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L B Oct 2018
When life has only twenty left
--maybe ten, of any good
with good behavior
The narrative gets thin and sketchy

Mind heads out--
to join the limping leftovers
to contemplate
the priceless wastes....
that stretch like endless sand
to salvage what it can
where I managed somehow to hide
something

“Like I ever asked for you?
Or for anything you had?
Like I ever needed you?”

So he showed up
late-in-life – and hungry
Shoved me through denial's door
Turned me out
from
his settled life
Barred the door
with distrust
--the size of tree trunks
once the drawbridge gets pulled up....
all the while-- crying,

“Love!”

“...You come only, when  
I... call for you!”

Seems some kid named David
got this treatment once
Were it not for his voice and lyre
--all that soothed the insane Saul

Same David, did wrong too
Spied her bathing
Privileged private lust

“Barricade the avenues' access!
“Keep to your own!
Show up when called for-- Minstrel Poet”

for an audience with your Noble Lord
In the land of Greeting and Misunderstanding
where one wrong word
gets girl turned out
like Small-talk—Not allowed!
For only when HE
Needs it

Make those emojis go away!
**** their happy, soothing nonsense!

--punishable by banishment
lose your job as Waiting Lady
banished from his guilty manor
for saying, "I think, maybe...."
From the court of royal heirs
gets tossed

“...To a pig stye—with ya!”

Where--
the ***** keeps singing anyway
It's only all, she does
with birds who dote on nearby trees
who note and pen a song to sunset
then fly away
to dot the blue of air

Make-do on scraps
Dress in dream's abandon
leftovers
learned from fire and pounding
in the forge of
Truth and Worth--

that's not the same
for everyone
Not a good poem.  Just a needed narrative.
Jonathan Moya Jun 19
Icarus’ sister exists only in living stone,
the watchful daughter of the craftsman
in the middle of his own labyrinth,
once his prized creation, placed in
the prime line of his drafts, design, eye
of his genius, now a relic existing
in a dusty nowhere cobweb corner
stained with Minotaur blood,
watching her fleshy father
falteringly stitch wax, feathers, twigs
to a frame that could not
take the water and sun of every day birds,
not even the weight of a son’s pride
who complacently raveled and unraveled
his father’s clew, half hearing  cautions,  
his mind flapping beyond the planets.

She cried over how Daedalus could
dote over such mortal error
while she exists in perfect neglect,
cried a tear turned prayer that
mixed with the dust, the murderous
blood crusting the rusty teeth of Perdix’s saw,
knowing hence  that men **** their best dreams,
fear the successful  flight of  their ideas, and  
that her faith, trust now forever lived with the gods.

Hephaestus heard her and bellowed her mind,
taught her to seek inspiration in the rejected
metal slivers that littered the workshop
like the sand of Naxos where Theseus
left Ariadne in her abandoned dreams.

In the cry of that other lost daughter
she heard the sound of ascent,
saw father and son in erratic flight
and followed to the top of the labyrinth
to watch two glints align in descent
and one splash into the sea.

Graced with the knowledge
that forbearers would
name the waters below for this fool,
she deposited Icarus in their father’s arms,
and flew away on brass wings of her own design,
wingtips skipping waves, seeking the sun.
S Bharat Apr 12
Gliding Veil

With gliding veil in dark wood
Unknown woman years stood
Beheld the way-strayed King,
Fuddled in his amorous ring.
Undressed her backward view
He saw and cloth tried to give.
To extend hand, to touch skin
Were his ideas her heart to win.
The glory and kingdom I shun,
In search of true queen do runn.
Noble thou look, on thee I dote,
He handed and lines did quote.
She fell and into pieces broke
Just as he touched as a crock.
In fright chest began to heave,
Come to senses - he withdrew.
The sedate King lost in thought;
Beauty, the volant veil brought?
Put life in an immovable queen,
Fostered feeling wind unseen?

S. Bharat
Matt Shaw Oct 2018
What was once green skin
Gripping the fruit
Is now a browning husk
Coming loose

Age stirs in the dissolution of the ego
And as time passes by
We learn not to whine
Nor ask why
But we fight by calling truce.

And how long will you dote to tell my story,
My love?
And how tight can you possibly hold me,
That my insides should crumble
And my hopes and dreams should fall?

This, no, this
Is our middle space
The place where we come together
And compromise it all.

The life doesn't belong to me
Or the tree
Or the forest,
That is the force which gently pries with time
This husk from my body
And it feels good
But it hurts,

I fall
David Hilburn Feb 22
Yet in the grasp
Of music I release
From its earthly prison, in case
A little star on the horizon, has me for cease

Pence in the fun, wouldn't a life
With a curious silence made true
The better side of courage, a whimsey and a strife
Mighty as I am, being a risk in the foolery…

Is like a dance with dread, and the ancient misery's
We dote among, the music comes
Like a reason in the mix, we serve to each other for history
And the doles we found, in the years, what some's!

Playing the fool, just once
Mind owed mystique, and a wholly made needs
Reason with me, the skill of bared conscience
To look among the stillness of many, and see the deed

Urge, are we the tows of a renamed irony?
Once the backward stare of portent, needing a gift
Of reach and remorse, powers of unique harmony
Have been the suddenness, of me, time with eyes to lift

Voices to assure...
The taste of requirement, that has a vice we adore
Rancor and peace in the miracle we name, a cooler purity
Of ourselves in truth and dismays mirror, where even us, is more

Liberty, and the image of unity we verify as life
Taken to dry minds and heavy hearts
Live for now, and the best we have to offer, a rainbows right
Luck and synergy to attest, loved, is where it all starts...
arian Nov 2018
Said you loved the moon,
But you always hid
Behind the walls you built
When the dark crept around.
So, how did you dote upon
The moon that shone for you
From inside the fort that you built?

— The End —