"keyholes" poems
Someone once told me that love was blind.
Youth is wasted on the young,
We are all going to die.
After un-clutching scraps of what I'll never find,
This is all that I've brought.
I am all that is mine.
Don't ever, ever, little girl,
Listen to the old.
The world of those who
Raised them were as dark as
Devils compared to the
Funlit days we live.
To them, infatuation came
In work's way.
To them, romance was
Mind's comfort; the
Substance of fantasy.
In our world, your heart's
Every beat for another
Rings as true
To Love's ears as
Her own
To herself.
Yet the cloak hangs so heavily
Around all of these scenes.
Each notion a portrait,
Undistinguished and vague yet
Littered with details strewn in
Alarming
Array.
I take with rock salt
All that they've had to say.
For how does dim
Memory
To a feeling
Compare?
Let us forget to look back
And listen for
Wisdom.
Let us forget to ask
For opinions; vantage points.
All fingerprints blur
In time and fade forgotten
Into their surfaces; the
Grip they once formed
Long, long released.
Love, if only for a second.
Love, even if you know
That it's wrong.
No love ever was.
Love.
You'll have bigger
Regrets in time.
Only we know
What it means to be
Exactly this
Young
Today.
Only I
See through these keyholes
Carved upon my Face.
I am free from pre-conceived restraints.
I am a beacon
Of naïve wisdom,
A sponge for all feelings
Un-hardened by fate.
Suggestions
Directions
Instructions abound.
I am free from these shackles,
Boundless heartwaves
Resound
I see not your keyholes for the
Key in my eye. You are
Divine Feminine expressing Herself
Through yourself; as yourself.
Quill dipped in own wisdom.
Heart's blood and history.
Afloat in eternities of
Utter female
Warmth.
Someone once told you that love was blind.
That youth was wasted on the young.
I don't want to hear you
Sounding that old
Ever again. Notions.
Heartwaves. Manifestations.
Art saved. Inspirations.
Emotions.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 8:25 AM UTC
Marooned land-locked
on island earth
Born with an orphan’s
unknowable ache
Born with an empath heart
– always feeling too much –
mystic receptors wide awake
in a highly sensitive soul
It’s as if I've walked along
forever alone,
one step at a time,
lost in a restless nebula
from the earth to the moon
Consciously dreaming
to steal away,
bearing the weight of the sky,
upwards over the mountain,
away from these chains
that bind
The maelstroms echo
behind silenced, probing eyes
with an unsated thirst
to be wanted
dead or otherwise:
Never understanding
the reasons why,
spinning around in my head;
where "once upon a time"
was hidden,
buried alive
A lifetime spent trying
to unlearn the things
I wish I’d never
sought to know,
clinging to the love
I've touched in my life
evermore enwombed
in my heart
Passing milestones:
walking another barefoot mile
passing so many locked doors
without keyholes
– way outside the lines –
Choking on all
the latent words
lay fallow,
left unsaid
Always looking for
something dreamt
but seldom manifest
Growing so tired and weary
with no one standing by my side;
no one to lay down beside me
to take a rest for awhile
Just another chapter
in a timeless same old story;
another dark star
burned – out
– vanished –
into the utter obscurity
of a sky so close and yet
so far away...
Jesse Stillwater ... August 22, 2018
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 7:21 PM UTC
God loafs around heaven,
without a shape
but He would like to smoke His cigar
or bite His fingernails
and so forth.
God owns heaven
but He craves the earth,
the earth with its little sleepy caves,
its bird resting at the kitchen window,
even its murders lined up like broken chairs,
even its writers digging into their souls
with jackhammers,
even its hucksters selling their animals
for gold,
even its babies sniffing for their music,
the farm house, white as a bone,
sitting in the lap of its corn,
even the statue holding up its widowed life,
but most of all He envies the bodies,
He who has no body.
The eyes, opening and shutting like keyholes
and never forgetting, recording by thousands,
the skull with its brains like eels--
the tablet of the world--
the bones and their joints
that build and break for any trick,
the genitals,
the ballast of the eternal,
and the heart, of course,
that swallows the tides
and spits them out cleansed.
