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Valsa George May 2016
In the coffin lay your body silent and still
As with wax, sealed were your eyes
Bared of all passion, pain and strain
You were at rest, tranquil was your face

When your body was lowered into the grave
Tears trickled from our eyes like streams of blood
We stood orphaned beside the newly dug up pit
Knowing quite well that the days of glory have fled!

When you left, leaving in us a contused wound
We hoped time would heal the **** quite soon
But with every passing day you’re sorely missed
Especially when our life goes out of tune

At times when I feel lonesome with none to care
In weariness I search you among the stars of the sky
When my heart twitches with an unknown pain
To your comforting presence, my mind does fly

Sometimes I envision you coming into my room
Smiling that sweet smile in the dead of the night
But soon I realize it is only a fleeting vision
And from my sight, you vanish like an ethereal sprite

Rambling through the avenues of vanished years
We remember your sweet assurance, tender care n’ love
But never will we have the joy of having them again
For you flew into the horizon like a gentle dove

Mom, your presence my tiny world once filled
With that old bygone past how I was content
A treasure of sweet memories still I do hold
Now your eternal absence, how deeply I lament

Oh Mother, though you are dead and gone
Our love for you is inscribed deep in our hearts
Which nothing can erase or erode and will last
Until finally from our body, life silently departs!
Mom.... you are sorely missed, though many years have gone by !
onlylovepoetry Jul 2016
<>

Hebrew calendar says Summer Sabbath,
the day of rest has, as scheduled...arrived

wryly, ironically, bitterly,
poet rhymingly thinking nowadays...survived

more apropos,
#even survived alive,
for therein is a concomitant, under-the-surface implication,
of the uncertainty of forecast  future,
for no matter how theoretically normalized and organized,
even a trip to a shopping mall...deadly

survive - a far, far bitter...but better fit

not sure of the why-well of my being here,
poem composing scheduled, always on this day of pause,
this week-ending demarcator of the who I am

I am among the many of little understanding,
who having garnered no solace nor rest,
that a seventh day supposedly, is purposed to beget,
for the world is in a ****** awful mess

with neither the rhyme or the reason,
the single breath I expirate, as proof of life,
is this season's perfect, sufficing hallmark,
symbolic of the reign of unceasing confusion that has left our minds
damaged and contused,
secretly selfishly thinking to oneself,
#my life matters


this Sabbath, I speak German,
the language of my father and his father's,
all my ancestors, even unto the years of the Age of Enlightenment,
today, spoken in the ironic dialect of Munich

Am Morgen borning glorreiche
the morning borning glorious

poet seeks an answer, mission to permission,
to rightly explain
how he visions in unsightly confusion
how he divines loving in Munich's tribulations

sitting in the poet's nook, upon the ancient Adirondack chair,
nature listens to the poet discordant chords
of musical tears upon musical chairs,
wet-staining flesh

all around, the other noise makers gone quiet as well
for they are pityingly, eavesdrop listening for what happens next

The Chair speaks:

"this day,
I am happily,
made of wood,
my living cells
long dispatched,
so that I can no longer
weep in time
with my poet-occupant's
struggling lines,
verses upon the decomposing
of the worst of times,
though in compathy,
my silence, by and to him,
is gratefully unnoticed"

the poet  has no visitors this fine day,
none human or divine anyway,
but not alone

for a gaggle of old ones have early come,
from Rebecca's and his mother's Canada dispatched,
my regular geese guests southbound have returned for their
summer stopover,
but so early,
for the calendar must be telling lies,
it says these are the days of July,
so named  for all  to recall
another murdering assignation~assassination,
that of a fallen Caesar,
another-man-who-would-be-god

my summertime flying audience comes yearly to share the bounty
of this, my sheltering isle,
good guests who in payment for their use of our facilities,
honk Facebook  "likes" in appreciation
for every writ completed in the nookery

this year of fear, the geese are newly self-tasked,
seeking solace to share and understand the world weariness,
so strongly encountered in the roughened atmospheric conditions
newly facing all of us

everybody's needy for respite from the next

where next?

a plump audience of eleven
on this grayed sunny day,
greet me, honking, feverishly, excitable honking, but!

