"reprieves" poems
I am called a scrooge
as I dislike this greedy
grimy "holiday" of gorging
gratuitously on cookies dipped in mashed potatoes.
People grabbing & gouging
for electronic pop culture distractions
to celebrate the "birth" of a baby
from a lady who claimed to be a ******
Everyone expects something
to be given, pressure permeates
those souls who wait 'till last minutes eve
as laborers looking for reprieves of this
audacious onslaught of wild eyed drooling
consumers
while I shutter at home watching TV's screaming
*Why wait 'till the "holidays"
when you could have gotten that anytime?*
Kids with detailed lists of wants make parents
feel like **** if the money's not there--
traveling to visit relatives the family cares little about
while everyone sends fake happy cards espousing
happy scenes of fireside matching sweaters next to a
tree cut from outside brought in--
a metaphor for the biannual church families
dressed up to sing hymns and drink wine.
So you can call me a scrooge,
or even a grinch,
I don't really give a ****
cause I've been giving gifts
consistently loving thy fellow man.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 2:27 PM UTC
Before me lies a mass of shapeless days,
Unseparated atoms, and I must
Sort them apart and live them. Sifted dust
Covers the formless heap. Reprieves, delays,
There are none, ever. As a monk who prays
The sliding beads asunder, so I ******
Each tasteless particle aside, and just
Begin again the task which never stays.
And I have known a glory of great suns,
When days flashed by, pulsing with joy and fire!
Drunk bubbled wine in goblets of desire,
And felt the whipped blood laughing as it runs!
Spilt is that liquor, my too hasty hand
Threw down the cup, and did not understand.
2.2k
Generally, only more specific than that?
Please, if that is not too vague.
Whispering assumptions touch my face, and
cold fingers, like winter wind solidified into
ghosts and a smell that lingers in
innocent nostrils.
Enchanted by cancerous eyes that are
too much tombstone.
To fresh, the memory of decaying
melodies played by heartstrings in my innermost
love song,
I can not bare another death, another season laid to waste under
indifference, feigned or otherwise.
I could not handle another moment banished
into forgot exiles and requested reprieves from "reality."
But I grit my teeth to this
fabricated adversity,
this hypochondriac's molehill.
I will tell the devils to be silent,
to watch me grow wings,
not wings of angels or bats,
but wings of a lonely songbird who
relentlessly searches for harmony
in this dissonant world.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 1:26 AM UTC
Today you found me candy-
coated on the kitchen floor.
A cigarette trembling
in between two of my fingers.
You tried to pick me up,
but my skin and bones were no more.
Though I'm nearly gone,
your idea of me makes me linger.
And when the days turns to dust,
I will still be here for you.
We are both broken people,
conceived by our own reprieves.
So do not pick me up,
just lay with me like you used to.
And hopefully neither of us,
will feel the need to leave.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 10:15 AM UTC
Finally doing laundry,
It’s been two months.
As I sit and I fold,
Careful not to leave wrinkles,
I can’t help but think,
How many more times will I have to pick up the pieces?
As I drive in my car,
Careful to go the speed limit,
The wind caressing my face and arm
As it blows through my windows,
I feel the melancholy sink in.
How much longer will I ache for what has been?
It’s sunny and the warmth radiates downward,
Embracing my body as if to say “Welcome back”.
I can finally feel it again,
My skin is a part of me,
Something I can feel.
How many more times will I lose this feeling?
I’ve spent weeks in a chemical haze,
But not one of my doing.
My brain had once again said “Too much”
And shuddered to a halt,
Spinning out on its way to a restless place.
How much longer will I suffer this fate?
Everything is different,
But it all feels the same.
I’m coming back now from a tiresome journey.
A blast from the past,
I am still exactly who I was four years ago.
How many more times will I lose my sanity?
As I pick up the pieces,
I can’t help but wonder,
How long will I exist in this cyclical race?
When they gave me the pills,
They gave me a life sentence.
How much longer will I last in this unstable state?
Unfortunately, I know.
This is a life sentence.
I will always be at the mercy of these highs and those lows.
There will be reprieves from time to time,
But it will always crumble once again. So I ask myself…
How many more times can I pick up the pieces?
May 8, 2023
May 8, 2023 at 2:22 PM UTC
A SINGLE yellow rose
tipped with pale burgundy
scented with the bitter sweet
from being plucked too young
STRONG PENETRATING THORNS
****** halcion, alcohol, tuinal
CRACK *******
A ****** sweats on the ragged black leather couch
sick, whining,
in the dismal grey vampire apartment
Something smells
Something is eerie
Something is wrong
Good! You're home with the outfits
there's a knock at the door
Good! the stuffs here
let's drown in the chemical reprieves
because,
Something smells
Something is eerie
Something is so wrong
The relief sets in fast and I can relax a bit
Hey, where'd the rose come from?