He does not envy the soul so much.
He is all soul
but He would like to house it in a body
and come down
and give it a bath
now and then.
2.5k
Some where he sits or gorily sleeps
The blank stare behind a rigid cut
Eyes of a seductive Mongoloid
Offering nothing for the poison of the sea
The arbitrary swirls of mechanical time pieces
Add heavy track to this an
already shady beat
all the While A reproduction of some Germanic doll
Shrinks smaller into the keyholes
of his frontal lobe
A pleasant amnesia of the purist kind
This anglo doll she is now just a capsized pin
Her black and white knee socks mold into a geosed canvas
Ready to be re-painted with all the emotions he has left
What if I told you I loved you?
By the stairs with the works of post-modern misunderstanding
But it will be just a whisper of shear for the racket builds upward
The spinning mechanics joined by the school busses stopping forever
Yes that statement of old is clearly devoid
Merrily a swallow’s anthem
An absurd tangent of malfeasance
Almost a monosyllabic destruction
Only some misshapen coke spoons remain
As well asthe hands of a man who is much safer out of bed
The saline was much too dodgy
And the sheets…..Well they were never clean
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:11 AM UTC
Everything (physically) erased, nothing ever forgotten. Every word spoken or written is engrained in my brain, I will never be the same. Unlike no other you came you conquered you (changed). Seven existential hours that would change my DNA and internal making, making, making what I knew up until then surprisingly malleable. Your words your actions your face your voice filled up every millimeter of me that everything else inside was pushed to the brim and seeped out of my pores. Everything I once was became everything you ever were, ever are. There is a chair in the back of my mind that is reserved for you to sit there and continue to hotwire (my mind) and thoughts into something much better than I ever could have fathomed. Your puppet strings control what and who I am and it is impossible to think there is any other living organism that could possess that undeniable ability. There is a keyhole somewhere inside myself. There is a key inside of you. Keyholes the size of pinholes as vast as Sirius. Small, believable, existing. Keys the shape of orchids and birch as natural as the metamorphosis of roots (into) trees. I never knew what (my) purpose was until you. Or maybe I always knew what I was before you and you opened the windows to the (soul) otherwise known as brown eyes so timid to everyone besides you. The smallest organs became so (full of) nothing but visions of you. There is a special place in my slowly beating heart perfectly executed to fit all of you. A twin bed that only holds one girl has an infinite amount of room for whatever (love) you could continue to bring into my life. The impossibility to (for)get and erase has left me with an endless amount of hope to see you again. The possibility of knowing that you are still somewhere out there and I am still somewhere down here, although unsure where. I cannot ascertain whether or not feelings are reciprocated but I know I know they are. I know you know where you are. I know you know I do not know where I am but you could figure it all out for me. You had it all figured out for me. Plans stretched farther than the 3000 miles separating my red string from yours. Our strings are still connected. There is nothing in the world that can cut them no matter the distance no matter the people no matter the time no matter the place. I know and somehow you know fate will bring our two oceans together. One calm ocean full of creatures so logical and tides so serene they make a beautifully flawed human being known as yourself. One ocean plagued by waves and uncertainty as to what is below the surface that makes up a human being, me. Both oceans surround land full of love. Our continents will merge. Our love will emerge. (You, only you.)
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 12:42 PM UTC
~
gold-encrusted jewels dance
on sun-drenched ocean stacks,
his rugged rocks etched deep
by her waves from far beneath,
and Pacific’s gusty breath;
his wind-swept islets burn,
aflame in sunset's dying embers,
like a lover's siren call.
his chiseled keyholes waiting
for the ciphered piercing rays
to collide in rushing tidal spray.
unlocking sunset's golden hour...
surging forth then quickly fades,
as sunbeam fingers slowly slip,
beneath horizon's sultry lip;
dusk unfolds in magic hues,
molten rose turns scarlet blues,
night descends as one by one,
we raptured star-kissed lovers
disembark this ferris wheel;
the curtain falls again,
with sea and rocks
rehearsing lines
to play again another day.
this their theatre
of the night,
performed by two alone,
beneath the moon
and starry sky.