auf Deutsch,
in German


full of questions about predatory man
which I fluently comprehend but of answers,
have none completed, none sealed as of yet,  
any writ by my hand to give away or
even keep

so when the temperature cooingly cools,
on their way further south, them,  it sends,
they will not be burdened with the empty baggage
of inexcusably and poorly manmade
naturalized, pasteurized, synthesized,
crap excuses

the poet's own reflection in the fast moving bay waters,
is not reflected,
these, no calm pond waters, but his own internal reflections,
beg him, explain this poem's entitlement,
this designation of confusion and its inflection,

confusion as something lovely?

no good answers do the witnessing waters or the winds sidebar provision,
the geese, the chair, all unfair,
only have similar quarreling questions for him to dare

foremost and direst first,
where is there loveliness in confusion the poems sees?

poet stands on the dock, as if in the dock,
noticed, the waters pause, the winds into silence, swept,
the gulls grounded, the geese aligned in rapt attention,
all to the poet, as jury, they steadfastly attend
to his creation, this poem's titled curse,
an answer even barely adequate, some solution?

In Munich,  ****** born and welcomed,
Dachau, the very first death camp,
sited a mere ten miles away

one could conceivably could demand that

this poet, this Jew, this could-be-Shylock,

having seen a pound of flesh extracted,
might accept this balancing as a compensation
of history's scales weighted by the concentrated demise
of millions of his very own flesh and faith

but he does not...

a nation takes in a million strangers and refugees,
not without peril costly,
visible now, these side servings of risk,
that noble gestures so oft bring

what he feels, why he cries is for the

loveliness of forgiveness,

he unashamedly honest borrows the words he confesses,

any innocent man's death diminishes him

now the winds kicks up, the waters refrosted frothy,
the gulls go airborne, the geese fly away,
searching for another poet to respirate, infatuate and inspire,
clearly, neither satisfied or enchanted with the one
presently available

only the aged Adirondack fair, his aged long time companion chair,
remains moved - but unmoving,
in the domaine of their unity, in the vineyard of
their conjoined, place of quiet contemplation

a woman observes tear stains upon his cheeks,
noticing them upon the chair's open arms now all-fallen,
tho a surface wood hardened,
the tears are softly welcomed and storingly embraced,
absorbed

the three,
the woman, the chair, the poet-me,
all as one, tearfully, no longer cry in vain,
having  found a white coal seam amidst the black bunting
that decorates their glum apprehension of tomorrow's tidings

<>

Saturday,
July 23, 2016
10:29am
Shelter Island
No name Nov 2013
A boy holding a blade to his wrist
Pondering on whether he should lacerate his skin..........


who wants me here?
who cares about me?
who accepts me for who i am?
Nobody
so why sit around to pretend i'm ecstatic about life
when i am being contused?

Contused about having rainbows in my brain
getting beat by my dad
he says hes going to beat me until all i know is straight
straight mind
until i stand straight
until i am straight
i thought he loved me
i thought he accepted me for who i am

i have been abandoned by the ones i thought was friends
unaccepted by churches
treated differently by teachers

i have been referred to as "it" numerous of times

at times i feel unusual , like i'm not human....  

Society dosen't care
Friends
Family
Teachers
they don't care

When i am lying on the floor
blood leaking from my cut s
my body has discontinued the flow of oxygen and blood

when i am cadaverous , deceased, vanished
  
that's when people will start felling attritional
that's when people will understand

But its to late for that.
i am dead
because you couldn't open your eyes and realize what i was going through

I wanted to know you understood me before my life was non-extant
Devon Baker Aug 2011
If Happiness is a contagious drug
then I’m sure I’m hooked and high,
where'd the sad flee off to,
when did the falling sky stop crushing my lungs.
I’m for sure that the air's flooded and barraged in fantasy drugs.
If God's got happiness in a needle then I’m in the bathroom,
plunging my thumping veins of cyanide in my happy suicide.
The air's thinning down,
lungs collapsing
rooms running round and round.
I've got the trigger twitching up to heaven and space,
I’ve got the barrel lodged against this perspiring face,
guts to glory life to lord
I’ll blow the universe sky high,
never to see,
never to hear,
never to know fear.
The roulette's spinning a Russian game of life or death,
I’m lost in conscience,
high on **** and happiness.
Give the word my hands a twitch set to snap,
scoured to tense,
there's nothing left, but these dreams of bliss.
A heresy of contused and flowing light,
day dreams illusion sugared sweet in an infedimine delight.
Pull the switch assign my soul to lasting high,
take my crackling mind for one last ride.
Thomas Dec 2014
My wits toggled from this injured and betrayed woman to the Infidels
The pagan **** on the left flank of the one on the woman advanced
It ended quickly as I brandished my long sword and decapitated him
The man on the right had enough time to grip the hilt of his yataghan
I eviscerated his gut with my short rapier as he looked in astonishment
The man in the core remained; had his way for the last time on earth

