
"Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—as her great love has shown. But whoever has been forgiven little loves little.”"**
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC
Sometimes I like to think
That you just moved real far away
And that you got a job being a jeweler
At a different far away jewelry store
Because you hated working
For your father who never
Believed in you the right way
And that you just couldn’t drive
That silly old van hours to see us
And then I remember
I drive that van now
I have your guitars on your rack
In my room near the window
Eggay the cat is here
Not at your Fishtown Philadelphia house
I wear your ratty denim coat
To school to feel your embrace
When I cannot keep a smile on
I keep your bifocals locked up
In a display case with your
Memorial pamphlet
That says you were buried
On January twenty first
Of two thousand ten.
I do wonder on days like this
What you’ll say to me
When we see each other again
I wonder if your tears will be so real
Like they were when we had to leave
The vacation early because I ****** it up
I wish I could inhale your scent
Of cigarettes and beer and
Father
I wish I could remember what you sounded like
So crisp in my head
Yet the fear you caused absent in my nerves
I still remember every tattoo you had
Encompassing your whole body
In a beautiful mural
Like the ones we’d see
When you drove us from mother’s home
To yours
You had Julia in purple on your left shoulder
Overseeing the chinese dragon
That flew through the mountains and sunshine on your arm
Rayna’s name was inked underneath that same arm
And my name inked underneath the right
Mine sitting underneath another dragon
Sweeping through a thunderstorm
On your one leg was a blue diamond
A homage to your passion and your life
On the other was a daddy sea horse
With its two babies in tow
On your back was a few odd ones
Aliens smoking a joint in their ship
A heart made out of machinery
And knuckles punching someone’s teeth out
I remember being so proud
To have a daddy who was so
Unapologetically himself
Despite him being unapologetic
When he hurt people
And I am still proud to say
I am your daughter
Who is just as uniquely unapologetic
For who I am
As you were
Love you daddy
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
“The news told me,” she said, like we were close, “the news said nearsightedness isn’t just genetics, isn’t just luck of the draw.” I’d never been a gambler. My interests were absorbed in my spoon’s inverted picture.
“What I mean, is clarity is in the hands of the person.” Or in the eyes. “You look at things too close when you’re young, and you lose focus forever.”
Her arms crossed over her uniform, a seafoam apron. She looked through her bifocals at her thoughts. Four kids in seven years. Her body was tense and doughy from the push and pull of life.
“Now imagine that,” her roadrash voice rumbled. “If I had just looked at the horizon more I wouldn’t need these **** lenses. My whole life could’ve been different.”
I pushed my empty coffee cup in her direction so she had a better reach, and gave her a half smile. “Yes. Imagine that,” I said.
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 4:49 PM UTC
exhalations within the confines of my keratin flavour
faded red, no match for your deep mahogany
i'm red. you're brown.
we should get together and have one little, two little, three little
indians.
i digress. time gets fast, everything gets slow.
we just started from a different point of view.
there's little honesty in lying between the lines.
so give me time, or stop sitting there.asking your watch the time.
if i read anymore plath i'll never be able to string more than
one cohesive sentence together.
or ever one coherent phrase. give me a sign. time is of the essence.
an hour here. a few there. not nearly enough to say what's in fine print.
my nuerons are fine printing too much for comprehension.
it's hard to read it without bifocals.
Mar 14, 2011
Mar 14, 2011 at 7:12 PM UTC
it's your turn.
go.
"in muddy footprints i see faces
that Picasso would have drawn,
in ***** floors and
unwashed dishes lay the lies
and promises i told myself
in backwards orders,
with misplaced eyes,
glasses,
mouths.
and now, my turn's arrived,
and i've nothing to confess!
point taken.
i don't know what it is.
it's Picasso in my mind.
Van Gogh: self-portrait.
missing parts,
misplaced parts,
misinterpretation of an education
too-well carried out.
dirt piles up and i play,
a little girl amused,
like when i learned about
maps,
navigation,
topography in sandboxes.
i was so much older than a little girl and yet i still belong in sandboxes!
there i can pretend to be
Picasso,
there i can call this
'art.'
and i can't call it art anywhere else
because it's not,
it's not artistic in the real world,
and there,
there exists no ideal.
only confusion.
but of another sort-
not the kid described on these pages.
my pages.
my turn?
i've not much to say, not
that would mean anything to you, anyway.
in cloudy visions i see
smoke
that Picasso could have
breathed,
in,
out,
breath.
in,
out,
smoke.
his smoke must have been
so full of art!
oh!
what is art!"
you'd get along here, just fine,
you're friendly enough,
i can tell.