~
*post script.
our last time through in 2004 was a blur on our way through to San Diego, an exhilarating ride for certain, with all of its bends and curves experienced top down in a convertible, but hardly doing justice to Big Sur’s stunning scene in mere hours; we told ourselves we simply had to return.
it took eleven years, and this time we spent a full five days and nights along Highway 1, towing a camper and slow-driving south from Monterrey all the curves to Morro Bay, exploring just about every hike and lookout in between; and in so doing, validating our return in a most satisfying way. Big Sur is officially off our bucket list! her sunsets were particularly rewarding, especially two... one enjoyed at sea level, from the sand and keyholes at Pfeiffer Beach day use area, the other delighted us from high above the ocean waves, seated at the picnic table of our cliff-side camp site at Kirk Creek Campground.
a most refreshing time to recuperate and recharge our spirits; five glorious days of disconnection, reconnecting to nature, each other and best of all, life at the speed of sunsets and star gazing; evenings spent round the campfire with no cell, no i-pad, no laptop, only the light of the fire, the stars and that sparkle in each other's eyes!*
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 3:21 AM UTC
small hour memories
of childhood corridors
from witches in the rafters
to lovers, spied in keyholes,
full of grief and laughter
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
When my grandfather passed away, my brothers and I held my dad with slanted eyebrows and stiff, silent upper lips. Because we are young and foolish and still learning. Because we’d never really had to do the holding before and, as far as we knew, this is how men mourn.
We dusted antique left-behinds with delicate, moth-wing hands that fluttered here and there and never stopped trembling -- dead giveaways that within the corridors of our arms our heartbeats went stampeding, arrhythmic. We couldn’t quite bend them into the proper shape for prayer, so instead we ran them, with touch somewhere between float and feel, along every ashtray and age-stained picture album. In that moment I think we each wished that memory read like braille, but no one ever said as much. Because this is how men mourn.
We honored our patriarch with whiskey, hidden away for what must have been twice my age, between the carved out pages of old stacked books.
We drank like secrets. His portrait played witness.
We promised between our teeth with tinged lips tight, keeping words in that might otherwise crumble us like great ancient empires.
We singed and smoldered in a burn that coated our throats, quelling a choke that kept climbing its way up from a chest that never quite stayed sunk. Boys grow up loving the clinking twist of unlocking deadbolts but men peek through keyholes. Because this is how men mourn. Silent and straight with head only slightly slanted.
But when my father betrayed his rigidity with words that clicked clean like unfastening locks, we traded this stale air in for wind laced with the electric taste of thunderstorms. We forgot how men mourn.
When my grandfather passed away, my brothers and I held my dad with lightning behind bleared eyes. Because we are young and foolish and still learning. Because we have umpteen days left to dress in bittersweet vestiges and, as far as we know, this is how men live on.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 2:32 AM UTC
it is a strange practice, learning to understand someone
it begins with a rough sketch of 'the way they feel about
their parents' or 'what happened to their siblings'
and it progresses on with a Myers Briggs evaluation
sometimes taking their mental pulse in different subjects
marking what they care about and what they don't
enscribing the single sentence of their
self-worth, their desire, and their motivations
on whatever it is that binds the two of you together,
and growing with them and learning the way in which they grow
you know their crystal lattice and you know how it forms
a molecular structure in fractals, in fractals, in fractals
that builds and changes but is always quite the same,
I know what makes you laugh,
I know how to make you cry,
I have learned you and I know
which keyholes can be pressed, slid into, or clicked
I know of all your crevices and your breakages
and I know how to fix them or how to
drive a wedge so deep inside you that you splinter
I can map when your breath is short and I can chart
your secrets on the walls of my heart, kept there
like a case-file in a robbery- you have stolen
me, my very existence,
and there is an arrow and a pin and lines drawn
to every single bit of who you are
I have learned you, I have measured you,
you have been weighed and found wanting
and I know what it is you are wanting in the depths of your being
but the finding of these things is difficult and rocky and awkward
for you have taken what it is that is me and you have
patterned it over the immense and layered texture of you
breaking and filling holes, pouring into a mold
and I am invested, now, for I am made for you,
but there is no turning back and we must go on from here
I learn and change from the people around me
but first I must learn you.