The worst of the three had occasion to make ready with his scimitar
This soldier froze at the sight of my face and looked in fear, “Al Thom”
A sobriquet by the Saracens is legend and foe Sir Thomas de Charney
His fear turned to anger as he knew deaths door was at his very feet
Coming at me in rage I brachiated my legs at his shins and felled him
Laid on sward, unable to riposte, confidence winnowed, he still lived

Pulling him up on his ****, I forced his eyes to the girl [nun] a last time
Then I whispered to him in Arabic “Remember her face forever in Hell”
I put the man out of his misery with blade through his throat, ‘farewell’
As I stood up I ordered my sergeant to inquiry on the others and report
My mind was spinning as I turned to her; I advanced with foreboding
Protected all my life, women are what Father told me were so beautiful

Trembling and barely covered I took my surcoat and covered her body
Her head was down but I saw multiple bruises; she had been ravaged
She lifted her face; I froze, but in a muddle was able to ask her name
Looking through me with piercing blue eyes.... “my name is Dagung”
Though sternly contused, her skin looked pale and as soft as pure satin
Her lips were full, beyond nocturnal dreams my ***** became ruttish

Stunned and bemused I recovered, no glozing; could hardly breathe
With thanks my sergeant appeared, gave report; Ludd was now secure
I ordered 30 knights to stay on until the morrow with standard orders
Assistants and physicians remained to afford the townsfolk provisions
One physician tended to Dagung as the hovel’s fire was being damped
The remaining knights were to return to Gaza with me immediately

Haste we must to assemble additional assaults as our enemy has noted
Approaching my horse I heard a high pitched voice of a young lass
I turned, already clothed in a ragamuffin type frock was Dagung:

Dagung:    Please my lord, may I come with you?
Sir Thomas:    Ba-ba-uh, My Lady, I can’t

She was clearly an English girl, could not been more than 15 years old
“I’m sorry my lady” as I mounted my horse, I watched her walk back
Cued, “Men, let’s move it”, with alacrity we made way back to Gaza
About 10 minutes later I heard sounds of hoofs rushing close behind us
It was Dagung on horse catching up to make way with me back to Gaza
My thoughts were- my life was about to change;   I then broke a smile
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~­~~
To be continued
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This series eventually ties in or parallels The Time Machine series.  Thanks for taking your valuable time to read this.    Thomas
Luke Jun 2015
The hardest part of letting go is knowing nothing will ever change
no matter how far my body wanders, my heart refuses to pull away.
It’s been warped and contused by the beauty of this black hole love,
the further I fell in, the slower I seemed to come apart.

I buried myself inside your false comfort, your arms became my tomb.
You were a fitting final resting place, my bones, yours to exhume.
But I’ve died so many times in the absence of your touch,
that I’ve resigned myself to a life alone, abandoned in the dust.

And I can’t convince myself, that I wouldn’t do it all with you again
just promise me that we’ll forget each other before the end, my friend.
Sand Sep 2013
Chapped lips
Remind me of
Cracked concrete
And how you’d say
Step on a crack and
I’ll never come back!


Except a tree branch
Uprooted the sidewalk
And I fell forward and heart first
Hoping you’d catch me by the shoulder
But you stood true to your word
Because by the time I looked up
I saw your shadow slink away
I sat with scraped knees and
Contused love.
Marshal Gebbie Nov 2017
Born in a bevy of robust, good joy
Raised by irascible those who employed
Dubious methods to coax and convince
A conniving compliance from this little Prince.

He stole what he could as he played a sharp game
And accrued a doubtful reputation of shame,
He cheated at cards and stole from the rich
And called all the tarts on the corner… a *****!

