Every thought I conjour is venomous
Specifically hot and pressed 'insensitive'
Literally lost in bottled hot headedness
Weighty when I slog a verbal cosh with these sentences
Hasty without thought at a cost to everybody's detriment
An onslaught with no relevance...
I wish I'd stopped...
If only I'd stopped...

(response to yesterday’s prompt
for national poetry month)

~

paisley in golden rod,
the only name for
a fabric this fright'ning,
remembered all too well.
by siblings one and all.
short one for little brother.
long one for a father, tall.
each has tried to forget
this, a night of infamy
gone wrong, a season's greeting
in the middle of the sixties.
when one from distant shore
thought to add to
our family this lore,
and sent as Christmas gift,
what's not on ANY child's list;
now tis burned indelibly,
etched far too deep in memory
for sure this gaffe
they thought a boon.
till disappointed children's sighs
their echoed groans
'cross living room,
this boon a bust revealed!
for whatever possessed
this he or she?
who, but pure insanity,
would conjour up this spirit
of unholy, living terror?
for this was no gift in living color;
no... this instead,
t'was the night before Christmas,
when hell incarnate
dropped in for a visit,
and dressed children six,
with a mum and their dad
in matching paisly,
pajamas of golden rod;
still a distressing memory
forever in infamy fixed!

~

post script.

yes, there are pics and there's even a home movie; six siblings are still trying to unearth and shred every copy!

That which we may conjour,

by accidental affirmations,
by conscious conceptions,
by pensive persuasion,

Once brought forth
Into existence
Are no longer
Ours to control

Makes me pause to wonder why
I conjour thoughts to let them fly,
Float them forth as dreams do sing
Of hope's eternal leavening.....
Leavening the quiet subdued
Of retrospection's agate mood,
As still as glass in hidden pool
Soft utterings of maudlin fool.

M.

Neath the pale and crescent moon
I saunter with the call of loon,
This haunting note through reeds on lake
Reflected moonlit ripples make.
I pause to ponder beauty stark
Of monochrome in Willmont Park,
In sillouhette of black and white
Through lakeside, rippled reeds at night.
Again the call of haunting loon
In silver light's reflected moon,
The chill air causing breath to cloud
My footfall crunch in sand, too loud,
Distracting me from beautious sight
Of moonlit lake on darkest night.
And yet again that haunting call
To conjour Willmont's phantom shawl,
Descending mist now brings the damp
Necessitating my decamp....
So.... with regret, I disembark
From gracious, moonlit Willmont Park.

M.
April 19 2014

Tread through the path of days end.
All I can see, far from reach.
Far above towering mountains, across open seas.
Are self explanatory reflecting images.
Millions if beautiful multicolors if eyes.
The low rumbles if imperfectly sculpted mouths.
So far they can see, so hard they can breathe.
Through an abstract vanity so well protected.

A mirror image matching identically.
To each living, breathing, seeing aspect of me.

So much alike, yet so different.
A beautiful masterpiece of diversity.
Some reflect a perfect double.
While others are like shattered glass.

As I observe closely I see myself through these;
flawed imperfect stainglass windows.
I see you, I see me.

Pondering the thoughts comtemplate...

Through all these beautiful imperfect imagrys.
I ponder the thought of how we came to be.
Only a being, perfect, benevolent, omnipotent.
Could conjour such a creature as thee.
A creature with hands and feet.
With a mind to ponder and think.
And a heart that loves and beats.
Such a stature if conjouration are we.

What are we, why are we here?
We are an anomaly of what we bear.

Humanoid figures symbols of relevance.
Different shapes and sizes.
We are mirrors of one another.
How are we brought to be?

Something phenomenal I see.
Couldn't have been a coincidence.
These are the works of a mighty king.

Divine and with love he made you and me...

To live through his mirror image is;
One of love and tolerance.
Another of being thankful and humble.
His plans of us are his mural.
Walking mirrors like one another.
We are his greatest creation.
A one of a kind masterpiece.

Feelings of positivity flow through me.
As I feel a sense of faith grow In me.
And see his image and character grow through me.
I know what I must do to seek him.