It is a strange practice, learning to understand someone,
but once I understand you, then
now, now we can begin.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 5:10 PM UTC
beads of salt and sweat edge
the Cuban sandwich zest from
the tip of my tongue
flavors of my own theme song
echo in my throat
I'm merry ******* footfalls
on hot concrete snares
and the groans swinging
between my thighs take lead
singing cat whistles
along Main Street
snakes will be snakes
and tight cotton shirts
is asking for venom vial shots
don't worry though
those are my brother's loosened trousers
I'm a sweet gardener
I hold doors open
and voted for Hillary
I'm blinding reflection
standing over the hill
but don't shake my thoughts
with your pepper singed howls
cleaning you up messes my stride
dress like a lady and
monsters look for prettier things
oil stains dripping through
the elbows of my shirt
writes working man sonnets
across noir alley doorways
named Touch But Don't Tell
keep quite and use the suggestion box
and don't blame me for chromosomes
genetic randomness isn't my fault
biochemical cocktails don't drown babies
you just fill your bathtub with them
why do you need life jackets
to fill my shirts
empty your oil can and get a promotion
so you can buy your own
I'm tattered sheets stuffed
over hotel window rails
you're a frail damsel selling dreams
I won't buy, I peep keyholes
save digital copies and call the cops
stop screaming and let me save you
your fingers compress a sweaty glock
rioting my stomach
your tones too ******* loud
remember I loaded the bullets
so at least credit me the shot
beads of blood and sweat
whisper cat o' nines tails
see I'm your martyr
but only on favor street.
May 23, 2020
May 23, 2020 at 10:32 PM UTC
plot out distances between freckles
and count the amount of hairs;
in a beauteous analysis
a cold witnessing
of)a featured lifeless gaze
projected onto windows
refracted in time with the pounding
from lost soulless ghouls
in a dank puddled basement
as we stare through keyholes
the length of life waits to rescind
to wash up on the shoreline
anew, once refreshed
with Angina on
wading in cyclic waves
in deposits of reveries
stale orangeade sonatas
and dull area tirades
the purpose
economized
every axiom
americanized
and as your atoms become depersonalized
tension is materialized, in ornate ivory
shattered brass instruments rusted by
novels written to god
in a
fractured light
and range
cramped in a curtailed distance
a brickwall deadend universe
gnashing with frustration
****** yawns of futility
closed viaducts
and vacant lots
deafened eyes, grey
glimmering in retort
to their own expression
blind sight was squandered by the snapback, of all the
strings of the orchestra as they were simultaneously snipped
by sharp prying eyes, listening to the mixing of paint
to smell the music, its arms limp, vivid
wishing to pull you back (in hindsight)
with dreaded, deadened incantations
a dithyrambic liturgy to the drunken thoughtless night
of slurred litanies and unappeasable, irascible deities
lonely and immaculate, all-powerless and deft
in irksome quarrels and arguments
glossed over by the fine print of another
exalting the vainglorious self-inscribed paragons
and revelling every inadmissible mistake
gazing past to a solo star
dumbstruck and dead
from an evaluation
and dehydration
dying to know
forget it.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:03 AM UTC
I am love's Savant
Of perilous divining;
No simpering hierophant,
Of the desperately climbing.
For love arrives naked,
Sans cloak or cloche,
While love's finger beckons,
For me to come close.
I'm privy to his prophecy;
To the keyholes I tiptoe,
Where I see the aristocracy-
In flagrante delicto.
As his scribe, I'm resigned
To write impassioned words;
Still, desires will not rewind-
Even though they be absurd.