And in ******* in a fat, farty way
He went on to run a fast gauntlet…and say
“I’ve now passed the buck to an honourable sod
Whose specialty lies in allegiance to God”

In thus doing he wagered a bet both ways
To the Devil he sang and to Jesus he prayed.
To his mistress he lied as he bedded her well
Tho his wife hit the road with the milkman from Hell,

His kids all cavorted with *** and with sin….
Then the whole mess contused like a shroud over him.
Morose and confused, whilst simpering in bed
Moans now, quite deservedly,…” Better off dead!”

M.
8 November 2017
In a wet Waikato Spring
NEW ZEALAND
Trying in vain to break back into a poetic turn of mind.
The combined facets of age degeneration and a frantic work /life programme
leave little time and even less inclination for the finer things in life...sadly.
The bitter pills and the ruins of cotton mills where dreams where played out on looms and woven in the semi gloom of a half lit room by children so old,who were told to do as was told or don't do at all.

Some escaped to the drudgery of the great hall where Lord Diddlywhat would squat and pass praises like water to some lacklustre daughter of a man in the town,
half a crown a month and eighteen hours a day,threepence in the offertory on a Sunday to pray for deliverance.
Though none would come for the sun didn't shine on me and mine,only on them,
lardy arsed gentlemen,willowy ladies with squawking fat babies and nannies,grannies in every nook and cranny who fed on the fat of the land,
took the bread from our hands
took the love out of life and the life of our loves,
iron fists in silken gloves.

Now finished,
the thoughts of those times diminish with age but the rage still holds true against the blue stockinged brigade
who would raid on us,put the shade on us,despise and degrade us,use and then beat us,contused and confused we would still go and labour,
wrap ourselves in the looms and in half lit bits of the day,we thought it was the only way,
'til the war came
changed the rules of the game
it was never the same after that little spat
and we spat at the gentry
who stayed behind to do sentry duty as their duty demanded.
We branded them
the landed men
wouldn't work for them no more.
Let them go hang and sing for their supper
we'll scupper them yet,
but I forget
the fat don't get wet
they float.
I'm ancient but not ancient enough to remember these times first hand.
Brent Kincaid Feb 2016
Apple core, Baltimore
Some people know the score
They know very well what
This little verse is for.
I don’t have a clue, you see.
It is totally a cypher to me.
It’s a snappy verse, obviously,
But is nothing more than poesy.

Icky wicky bother and blame
Practical jokes are bad games.
Ask me once I’ll say my name;
Every time it will be the same.

It’s a kind of little kid rhyme
That lost its meaning over time.
Parsley sage rosemary and thyme
Kept up with the chronological climb.
But the other is one of those things
Like popsicles and onion rings
That living in the USA brings
But leave me standing in the wings.

Bumpy jumpy, bouncing around
Trying to stay on solid ground
Is chancy at best, I have found.
Its reasoning is not that sound.

Olly olly oxen free is another
The invention of someone or other
To help kids call in their brothers
When the game is curtailed by mother,
Or someone decides it’s done,
Or maybe just no longer fun,
And those hiding one by one
Can come in home on the run.

Icky wicky bother and blame
Practical jokes are bad games.
Ask me once I’ll say my name;
Every time it will be the same.

Pinch you owe me a coke
Is another sadly unfunny joke
Created by some sadistic bloke
That should have got his nose broke
But turned into a game that’s used
Whenever people become amused
By saying the same word the other used.
I don’t like games that leave me contused.

Icky wicky bother and blame
Practical jokes are bad games.
Ask me once I’ll say my name;
Every time it will be the same.
Bumpy jumpy, bouncing around
Trying to stay on solid ground
Is chancy at best, I have found.
Its reasoning is not that sound.
Tanya Chaudhary Jan 2015
Memories, few I have now.
Which is better, if you think how?
I do not think it was planned.
I pray it was never intended,
I hope it was destined.
I would love to believe,
that it was a bad timing.
A result of mixed up,
wrongly fused confusion.
I knew from the beginning,
or should I say from the ending.
This love of mine won’t work out.
And so you left.
I burned out.
And you couldn't even see the damage.
My hot tears scaling down and leaving scars on my skin.
The noise that your absence left behind.
The clutter, the mess, the chaos and the scrapes
and the caramel taste
of the days gone by.