Love him...
Serve him...
Praise him...
Know him...

We are the walking mirrors of one.
King of creation, lord of reflections.

I see now what I must do, what we must do...

Welcome, to the tragedy of my mind.
This distortion you see, you feel;
It's mine.
Take a peek inside, you'll be surprised.
Bright colours, radiant,
And thoughts  scream in my dreams;
Disorganization, puts me sleep.
Unscramble my words as they stay itching at your ear.
Say it out loud!
What's there to fear?
I'm the sunset!
Exploding across your indigo skies!
But you were the night.
You extinguished my flame,
You turned out the lights.
I was a bright orange, but you remained dark.
You turned my vibrant sunset,
Into nothing but burnt embers.
Now I can't conjour a sunset,
I don't remember.
Shades of grey float in my mind;
Words, dull and tasteless,
Falling flat to your feet.
Thoughts of lonliness comfort me to sleep.

I didnt think i would expose a poem,
or even,
conjour the courage to knit a cape out of my addiction...
This is me settling my habits with cigarettes to rest.

I ditch the nicotine and tobacco and cigarette paper,
and although the thought of this triumph is enriching,
Right now my spirit is pale, and stale of vigor,
The livliehood of a single puff,
could heal all pain of the moment,
until yet again,
time takes its toll,
Frozen I feel,
stuck and bewildered having my crutches
swept from the vice grips of my hands,
and now,
I am to stand on my own two,
with the will of my own my mind and my own heart.
Gravity is heavier here,
as if landing on planet Jupiter
Alien! Indeed is the feeling I feel, feeling, I fall...

Rugged and ruined under rain,
daggered with bows
and blind groping over braille,
Who knew victory could feel so grave, ill?
so grim and muggy and moody and mundane.
The greatest dynasties fell to dust,
and yet God doesnt even show a face familiar to man,
but is felt with the grace of a feather,
behold a blooming forever,
Clandestine, a boon worthwhile...

I LIKE TO SAY YOUR NAME

I like to say
your name

when you're
not here

turn you
into sound

conjour you out of
thin air

so that you appear
before me

dressed in sound
only

memory sketching in
the rest of you

as if sound
was just an outline

and love
colours you in

adding the voice last
so I can hear you say.

"Hello you..!"
and there you are

as present
as present

can be.

I like to say
your name

when you're
not there.

The things I choose not to convey
Unless the tune is right and the ear buds are positioned.
The sound bounces off the walls of my skull
And I take it with super sonic delight.
I rage and I swoon and I mourn to the beat
To last out a thought I never wish to be complete.
It stifles the screams I lock behind my wide spread grin
And make the grip of my hands release.
If I can create the music on my own
I could share or hide with subconscious intentions.
So if I press the notes of a melody to your face
And insist that it portrays certain passages that I've yet to explain,
Please don't look at me with intolerant obligation
Simply because it doesn't suit your taste.
Take it with stride.
Take it with an open mind.
My insight is clearer with the words of others
Who are brave enough to conjour their lips to move.
To let their tongue loosen and flip the bird
At those who are scornful enough to correct their prose.
In my head is music
And my mouth in constant motion to it's sway.
It breaks my my heart in silence
When that music refuses to play.

It is as if the ghosts of my past
have wandered in
speaking only in whispers
too faint to understand
too loud to drown out

I wonder why they came to call?

Did I mistakenly
conjour them
stirring a settled darkness
best not meddled with?

Came they
of their own volition
knocking, crying
Nevermore?

Haha.
No
this is not fiction
these ghosts are real
old companions
though I would not
call them friends

Indeed
for they are enemies neither
simply parts of me
broken from the whole
conscious
and without souls

Memories gone nightmare
forged through a flame
Lit hot by shame
and all the other bad feelings
Which gave birth to these
abominations of spirit

They know me
the me lost to time
and the mercy of weak memories
in those around me
a side-effect of a forgiving heart
It is the only thing
that makes these ghosts
so unique:  they do not forget.