"so it's my turn?
i wouldn't get along
anywhere, no,
i wouldn't last a day
without him,
but that's a different life.
a life so far away,
built like castles in sandboxes
on playgrounds that wish they were
the beach,
wish to hear the ocean,
wish to feel the waves,
and. yet.
that is art,
is it not?
beauty in the wishes
of personified concepts.
the life that lives in
another time,
(where do i belong?) but
i don't remember and
i
am so tired
of 'i'!
oh. no.
in shattered windows i see
accidents,
injuries,
deaths.
but some of it is beautiful.
you must think i'm
sick,
sadistic,
too influenced by art.
i assure you i won't cut off my ear but it's
very possible i'll dream in
figures
misaligned.
missing eyebrows,
misplaced lashes.
bifocals keep me from speaking clearly,
fogged with every exhalation of
smoke:
1920's Hollywood actresses,
mascara too thick,
lipstick too red,
cancer sticks between slender fingers.
tap.
ashes fall.
in ashes on linoleum floors,
flourescent lighting,
i see-
never mind.
you'll think i'm more dangerously sadistic
than is safe,
at this point.
i don't see anything at all,
no linoleum, non flourescents
to reflect your muddy footprints,
no Picasso faces this time around.
in muddy footprints i see...
faces misaligned, i see...
wheels in overdrive.
and you say i'll get along there,
'just fine'!
go.
it's your turn.
i hope i haven't scared you away.
there's not much time
before another day."
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 6:56 AM UTC
I watch our arms sew together
under gravity's needle.
Our fingers bloom roses
as our blood shines and spins
together on our now single palm.
Mother watches from home
through her crumbling telescope.
She sees us suspended
in half kiss. She waits for impact
of hips, her fingers moist,
slipping off her eyepiece.
She wipes the sweat from her lip.
When I feel her gaze on the soul of my foot
I know she is watching with
cataracts and bifocals.
I am the same age a when I left her
while she cries dust on
her cracking refracting lens.
She can't look away at my stuck body,
rigormortic, frozen and unfocused
in her left eye.
She sits down and dies.
I have just begun.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 12:09 AM UTC
Sometimes they are dropped like pennies
On the sidewalk to be
Received by handsome strangers,
An ongoing exchange exemplified
In the little clay bowls besides the tip jar, reading
Take one, leave one.
I've known a few collectors, mostly
Nosy old men who spend stifling afternoons on their groaning porches
Eyeing passersby with
Greed-glazed curiosity and a pair of bifocals, and
Once my brother filled a whole book with all
The state quarters.
Change is heavy and we’re
All afraid we’ll end up with lumpy pockets so heavy
Our pants fall around our ankles so we
Spend it away in vending machines
That carry Coke when we want Pepsi, machines
So full that they spit back quarters.
I know there is no protocol
For that machine that offers nothing, its
Empty coils glaring, winking behind ***** glass but
Your pockets are just so full.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 7:46 PM UTC
*Cobwebs collected in
four corners , tins reflecting
sunshine along the wooden borders ,
a cash register from the fifties
was ironically up for sale , a mirror
from the sixties , gold leaf shot glasses
glimmered , mason jars and fondue sets ,
a tea service , Corningware plates , thimbles ,
candelabras and goose quill pens shimmered
A mannequin with costume jewelry ,
old Army outfits , icepicks , bread pans and shaving kits
The air was stale , like grandmothers house ,
Several traps within eyeshot in hopes of a mouse ,
The days lunch stood open with late morning coffee
perusing a giant ceiling fan overhead , old time
rockers and brass bed sets
A clerk with bifocals and white apron nursing a wood
pipe with black cherry tobacco ,
A shelf with horehound , licorice and rock candy ,
guitar strings , sewing needles and 'medicinal' blackberry brandy* ..
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 7:17 PM UTC
ever since a wee lad
way back in second grade
near sightedness became
quite evident and difficult to ignore
forsooth while deep in the womb
visionary genesis made
with slight color blindness
also in the chromosomal store,
and so-called “floaters”
my own private kaleidoscope played
tag across field of view,
which process concentration
exhausted ability to attune
other senses to lend even a shade.
now as an older fellow,
who dons bifocals with pride
eligible by optometrist/ophthalmologist
to undergo laser to shine on lens
and render spectacles
superfluous as necessary guide
once anonymous philanthropist pens
adequate check for costly procedure,
whereby ocular weakness to hide,
whence ability to see keen as a hawk
with zoom empowered by tens.
meanwhile this wayward fellow
will pilgrimage to the virtual oracle of Delphi
hoping the priestess can deliver
like divine miracle worker for near blind
and if prayer (free of glasses answered)
will become prophet well nigh
no longer at the mercy groping
in the dark for misplaced eyewear to find
able to discern celestial objects
far away in the sky
which cosmic phenomena
t’will hypnotize this inquisitive mind!