Aug 23, 2010
Aug 23, 2010 at 12:15 PM UTC
dead soldiers swing from the tree branches behind my house
and i can hear crevices of ice being formed on the lakefront
as the ice cracks in the agonizing cackle and slow mournful croon of a dying animal or a small child
romance me around the tables and kiss me between the bars
hide all the ******* in the keyholes and don't let me forget this keycard
i told you, officer
she went to get ice for some drinks and when i woke up she wasn't here
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 2:58 AM UTC
She has had enough
Of looking through the keyholes
of her own apologies
observing silently
like the tiniest of dust particles
that nobody truly sees
She has had quite enough
of being that shadow that lurks within her own soul
She is sick and tired of the flag of "sorry"
Flapping high above the breeze while she is stuck
down below
just waiting as the world passes by
She has had it,
so sick of hiding within that small silent room
as the colors fly in whirls outside the tiny window
gracing the touch of her fingers
as the flutter of butterfly wings
She is ready to break down those walls
with the one sledgehammer
that she now
discovers is in the room
Rusty, standing up
In the corner
Unrecognizable but for the cloak of dust.
Dust and rust aside somehow,
she can feel it and it is unstoppable
pushing back the cobwebs in that prison cell
that she herself created
She is ready to unfurl
Fly out into the light
The horizons of her world
are already exploding
Shards of glass fly from it…
from where she's not sure
The walls pushed back through an invisible force
that simply was there
all along.
Here, feel that dance of multi-colored
Light
Coming in with each breath
As the heart and soul expand
Now there is no way
but up and out.
Timid hands open the door a crack
And like a magnetic force
She is almost ****** through
The time tunnel of freedom
Almost….
Like the tiniest of snails slides back into the
comforting shell
But then she wields it
taking charge.
Pride is on the shelf
and courage large
Sledgehammer roars through the air
and smashed walls
lead to freedom -
not slippery as the black ice she once tripped on
but as smooth and graceful as the stride
of a delicate wing
as it licks the sky
in her rising.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 4:18 AM UTC
In a blanket of breath now pleasantly swathed
Our bodies made broken; prostrate in the fog
Exhumed from the boughs of tree-tops so balmy
On alabaster bones that tremble quite calmly
With thoughts of tomorrow, our miasmic today
That in wistful contemplation is thoroughly dismayed
Like the sullen, windy chimes of a church bell that rings
In the hardened heart of winter, on frost-bitten strings
Which frail, arboreal appendages, with nimble purposes pluck
To indulge the dulcet beds, in which our thoughts are tucked
In a licentious yawn that drifts, from scentless, sleepy shrouds
Like azure ships now sailing, through lofty, lilting clouds
Our pendulous hands still pawning these passionate decrees
With fervent fears to consummate your swiftly slumbered vestige
Atop my flesh, all slick with sweat, and in shadows sorely rapt
The mellifluous hum of reverent sight, through keyholes quickened pass
My heart is estranged from the banal constraint of this stagnant mortal coil
Held aloft in the piercing plea of love’s unbidden toil
All visions captive to the subtle sway of your chest now undulating
Like waves that crash, in rhythms vast; my thoughts, they are invading
Urgency deemed, from unconscious form, in sharp pangs of desire
The crease between your lips, the hand heavy on my hip: the nuances in which I am mired
The idiosyncrasies of you like a poem that is repeatedly folded
And jettisoned into my open mind, where these precious admissions molded
Taking form in tangible caress, to envelop with silken shivers
On the sill of windows wide where lonesome flowers withered
Thus proffered throat, in porcelain quiver, where stilted lungs concealed
In tear-wrought arrows, tempered and true, fly with errant zeal
To pin my ruminant heart upon this ragged, beggar’s sleeve
And chain my weightless body, from where it floats among the eaves
Oct 28, 2011
Oct 28, 2011 at 8:29 PM UTC
lost in a strange world
only sense we can find
Is in peering through the keyholes
Of locked doors
we bang our fists
and spread the spark
hoping its sent down wind
setting smoke to the answers within
were drawnto the fire
like moths to a flame
Unwilling to be tamed
by the safety belt of the world
smoke seeps from the lock
and we inhale deep
ravenous for
the taste of something
real
the burn we feel
goes undetected
among the drowning men
In this shallow pool
Of lukewarm genuinity
and over-chlorinated sincerity
but we breath the fumes in
with a whole new strength
we break down the door
unleash the deamons
begging for more
than this
unless
we become one
With the fears,
we become none
so we rise with the deamons
and we rise up
above the conscience
dont give a ****
because we never could fit
Within the boundaries
Of a newborn dying man
these unatainable boundaries
never could never will never can
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 3:28 AM UTC
Ears are like keyholes
Words are like keys
If what is said doesn't fit,
it won't go in.