Nor should they
and I should be grateful
for such vivid reminders
but I confess
I am not

Like so many
I simply wish to forget
but that is not possible
not practical
that shame holds lessons
valuable as they are painful
ignorance may be bliss
But at such a heavy cost...

I do not know if I am ready
to pay it.

Darling sweetheart
I can only say I love you
in a  French letter.
The ginger cat will purr
on a cold winters night, alone I
walk home in the snow.

Darling Sweetheart
I feel lost in your refrain.
My language  is in a welter
as I arise from my slumber.
What words can I conjour?
Your freckled like thighs,
with long shoulders back,
spoke a  term apart
to sink as low to say.
Bon  Soir.

Once a year we celebrate the tales of the dead.
An ice pick in the chest or an ax through one's head.
****** tales and make-believe are best shared with teeth rotting sugars until this horror-happy day leaves.
A chain saw to cut up another victim to prepare the night's feast
Follows a scream full of fear and the chase of a murderous beast.
We all become actors in Halloween celebration...
So dust off your spell books and conjour up some fun conversations.

I liken your treatment of me,
To that of a marble sculpture,
Chipped away incessantly.
Like waves beating the sea,
Wind trashing the trees.
With your rash words swinging
On that hatchet of a tongue
Careless to the damage you were bringing
Unsatisfied by tears I cried
Head laying heavy pillowed
On your twisted lies.
You broke the pieces of the pieces of me.
Leaving me with a dust of love
That was just enough
To conjour, to muster up
The strength to leave
With whatever I could sweep up of me.
But I must say I see
With every sunset passing me
I look more and more like a beautiful disaster.

I've been a lifetime trying
different combinations of words
looking for the series that
forms the litany needed
to cast the spell that'll make
me love myself.
Lost magics are these
somehow beyond my reach
or comprehension but are
all I would need to stop
living in the suffer
and the hurt;
all I need to look into
that ******* mirror
and care about it's
fat, stupid inhabitant.
If not a magic, maybe an art.
Perhaps I can learn it
with practice rather than
conjour it into being
like the skill that comes
from the repetition of sketching
the same line or shape
for hours and days.
I've drawn the character
I wish to be onto the earth
and in my place for
exactly one mortal age
but it still looks rough
and unfinished like the
frantic scratches and doodles
of a child before motor skills
can help to make sense
of their work.
Art, perhaps I've not the skill.
The right art can transform
wht couldn't it transform me?
Magic, perhaps I've not the luck.
The right words in the right order
could save me.
Ancient magics or arts
whichever it may be
that I am certain that
once I knew, before the
thick fingered punishments
and judgements.
Things I understood before
the casual unkindness
and ever present violence
learned me my value
and taught me to think like
a tool on my best days
a weapon on my worst
and a lump of useless ****
the rest of the time.
I do not know why
I continue on from day to day.
I do not know if it's
some form of love
that even I am able to
show to myself
or if it is rank cowardice
and I'm not sure if there's,
when you think about it,
even a real difference.
I may never know
what I don't know
and that, I'm sorry,
is one of only a handful
of things that I know.
Perhaps the right words
in the right order
will fix me.
The right sketched lines
in the right place
could make me forever.
Perhaps that's too
much the ask
of magic or art
but I've no other clue
where else to start.

Started broken mended half unmended Abandoned hugged again Set down Winced at worried over. Grudgingly a rhyme did come.   Loved (maybe one line worked) winced at once again. Finally set down and

Done.

—--------------------


How your eyes fill the room.
From their light, no escape.
And now that you are here again,
And smiling
None that I would wish to make.

A warmth of waiting, then the
Words between us flow
To conjour into being more within
Of each
To each -

Mysteries of another sort of love
That may not speak
Or be spoken of too much.

And I am layered blessed and emptied
inside out
No breath left for words to tell.  
But not all whooping, since it is most wonderful, wonderful, and then again
Most wonderful.
To know, we know all thing shall be well.  

Perhaps more real unreal than ever so before
But everything's alright
And
Somehow made more so
By a broken wine glass.
Rolling empty on the floor.