You rejected me.
I rejected me.
Until, I was a claustrophobe
I couldn't breathe.

But, then I cracked open.
And light seared through my aching, contused soul.
I stitched my unbolted ends.
But the flowing thread faltered.
I erupted.
I detonated.
Leaving myself weak and disrupted.

So, I laid in the sun and I allowed.
The wind, the storm, the rain came,
and I weathered whatever they gave.
I stayed open and empty.
And finally opened my eyes.
I discovered, you ruined us
but you hadn't ruined me.
I was glistening, glittering, shimmering and glowing.
My aching soul that was burnt and pressurized
had now, crystallized.

Dear, you whisked away the love.
But, you left behind a diamond.

So, thank you.

© TanyaC. 2015.
Hank Helman Aug 2018
Are
Are you innocent?
Confused and abused,
Contused and blue bruised,
But wrongly accused,
Are you innocent?

Are you guilty?
Shame masks disdain,
Maybe pain is your game,
The shuffle and blame,
Are you guilty?

Are you happy?
A smile mixed with guile,
Juvenile and free style,
Everything so worthwhile,
Are you happy?

Are you free, now?
Sweet tweets bleep your sleep,
Keep all that you reap,
Desire anchored so deep,
Are you free,now?
It is always me among the sidewalks & trees, eating carrots & peas,
surfing angry seas, picking dogs off fleas, cutting blank house keys,
striking mercy pleas & wringing the necks of Thanksgiving turkeys
This true-to-scale tattooed face of Hillary Clinton isn't on my fat ***
for fun, as I had to endure the pain of gay Bill Clinton to get it done
Kristina Magnesium, it's my wasted effort, this running-in-place for
rhythm methodologies while graphing Earth moon's menstrual pace
Explore your innermost womanhood like 12 gynecologists see your
sister's mother, knocked up in the cellar by you or your step-brother
Let's not **** in anger nor act out our nagging suspicions my pet &
let's eat smart brain food so that we'll never forget that we ever met
Let's never **** in anger nor question nagging suspicions my pet &
let's dine with rhinos so that we'll unlikely forget when we first met
Let us not **** in anger nor dredge up a million nagging suspicions
my feline pet & we'll forget kitty-lovin' things that I'll always regret
Ishani Behera Jan 2017
A Forged smile,
Half-dried eyes,
Covering Slitted wrists,
Ignoring contused thighs,
Those oh-so-innocent pills,
Just a loose rope tied,
Keep the gun loaded
                                                                                  
Suicide.
contused
bruised
the sky looks
used up

the clouds are stacked like bricks
black against the horizon

I smack my eyes on the nearest one
and watch it break apart

they don't always
break

I've noticed that

not that it matters
the wind scatters me
across the sea of
the sky
and I die, not one
but a thousand times
and a thousand more.

confused?
well you'd think so
I know it's not so.

Every second second counts
third place is no place
and first place is a slam dunk
for the man in the drunk tank

but for the man who comes nowhere,
there's nowhere to go and
I know that is so,

Frank is a dear that would give a ram
for a sheep in wolf's clothing, that's
really a man

(had to put that in, don't ask me why)

there's a bit of Rhett in all men
who'd like to see Atlanta on fire,

but the cloud
allowed me through
to do what it is that a
sunbeam can do

one sunbeam
one dream
acorns and oaks
and a man who
smokes
filter tips.
Megan Sherman Nov 2016
Much music is like magick
Stampeding cross the mind
Drumming up a rhythm rare
Which purest passion lies behind

Musicality’s parade
Is everlasting, dear
Each note is a joy, delight
Sensuous and sheer

I yearn to bond with melody
That medicine of muse
Which heals the tender malady
My spirit sore, contused
Kanak Kashyup Apr 2018
Fallen rock touched the waves
Breaking the faith of salinity
Avoiding the strive of abalone
Above the billowed underneath
Running drops comprising lives
Exerting the leftover to fate
Undertaken the curling of breath
Removing the hope of splash
Masking the skin of trawls
It's fate for the faultless slosh
To start from happiness &
Ended up in smiling contused form
The best way to express your feelings is to express through nature's bond and word.
The Fire Burns Sep 2016
Our minds are an island
that no one else may truly visit
hints are dropped, by what's said and written
but if we choose not to share
then no one else may know