If what is said is denied,
the words will be changed
to fit the ears.
But every notch you fill,
every carve you make,
is only hurting you.
It's a pain that is subtle at first,
but the reality of it sets in;
you crumble to pieces.
I've changed so many keys
to fit so many ears,
but I can't stop,
even when every tear is like acid.
Ears only want specific keys,
and will turn away anything else.
It's about time someone listened
to the raw words that mumble in my mind.
It's about time that I force the key in,
instead of shaping it to their liking,
instead of leaving scars on my cheeks.
It's about time,
for them to
face reality.
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 5:50 PM UTC
Swarming in the incense, this part of “The City”
looked like a Turkish bath, and the books, old & cold,
shivered in trays as they awaited their faux leather,
While a wet winter wind whistled in the keyholes.
By the fallen, balmy cloud the fruits of cactus
lay in a red cart like porcupines colored, tired
of being on guard all the time. Their hues stirred
the hunger of the centenary walls, so their fissures
oozed and their latter-day hieroglyphs began
to crumble.
(c) LazharBouazzi
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 5:54 PM UTC
I talked with you on the phone the other day.
You were telling me how you visited the zoo;
spent an afternoon watching the zebra graze
and the lions lazily roar at civilians with digital cameras.
I talked with you on the phone the other day.
You were visiting the zoo, crying on the phone—
*How can they keep them in cages
Locked away as if they don't feel like we do*
You forget
there are people in cages without keyholes
there are blistered eyeballs scanning a lightless horizon for a lock pick or a clothespin
that may allow them to puzzle their way into the gears
There are people who die searching
I talked with you on the phone the other day.
We chit-chatted about sunbeams and lawnmowers.
We were happy, careless.
There are no cages here.
Only keys.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 1:24 AM UTC
as i travel across strange plains
along bumpy roads
bouncing on my seat
as i look past my window
focused through the maze of
branches ... through tiny keyholes to paradise
searching for creature iv only seen through glass walls
even with reflex i cant control
the accidental blink of an eye
could rob me of treasures
i cold carry till i die
yet again luck fails me
yet again iv tried
then again i wont be gone
yet gone for long again
i will be back with sparkling hope
to search through the maze again
those tiny gateways to paradise
where creatures beyond those walls dwell in blinded bliss
happy as they are till an other traveler
same thought as mine sees past the ordinary
into that world that untwines
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 6:06 PM UTC
Every second that passed, I realized that I preferred being secluded
Whatever that surrounded me, whether it was rotting wood or decaying books
I'm sure I would love the idea of having the pleasure of their company
Mornings meant dragging my feet across the concrete
And nights consisted of me pulling the covers over my head
Making sure that my thoughts were exclusive and not occupying the spaces underneath my bed
My house was a connection of walls
Yet I always felt that they were never enough to keep me from harm
But what terrified me the most was knowing that monsters weren't always physical representations
They regularly creeped through the keyholes and cracks on doors
They spoke to me when home alone
They were the words that I wrote on paper
They were the scars on my body
They were the spaces between my fingers
No matter if I have curtains shut and windows locked
Even if I cut myself loose from the friendships I built to burn back down
The monsters will always be there in my head
Almost as if they were the friends that never left
n.j.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 7:54 AM UTC
So I sew stitches around the crown made of fingers twisted like a tangled dandelion strangled garden worn as a closet to hide my crafted paper daft boxes that I keep my skeletons in because their keyholes keep appearing on my face,
If you destroyed like me you'd see that ashes are the outcome of a matchstick man,
I cannot rest my head yet on my pillows made of dead rabbits feet and fox tails until I store them in their little coffee can tin jars far under this mattress pad of nails,
Warm words in cold rooms subsumes the silent night screens projected over by my rising motion picture smoke breath that my eyes watch alone now at a distance starting from my lucky lucky steel dagger full sized sheet set and ending at an omen reflecting my separation anxieties coming from my lungs,
Yet loneliness is the only person neatly tucked between it other than my own broken battered body with a shiver and a quiver discretely manifesting,
And like white ghosts the stars watch me sleeping at night,
You can flog all my windows,
But I'll still be sleeping at night,
I'll miss all your wake up calls,
Every single one,
So I let the music play,
Because noise cancels noise inside an introverted fire starter
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
'Beautiful stalagmites and stalactites!' 'Clayton, this cave has breath!'