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 5:40 PM UTC
My mother twisted irregular ringlettes around her finger in the dead of the night. She pulled my head knee-level and spoke in whispers of places she would one day see. Some people are never meant to stay.
I grew up in the quiet, still nights of "don't get up or else." Else was a definition I never bothered to learn.
I would crawl hands and knees and open my ears as wide as they would go. You hear so many secrets when invisible.
I became an artist at the age of three, vivid image colored bifocals taped to the back inside of my eyelids. My mother wrote HOPE entwined with NO, four inch blade, small waves, when I would sleep so I could only dream of where she would one day go and where I would never see.
Inheritance breaks backs with unforeseen trauma. Seeing the crooked cat-walk back unfamiliar to the bitter taste of prophecy, daughters learn to expect good-byes.
My mother spoke of places I couldn't fathom. My mother bare-backed with the wind before I had a chance to learn some mothers want to stay and rock their curly-haired crying daughter to sleep.
It is self-preservation to believe people cannot be permanent. A mother's love is supposed to be the strongest love of all, a piece of you able to be seen without the truth-bearing soul of a mirror. And mine was the size of the wind. You sleep and cry, and I will find a way to leave before being left.
Feb 18, 2011
Feb 18, 2011 at 8:14 PM UTC
You're divinely perfect through the bifocals I don't wear baby
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 5:47 PM UTC
This is no time for mudslinging
Or complimentary pillow chocolates
We're here to scour these head stones to make this bone yard look more lively
Now, get over your shell shock and let's get to it
You know our motto
"They drop, we mop!"
And our slogan
"Dead as a door nail, clean as a whistle"
Adjust your bifocals
And allow this to soak in
There is nothing to fear here
I know it's creepy but we have a job to do and a name to uphold
I'm telling you in advanced, at night you might be on edge since you're new
There are no walking dead zombies here or ghost or ghouls
They've all been neutralized, passed on, embalmed and buried
If not they will ring the bell beside they're grave and the gravedigger will come and do some excavating
I know death strikes a chord with you after that accident at that donkey show in Juarez but it'll be fine
I have not disclosed any information from you, all is well
Except the fact that this is a cursed ancient Indian burial ground
Where witch doctors are put in the ground and their spirits come and work black magic on all those who tread here
Okay bye!
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 9:24 PM UTC
*once upon a drowsy afternoon drowned in the heat of life
we sat upon a knoll playing queen and king in lavender blue
and wilfully waited to be tempted by the horned one to finally feast
upon the intensity of our rampant libidos and our malleable greenness
now these many years later in the warmth of your smoky country kitchen
as you tend the stew for the old man in rimless bifocals and a hearing aid
remember how some dreams died but we lived and learned nevertheless*
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 1:59 AM UTC
literary food for thought.
Self Mutilation
(ah bet thar iz an app for that!)
within unlit partial "FAKE abattoir"
sans wardrobe alcove
where dust bunnies didst allures
completing a simple task among
my never ending (Matthew's) list
of domestic chores
this undertaking engaged
thankfully while completely clothed,
and scrounging on all fours
nonchalantly picking up scattered detritus
including food crumbs
potential critters hors d'oeuvres
the spouse (ideally seated
on this same swivel chair
dashing off these lines
linkedin with this Macbook Pro) -
housing at least four scores
of word documents, she espied
the cheeky opportunity
that triggered many wars
within arms length the taut outline
of me 'lil derriere - re: rear end
temporarily dormant versus
when flatulence roars -
posterior flank hie
could not de fend
she playfully poked her finger
that didst dis send
within close vicinity of sphincter,
where ****** turgid business height tend
(most likely this husband not alone
getting ***** twerked) inn me own coal
less cents great movements got made
jabbing ma **** hole
while i happened
to be "blindly" groping
upon darkly cutout cubby hole
i.e. without wearing bifocals/ spectacles -
envision a human mole
thus amply qualified her role
to be literal and figurative
pain in the *** vole,
where much to my horror a flash
of red hot poker blind
momentary rage, did lash
out at me, when aye espied
a kitchen knife and acted rash
(how cutlery got in closet floor
a minor mystery
and potential topic de jure
for another poem)
to brandish sharp edge
around abdominal area
grabbed handle with left hand,
thence commenced to slash
rhythmically thwacking
wrist of right hand
then quickly dropped sharp implement
(as like a man momentarily possessed)
before rendering permanent harm
with a river of blood to wash.
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 2:10 AM UTC