We walk through life
With family and friends
And with lovers
But in the end
We are all alone

Confused and contused
Even thoughts can sometimes bruise
When you have self doubt
There is no way to be helped out
There is no penetrating the mind

Physical distraction
Friendly interaction
Help to pull us outside
To enjoy life's ride
But we are all alone

Broken thoughts or happy dreams
Can all effect our self esteem
But in the end
The choice to mend
Is ours all alone
While some of us are surrounded by family and friends, we are really isolated, stuck in our own minds.
Megan Sherman May 2017
Leaving the sanctuary of you,
My heart turns cold from red to blue,
Through my heart a warm breeze blew,
For having seen a soul so true,
But then you sauntered out of view,
And your departure my soul rues,
Leaving the sanctuary of you,
My heart turns cold, from red to blue,

And now I have to start anew,
Bereft of Love's iridescent hue,
But I still search it's all that's true,
You cry slander, well you can sue,
I'm entitled to feel, my spirit brews,
So treat it like it's gossip, news,
Whilst I'm STUCK trying to start anew,
Bereft of Love's iridescent hue,

I lust for you and sing the blues,
I don't know why, you were a ruse,
You've broken me and blown my fuse,
I loved for you but you pay no dues,
I plump my rear on passion's pews,
So judge me, size me up, accuse,
I lust for you and sing the blues,
But I don't know why, you were a ruse,

I guess you've never taken cues,
From Love you just like to amuse,
Yourself with me, but I am contused,
For clumsy touch, you left me bruised,
Towards your spirit I had cruised,
In vain, you cried, wanting to see me lose,
You love to disabuse,
Because you're cynical as ****,
Well you can sue.
The image shows
a pink corkscrew,
confetti petals
chatter down, around
in matrimony, static
splinters that fizz at
****** junctions,
jugular welt to
frills of magenta
make a blushing cheek,
pucker trumpet that
shoots from contused
marble eye.
Written: July 2022.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time based on an image of a stained seahorse that was nominated for the Sony World Photography Awards 2022, taken by Arun Kuppuswamy Monhanraj. A link to my Facebook writing page and Instagram page can be found on my HP home page.
Megan Sherman Aug 2017
I must have slumbered through the sermon -
Till it's cruel creeds - knocked - at my mind -
I - convulsing - hated it at once -
Drunk on a poison wine -
'Twas unlike any other pain -
Which - convulsing - I had felt -
Spirit - sore - contused -
Inflicted with weals - welts -
I'm glad I'm foreign to that law -
For which he sings - inspired -
I peeped inside my self to find -
A spirit which for freedoms strived - dared -
The piety of evil hurt me -
But t'was not a pain new -
The devil had so often tried -
To steep me in struggle - rue -
Now I ascend the staircase -
In to a Heaven dreamt -
To free sweet bird from evil word -
Suffice only to taunt and tempt -
Ron Sanders Jan 2020
I WALK ALONE

When streets are dead, when liquid lies have dried,
sifting shadows stitch a billion puppets’ eyes.
Mucus, in threads, is sewn into hide…
skin marries skin till the fresh puppets rise.
Out of my bed…man, out of my mind!
I slide into midnight—from sleep’s tether torn—
the world to disdain, the hillsides to roam.
Sidewalks are idle, the storefronts all blind.
But there…and there…are life’s bleak reminders…there!
Fleeing from footfalls, the ******* lowborn
scatter like rats under neon and chrome.

Then here…and…here:  Where lamps are no longer,
the black bushes rear. Creepers emerge, in moonlight surreal.
Shrubs break from soil. The foliage draws near,
longing to lean on my lean denim foil. Sampling, saving,
the branches converge:  leaf learning flesh,
thorn tracing wheal. Tendrils, recoiling, in one motion merge.
So real they feel…in ghastly waves they ache my way,
reeking sweet patchouli, seaming scrub and sky.
Merely dreams…clearly dreams are they!
Rounding my limbs, reaching my heart,
they tremble, start, surrender and die.
High overhead, a lone rider wheels;
her mask, like mine, the pallor of bone.
No path, no pale…no surface have I—
none beyond the fog that chides
the chatter of my heels. The canopy reels
where I walk alone.

Slay me where the sunlight bleeds, burn me where she dies. Turn my bones in hallowed hearths, where horror’s hand recedes.

