all that my eyes can see are reflected
in crystal decanters on window sills
distorted and splintered by spheres
of the light, fading softly into greys
beyond the treeline and the horizon
meeting the earth with an embrace
slowly rolling hills of deep green moss
under roadways of gravel and tarmac
snaking swiftly into the dusky night

over in the corner there's a blanket
it belonged to her mother's mother
years of patches for every life lost
and gained in the birthing rooms
of antiseptic hospitals, quickly
remedied by the wrinkled hands
stained by tobacco and spices
that look rough to an outsider
but are gentler than any doctor's

He would file the edges of glasses down
Whenever one would chip
And I would find them,
Rough rimmed
Ragged edges ground
And always where my lips would rest.

I don’t know why it annoyed me so.
Perhaps because I hated the imperfection so badly
But the dishes too, he began to glue those
When broken and that was too much.

Cup handles superglued and breaking just
As I lifted the hot liquid for a sip
Lead crystal port decanters with the
Elegant stoppers mended
And sitting cockeyed on top
Daring me to lift it and then
Only to break over and over
And him,
trying to fix it
again and again and again.

I found myself deliberately smashing things
Down when chipped, or flawed
Throwing them on anything hard.
The backyard patio became my favorite
Breaking point.
I couldn’t stop.
although I cut my feet and knees
While creeping through the yard
barefoot
Weeping.

I hid the adhesive.  

Just so he couldn’t try to mend things one
More
time.

I severed the cord on the grinding wheel
And found myself examining anything
fragile with a keen eye=
Sometimes a magnifying glass.
Searching for any imperfection that might prove
A flaw capable of breaking.

And in the end
it seemed to me

That nothing,
nothing could leave this house
Until finally,
eternally,
unfix ably broken
or crushed into pieces.

Why do I insist on looking for solace at the bottom of all of these bottles?
I know full well that nothing in this world, nor in Heaven nor Hell, can fill the small, Gavyn-sized void in my heart and in my soul, yet still, in vain, I try to drown my misery in the suds and decanters of inebriation…
I have dreampt of you twice in the last week. That is more than my dreams have been graced by your countenance in the last year. Each time, upon waking, I have been found with a smile, painful in its hope, for waking brings the end of the dream. I spend my time chasing dreams, for dreams are so much more hopeful than the reality that my sleeping brain awakens unto.
In these dreams, I have seen your face, heard you laugh and cry and call for me. Seen you run and play and question, seen you witness the sun and the World. I have held you in my arms and felt you wrap yours around me.
This alcohol numbs the sting of this unreality, for when I awake, it is in the sobering arms of loneliness and longing and emptiness. My heart beats for you, and in your absence, continues to beat, labored and heavily.
Every fiber of my being cries out for you, every second of every day. I see my failure in the smiles of children, in the hands of Fathers and Mothers and Children entwined, for mine clasp only the pen or the pillow, the bottle or themselves.
I want to heal the pain of this world, yet I cannot find inside myself the focus to care for anyone other than you or myself, nor the capacity to heal your world, or my own.
My hope continues, beaten down and suffocating, yet alive; the hope of the ******.
Whilst ****** I may not be, the excommunication from you is damning…
Am I dying, my Angel?
…Maybe.
Or am I just not living?
Try as I might, I cannot find the answer to this question. Perhaps, it is both. Dying while refusing to live.
For there is much to live for and much to die from.
Yet, my heart beats and my hope, my hope screams in whispers. Because of you.
I love you, Sweet Angel. With more than I ever knew that I possessed. These unshed tears are nothing more than unsung songs and unpenned verses in your name.
Sleep sweet, my love. Don’t forget to say your prayers. Daddy will be here when you wake up.

Break bread
as wood
set the table in symmetry
serve wine in decanters
sit, pray
eat to remember

the ark of the covenant
kingdoms in biblical times
unscathed testimonies
time tested rituals
follow through

to eternity
forty days of flooded alcoholic nights
blind stupor
fall in love
die slowly.

is there a kingdom
waiting?

Not sure yet.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 3 days ago

Seashells from Florida
Handmade porcelain bells
Vintage encyclopedias , trinkets ,
ceramic decanters and old mail
The cabinet witnessed Hell , but -
inanimate objects hold their secrets well* ..

2

whiskey decanters               -
food colored water      in the
bay window. heavy smokers
grandparents                of the
peach pit.       bench beneath
the willow.
a surprise chick            in the
frying pan.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                   The BeeGees, Duck Dynasty, and Jesus

Garage-sale-blocked again, the one-lane road
Hosts cars on both sides, and oxygened-men
Defiantly aluminum-caning the middle
In their Quixotic quest for eternal youth

The BeeGees, Duck Dynasty, and Jesus
On collectible plates and VHS tapes
Marilyn and Elvis bourbon decanters
Chinese-made MAGA caps in camouflage

“They just don’t make things like they used to do” -
Which is true, indeed, for them, and me, and you

I Look inside
through the open window.
There is bread and cheese
on the table.
Decanters filled with rose',
a beautiful, floral bouquet,
of marigolds, roses and lilies.
The girls all in white lace
and pink ribbons
are looking pretty.
The candles flicker,
from a soft breeze blowing
through the open window.
An old man sits and rocks
in his chair,
reading the daily newspaper
without care.
His face as stiff as his beard.
His interest politics
and the stock market.
I should not want to
be discovered.
The main course is coming.
I stand frozen
where I am
wondering............
There's a middle-aged woman
holding a platter,
her face intent on the contents.
She looks pretty eloquent
for a subservient.
I notice the wife at the table
spooning her soup
with the ladle.
Through the open window I watch
a dismembered family.
Looks like her husband is drunk
again on the scotch.
There's beads of sweat on his head
between what little hair is now left.
I slowly walk away.
Through the open window
music plays.....
I think the song is slow and romantic
I'm enjoying it
because I'm actually hearing the words.
I enjoyed the company.
I actually was there seeing them,
more so than they could ever
see themselves.
The boy opened the door
to let the dog out.