"IT'S FROM ME BABE, HAPPY VALENTINES!"
Something smells
Something is eerie
Something is desperately wrong
IT'S TIME FOR ME TO leave, I KNOW THAT I MUST go
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 5:56 PM UTC
762
The Whole of it came not at once—
’Twas ****** by degrees—
A Thrust—and then for Life a chance—
The Bliss to cauterize—
The Cat reprieves the Mouse
She eases from her teeth
Just long enough for Hope to tease—
Then mashes it to death—
’Tis Life’s award—to die—
Contenteder if once—
Than dying half—then rallying
For consciouser Eclipse—
1k
It feels so strange to look back on those days
The simple time when play was common
And laughs were but a word away
But in these last few years you have been so far
Past Charon's cold ravine , upon a cliff bathed in stars.
Each year I wonder, wish and dream.
That your memories of me were held serene
Tainted not by the crippling pain
The fights, the running, and secret shames
Filled witty banter and bizarre reprieves
Brother. How I've missed you so.
The years they creep and memories fade
Despite my love, my pleads to know
That in that wretched day of loss
Your heart was left unscathed
For in my cruelest darkest times
When my eyes started cold and glazed
Where leaving bed made atlas falter
When fear left me but a window's flight away
You smiled and shone the way
How many days went and came
With that scribble not upon your picture frame
Hoping for just one exchange
And promising I would take your place
Promising to take the pain
Despite all the things that I have wanted
All the times that I have missed
I'd tear this world asunder
Pull down the stars and blacken the sky
Just to see your crooked smile
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 12:56 AM UTC
my day
begins
at 3:00am
with hip-hop
thundering,
rain splattering
my window pane.
the witching hour:
my own, private
Galgotha. i forsook
god, now i'm ******
to hum the dirge
of doom, hushed
and out of tune.
this week in the news,
Sean Spicer swore
****** didn't gas
the Jews. apparently,
the irony of Passover
was lost on the fool.
if Pepsi truly held the key
to ending police
brutality, i'd be the first
to shake the Invisible Hand,
but that spectral fist
is too busy choking
the life out of refugees
to make time for a paltry
teacher like me.
as gas prices
sky-rocketed
and approval ratings
plummeted,
the ************
of all bombs
fell in Afghanistan
while tomahawk missiles
pummeled Syria
and predator drones
zoomed over
Yemen and Pakistan.
where do we stand, hands
stained red with the blood
of those we've martyred?
will we idly abide
an Empire crucifying
its imaginary enemy
on this insane crusade
of endless war?
our silent compliance
rings louder than the hammer
nailing our victims' limbs
to the cross of our indifference.
if there's one thing
i know for sure,
it's that art
makes this whole *******
joke a bit more bearable.
but how could we portend
to outlast this tragedy
when even ****
and the Last Jedi
are only temporary reprieves
from suffering perpetually?
what's so good
about this Friday
anyway?
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 11:09 PM UTC
it's astonishing
how swiftly
this disease moves.
it's gotten to be
this familiar pattern,
an ugly ebb and floe-
agonizing stretches
of nothing, just numb silence
and tense conversations,
with brief reprieves
of manic glittering highs.
it builds and builds
until it bursts, and not
in any extraordinary way.
it's usually while
engaged in some menial task
like brushing my teeth
or eating a turkey sandwich,
and suddenly it's suffocating me
and my hands are shaking
and all of my words are gone.
this is the phase
of delicious self-loathing
and bone deep sadness,
where it almost feels good
just to feel something real-
until i'm spinning out,
heaving out months of nothing
in back-breaking sobs
in the middle of the week
on my lunch break
and they're all asking
what's wrong
with their faces
******* up into
genuine concern
and, ****
they've almost
found me out.
i regroup,
smile like i mean it
and say i'm getting help;
let emptiness consume
as i dive into the grey.
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 12:35 AM UTC
tears on the steering wheel blur taillights
into september-christmas. raindrops in the rearview
become transitory constellations. an overdue
stop home slides away.
home ceases to be fluid sentences: becomes periods,
exclamation points, question marks, parentheses. staccato whispers,
sweet reprieves, lunch breaks, sick days.
you fit where they’ve left space for you. you know the shortcuts
and the long ways and where to get a coffee. you know where your
head rests on his collarbone. you know when to come
and when to go.
and then you go. and it’s midnight where you’re going and the
winged streetlamps beat like a butterfly migraine, eyes threatening to
close before you’re home.
wait—
which one was home, again
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
go ahead
put your feet up
make sure that everything is clean
because youre going to be sitting for a while
maybe rocking
but that just depends on your style
some people get out the stress like weirdos
personally, i just like to stare in the void vacantly
this isnt going to be some run of the ******* mill tussle
what this is
THIS?