Do you feel the air?' 'The air movements are strong and prevent our death,
But they can extinguish the lamp.' To lead the way, he unrolled many feet
Of rope to mark their exit in case of being disoriented in this huge 'suite'.
They named the other one Queen's Chamber, because it was small.
It was a dim room, twenty feet high having a nice circular white wall.
After an amount of stooping, crawling, scooting, and squirming, while
Passing through damp trail ways over pits and breakdowns of the aisle,
Through tight keyholes, they reached a lake of water. Then, they have
Transported wood, to build a boat, and to explore the other part of the cave.
On the other side of the lake, they saw a room looking like a stone quarry.
After that, they recognized the finished stone house in its greatest glory.
They saw that the refreshments were served, consisting of tea, coffee,
And dressing, but the people weren't inside, yet. Surah took a toffee
And two of the numerous huge lamps hanging on the right cave's wall.
They heard a strong music and many loud voices coming from the ball.
' Imagine this, Clayton; we were bending, crawling to pass through
So many tight spaces in order to find that this cave is my sister's clue.'
'It's one single cave having two parts, which are separated by the lake.'
'Let's go home!' said Surah maliciously smiling. 'Anne is a real snake!'
(Of course, Queen Anne was not a snake. The old castle was built around the cave and those two chambers were used to protect the kings and the queens all over the time. The legend of the beast was used to protect the other entrance in the cave during many wars taking place along the time. )
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
They were floating back until they reached the shore of the other side.
She dropped two lamps in the water, and left the boat being in a hurry to hide.
They blocked the entrance of the passage, and their lamp started to tingle.
Clayton bumped a paddle against the wall to pass, but it sounded like a jingle.
They opened the metal door, and then they climbed up the tower‘s stairs
To get into the secret room. There, they saw two beds, a table, and three chairs.
On the table, there was a golden little spindle being full of golden thread.
'They use this gilded altar to pray for Jezebel', said Surah turning her head.
To be continued......(tomorrow)
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 6:20 PM UTC
The farmhouse
also awakens,
pine floorboards
and joists unsettled,
plaster walls rattled
by midnight voices.
In certain rooms,
the lace curtains
sift moonlight
with graceful fingers.
Shadows making their rounds
slink past doors and bedposts,
curl into unlocked keyholes,
uncoil time across the duvet.
Just outside, familiar silver trees
conduct an orchestra of illusions:
branches graze the metal roof,
tap tap tap on windowpanes.
It goes this way for hours,
sounds of a haunted choir.
When sleep comes
my dreams are like
balloons brushing
against razor wire.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 3:27 PM UTC
if only we could see the eyes
of what is contained behind these doors
from the darkness
the scent of fear
seeps through the cracks and keyholes
if only we could feel the isolation
locked up behind these doors
no man can comprehend the fear
that is screaming to us for liberation
instead, we clutch onto ignorance
with our fists clenched
and with our eyes closed
we unknowingly fight the battle
for whichever side is winning
the innocent condemned
by the monsters with their power
if only we could see the misery
we are consuming
if only we could see the horror
we are allowing
Oct 5, 2011
Oct 5, 2011 at 1:44 AM UTC