Day is remade:
No one sees her flames run like beetles,
dashing rock to rock, crafting soot of hemoglobin.

Day is unmade:
No one hears her screams
take the elders in their dreams,
and none can know her timeworn scheme
of roaches, flies, and lullabies,
of pointless babies primed and plumped
on useless prayers and curdled cream.

Written as fools were we, from the moment our coding
was spat from the sea. Targets and tools, contused and confused—
bungling, begging, bumbling ******* all;
ridden like mules, abused till we fall.
Off in the dimness, the dark curtains part.
A rider appears, his steed mailed in stone.
No cross, no creed…no ballast have I—
none beyond the emptiness
that weighs upon my heart. The deep shadows start
where I walk alone.





Copyright 2019
contact Ron Sanders at:

ronsandersartofprose(at)yahoo(dot)com
PhiWrit Jun 2023
CTE
If I had a dollar for every time I couldn't sleep
I could buy a Lot and finally read a book in peace
every time a star dies it leaves a black hole
no matter how far you fly you never escape its pull
what is life when you bleed your memories
while you watch your brain atrophy
my woman keeps asking me why I don't act like me
I'd answer happily if I wasn't busy patching me
my first decade was **** torture and abuse
the next the latter but for being a Jew
the third I've spent crippled and contused
my only hope is I don't end the next confused
this life's a joke that's perpetually reused
cutting me off at the knees brings the audience glee
my mind is a one armed blind engineer trying to steer a multi-dimensional steam engine by sound and heat.
Thanks, I appreciate the compliment even though I'm not a lesbian. Well neither am I! Would you like another cup? I sure would! This is the greatest lesbian-blended coffee I've ever had and I ought to know, let me tell you! Hey, wait a minute! You said that you're not a lesbian! I'm not. Look where her 6th finger is, 'tween her thumb & index finger. Her 6th becomes her 2nd. The hair is downy-soft to begin with so there shouldn't be coarse stubble. Right? There'll be no chafing, no rope-burn. Correct? Please assure me. I'm seasonally confused & contused like folks afflicted with the mythical, seasonal affective disorder.
The vibrations of love n prayers reach far, really very very far

They help to soothe n heal, many a contused or festering scar.

The effects of love are immeasurable, there is no boundary or bar

Vibrations of love travel far n wide, faster than an aircraft or car.

Alzheimer's patients react to music n love, we all known this so far.

May love spread its wings far and wide; right up to the stars.

Armin Dutia Motashaw
Whilst Gandhi homosexed his homosexy **** across India's frontier
white captors shook under the Raj's prohibition of Leffe Blond beer
& proctologic probes, ****** lubes & other buggery-facilitating gear
that made it thrillin' to hang backside-up like a royal navy brigadier
whose furloughs were porked by a toothless, salt-gatherin' mutineer
reliant on the sedition of a Hindu ½-caste, 5th column pamphleteer
with the power to render a beggar from a Bihar Province financiere
in the wink of a pink eye dies a marginal, market-manglin' profiteer
castigated, beleaguered & burked afore burial in Earth's lithosphere
that tricks atop, beneath, under & underneath Indira's sloppy veneer
At a glance the dance pants of Vivian Vance were enhanced by ants
so as to put in a stance of advanced trance manse plants that prance
by ****** chance rants that lance the nuts of *****, slopes & slants
My *** belongs, along with my dead heart, to Anchorage, Nebraska
which is readily contused with the bloodily-bruised Omaha, Alaska
that's praised like Jesus God by tenants, overnight renters & leasers
& Texican-Haitian-barrio rats that spooks derogatorily call greasers
in Aussie hinterlands where flocks of sheep breed with gay fleecers
who flame out at 60 like Liberty Avenue's sick sock-cucking teasers
while they're sockdologizing a crooked clientele of ½-spent geezers
iced plenty for vicious crammin' into Maytag-coffin-model freezers
with a fiercely-frozen frigidity to flummox farting, chronic sneezers
tweezed out hollow sinus-cavity-wise by the rustiest of ol' tweezers
to the degree of dealin' coronaries to ***** Canary Island wheezers
unfit to dredge ditches, sew kites, buy radial tires, dig palm trees or
****** Miss America till she acquiesces without having to seize her

— The End —