this is a marathon pit fight
this is
blood and
teeth
and
flesh ripped
and left hanging
but you still stare into the void
because youve trained your whole life for this
and ill be ****** if anyone can take it from me
so on
and even the reprieves offer no consolation
when you get to sit in your corner
focused on the set across from you
plotting the next flurry
this transcends battle to the death
this is battle-to-the-death-and-then-the-guy-keeps-punching-the-other-till-he-dies
yes the visceral image of an incredibly old boxer
beating a corpse
and finally passing away from exhaustion
settle in
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 7:16 AM UTC
I’ve noticed at times
bustle and grime— ironically—
maintains close proximity
to reprieves from high anxiety.
It reminds me of the dissociative
peace of Clay street,
the way the shadows fall in reverse order
over the alphabetically arranged streets.
All the while the boisterous nights
on the Brooklyn block persist just half
a train ride away and we go to spend
our night touching elbows with strangers
and bumping into ***** walls until
we stumble home, kicking litter and
******* in flowerpots to watch
the sun shed light on the streets—
this time in perfect order.
From seven floors up, we watch
the blissful morning with bloodshot eyes
and coffee in hand.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 5:46 PM UTC
Ah yes,
the seasons, they change but every few months within a year,
they change quickly, and with haste,
they give us reprieves, and then they give us taste.
They give us sunshine, and rain, and cloudy days, they give us blessings,
even on a bone soaked day.
Sure, come the blizzard, sure come the storm!
We'll build ourselves a fire, to keep nice and warm.
The season they,
the seasons they go.
The flowers, trees, leaves and bushes
...they all know.
What must be done.
Away with the summer,
and in comes the fall.
IN comes fall, the turning of leaves,
nearing the very end,
who are you my lady,
and what tidings do you send?
Will old man winter stir up a storm, impeccable,
inescapable, terrible...
awesome.
Both in its fury
and glory.
It's warm, icy, feeling.
Cools our cheeks,
and nips our nose,
just reminding us,
to wear a few more clothes.
Then away with the old, and in comes the new,
come with the new day, the taste and smell of the beautiful spring dew.
The buds with bloom,
and the smell of spring shall be more than enough,
to fill an entire room.
Bless you.
And welcome to the summer,
it's time to go, but already to late to start,
come the beautiful days,
and the late nights,
welcome to great times,
and memories for the heart.
Welcome to the seasons,
that come and go,
make the most of the time you have now,
how much time you have left to enjoy it,
you'll never know.
So take in every day, of every season indeed,
be proud of the small plant you've grown, because you know,
it came from a once small seed.
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 3:17 PM UTC
Why can I not just leave?
Throwing back bottles of alabaster promises
and sinister ill reprieves.
Caught up in a net of conjugal visits
of past murders, one way drifters, pathetic liars and ***** little thieves.
I am enamored by the poison that
is preached by your careless mind
and heartless sting.
Behind these bars trapped like an animal,
I am all caged up and so please set me free.
Why can't you just walk away ?
instead throwing your insults, your fists
and your sorry *** two faced pleas.
I have become rusty stained, completely drained,
and drop dead vaned.
Gray padded walls enclosed, thrown back hard
with these silly blue pills of
the mentally insaned.
You abused me, bruised me, used me,
and fused me, even God can't
take away my heart felt pain.
Now, stop trying to drive me home
on your God ****
mental, abusive, ******* *******
son of ***** crazy train
Can you hear that now?
I believe it is starting to downpour rain.
and I'll say it again to your face many more times
"You are so ******* vain!!"
You think you are better than I am,
with your big, bad, masculine look.
Well here is today's news flash for ya,
Mr. "I Think I Know It All"
"YOU ARE ACTUALLY MUCH MORE WORSE!!"
Oh and one more thing,
Just saying, For Realz,
You are all just one big mouth
with a lot of
"Blah, blah, blah
and
Curse, Curse, Curse"
So you can just go back
to your mommy's house
on the other side town
and steal from her poor, meager purse
I will not be silenced by your idle, childish threats,
your ***** abrasive words no longer scare me
nor will they break down my outer or inner bricks.
My life is not your gambling table,
your poker table, or your dinner table,
I am no longer willing take on
that deadly life risk.
I will unveil the real mask
of your cruel, ugly world,
so no other can feel the real pain
of your broken, nimble fists.
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 1:55 PM UTC
When the day is done,
when we rest our weary bones
& turn off the phone,
we should steep praises
upon the creation
& chalk up
another day
for our humanity.
And we must remember,
these small reprieves
are but one day closer
to that cloaked skeletal-figure
& that's some consolation
to protect us
from our vanity.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
My life does not stretch out before me like the yellow brick road, nor does it cling to the past like the nostalgic mush of the old, it is a maelstrom of now and wonder with the eye my calm abode. The memories of fear and joy
always erode, as the pouring here lands hard in droves, and the
beauty of current crackles then explodes.
I try to deflect the winds of time, I try
to shelter my memories
of you, and I try
to ground my booming
poetics in the little solid I know, but these
ephemeral reprieves are the total domain of
my weapons against my world, and my raging
present is ultimately all I have to offer.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 6:18 PM UTC
“Breathe, Exhale, Breathe”
I had the words to this poem
In my mind at some point
Before I breathed them all out
One at a time
Uncontrollably
I’m trying to turn on light bulbs
By setting the filament ablaze
And drying my hair with a blowtorch
Doesn’t seem like such a bad idea
If red is the color of fire
And blue is the color of water
It’s really no surprise that
My favorite color is purple
Inside my mind there is a lake
Clear, calm, undisturbed
Reflecting the unmoving clouds
In the overcast sky
I walk around with my head down
Hiding under an umbrella
Pockmarked by the bullets
That it didn’t block
It never lets the sunshine in
Only the rain
If people are so scared of the cold
The heat, the rain, the hail
The storms and the snow
The wind and the night
Why am I terrified of the walls
And the ceiling in my room?
If I were drowning in the ocean
Instead of screaming for help
Or swimming to the nearest shore
I’d probably try to run away from the problem
I’d never want to be a cartographer
I drew a map of my mind once
It’s a little circle in the middle
The rest scribbled out by permanent marker
For the places I haven’t explored
There’s ash on my hands
From trying to dig out the memories
That weren’t set ablaze
By the thoughts in my mind
I don’t know where I went
It’s somewhere mixed in
With the rough carbon copies
That I keep for reference
In the depths of my subconscious
My mind’s eye has gone colorblind
All my thoughts are black and white
The grey reprieves the monotony
Until I start to think about it too much
And rip up the canvas
On days like today it feels like
I fell asleep behind the steering wheel
Years and years ago
And slipped off into an unpleasant dream
Where I’m still alive
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 6:12 PM UTC
If you wake up in the night,
in a pool of sugar sweat
then baby you know what it feels like
to be in utter love-death.
In the morning, I die a little
as I get dressed in my mind
The afternoon reprieves a little,
as I smile stupidly love blind.
The evening gets a little tricky,
as my hopes get laced with doubt
I shake my head, my hands and body
as I try to shake you out.
Nothing seems to help
as the suns intensify their burn
the ones at the edges of my fingers
that repeatedly refuse to learn.
Logic can get ******
reason is long out of breath
in trying to keep up
with this feverish love-death.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 10:00 PM UTC
Roses are red, violets are blue,
But so are the remnants of a torn away heart
So is my blood, close to suffocation
Even so is the ink that paints bleeding parchment
And likewise the eyes that sobbed separation.
Love is what feels, and love is what feels not
Pain is what burns, yet still not that kills most
Joy is what clowns, and laughter that reels off
Sorrow which cried, but still not that sobs most
Pain which thrives, scares are what calms most
Success that reprieves, and regret that fills most
So that which is not is, and is just ain't not.
Honey is sweet, and so are you.
Yet so are hopes that raises most shame
And so is the evil that brings most fame
Even so is the heart that gives the most pain
And so is a life that's aimed at no gain.
Life is what is, and life is what is not.
Which comforts one, austerity thrown another
Which pleases one, still disgruntles another
And that which saves one destroys another
Such is the mystery, the mystery that drives most
That what we see is, and what we don't still is
What we feel might be, and might be we feel not
And so which is is not, and is not still ain't not.
Aug 5, 2019
Aug 5, 2019 at 4:13 AM UTC
This autumnal heart of mine
Yearns for days of cooler clime
Branches, black, through white mist peer
Grasp at their last leaves, so dear,
Flaming fading life of summertime
Biting frozen morning air
Fills my nose, I long for where
Sunrise fogs in gold streaks lay,
O’er frosty dew, circles fay
Spiders’ diamond webs my soul ensnare
Frosted breath and sweater sleeves
The dry smell of fallen leaves
Winding mazes through the corn
Scarecrow faces, so forlorn
Find in twilight equinox reprieves
Smell of wood smoke, festive spice
Jolly pumpkins’ flick’ring eyes
Misty mountains, moonlit trees
Crisp crack crunch of fallen leaves
I feel most alive as the year dies
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 10:39 AM UTC
People tend to respect, respect,
both given and received
The dignity of every life,
in one-on-one reprieves
People tend to share the joy,
while closeting the pain
Humanity as best displayed
—when we are all to gain
(Austin Park: March, 2021)
Mar 2, 2021
Mar 2, 2021 at 10:43 AM UTC