"sightlessly" poems
the war zone is open
a simple stumble
onto a carelessly unplanted landmine
the photographic proof
of the ones in the winning troops
a wire was tripped
my carefully grounded feet
now stumble sightlessly through
confused by combat
as the clouds of battle
brew and storm
mushroom around me
my soul is shattered
by the shrapnel of the relationships
that were never quite had
grenades packed with unbidden love
a thousand times stronger
than any known explosive
scar and pock my psyche
with their silent detonations
the rockets of unreason
guided by an unbalanced radar
pierce the pretend walls of armor
which were never successfully reinforced
this isn't the first or worst battle
know it won't be the last,
because
there is no safe zone
there is no ceasefire
there is only surrender
to the ceaseless uncertainty
a prisoner of my own
hostile forces
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 7:31 PM UTC
Last night I asked Mother Sky
to lay me down
under the stars.
She covered the long day
with her black/blue quilt
tucking away
my rapid heart.
Brushing the unkempt hair
from my eyes
she warmed me
with deep sea breaths
and showed me how much
she loved me.
Her finger drew
a shooting star
as she measured
herself in a whisper,
"From here, my dear,
.........................to there."
Mother offered me
a drink from her ladled cup.
I chose the big one
with both hands
consuming every drop
until my lips finished
with a satisfied "Aaaaaaahhh".
I handed her the twinkling chalice
which she hung again
by the North Star.
I resigned my head
to the grassy pillow
my eyes lost in retreat.
"Will you sing to me?"
I asked sightlessly.
From the corners of Endless
she coaxed
soft soothing melodies,
while the Sandman
strummed willow trees
to her song.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 11:08 AM UTC
I came upon Neruda today,
laying open, catching the sun
Just sitting there on the old wooden bench
Much loved and well thumbed,
spine broken, ringed a dozen times
with tea, coffee, goodness know what..
That lugubrious face, staring sightlessly
out into, the world...
and my thoughts, drifted, to you,
my friend, whose voice I never heard
but knew the passion of the writer,
He Pablo, was one of your heros..
and as I flicked through the beauty
of words, so emphatic and beautiful
so sublime, so masterfully crafted.
I paused and smiled, thinking of
you and he sitting on a park bench
on some other plane....
discussing words and their worth...
I left Neruda there to captivate
another mind and heart....
and went on my way...
somewhat
lighter of heart....
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 6:34 AM UTC
You only can die but once, they say,
There isn’t a second time,
We carry fears all along the years
When we think, which day is mine?
We envisage that marble headstone
That’s indicative of our fate,
Standing ***** in some unknown field,
And wonder about the date.
How often we hear that someone said
While trying to be more than brave,
But shuddering at the thought of the dead,
‘Someone just walked on my grave.’
It creeps on up, the length of your spine
The shiver that never ends,
Bringing a list of your sins to mind
With no time to make amends.
You think of that open casket,
And lying there sightlessly,
So all can stare, and look at you there,
‘I’m glad that it isn’t me.’
We wonder if we will hear them sigh
About all the good we did,
Or even know, if terror will grow
The moment they close the lid.
I think about Averill Crombie
Who said that she knew the date,
And suddenly died as she sat wide-eyed
Poking the fire in the grate.
We all went along to the service,
To say our goodbyes, as we should,
But then our hair, stood up in the air,
On hearing three taps on the wood.
We scrambled to open the coffin,
To find her still breathing in there,
And then she began to start coughing,
******* in lungfuls of air.
She tried to climb out of the casket
With many a cuss and a curse,
But then must have blown a gasket,
So we carried her into the hearse.
You only can die but once, they say,
There isn’t a second time,
She knew the date, it was simply fate
But the first time blew her mind.
I still see them lower her into the ground
When she’d died, just twice, perhaps,
But I couldn’t swear, when leaving her there
That there weren’t three ghostly taps.
David Lewis Paget
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 9:05 AM UTC
stepping onto the edge of a cliff
golden prairie brushing against your skin
the frothy seas bristle as thoughts float adrift
as waves crash onto sheer white rocks akin
breathe, you are a tree
the breeze resurfaces and kisses a melody
exhale, let the tension drain out
as the sky tumbles to commemorate your tragedies
close your eyes, you remain a tree
your roots travel far underneath
allow the space to come from within
and from the heart so shackled, so begin
balance against the tide
sightlessly gazing onto present converged
a foot on land and another in space once denied
open your gaze to your experiences submerged
stay, patience, let your branches grow
sleep, meditate, let your spirit heal
as the waves crash on those tumbling white stones
and an inner smile diminishes your withering woes
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 6:56 PM UTC
how do broken dreams
smell while they be fresh
as furless in a snow
as shivering naked flesh
amid a creatures crowd
it wanders sightlessly
and drowns with every breath
when skips few of its beat
this flickering noise it makes
with dying of this day
a solemn heart does shrink
as petals plucked away
and still be set ablaze
by fierceness of night
in midst of mocking stars
in staleness of its plight
i tread along this time
as pilgrims by the sea
and leave for fate to meet
an intolerable prophecy
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 8:10 AM UTC
the ways that the candlelight
would illuminate the rises of your cheeks --
soft, sullen, sunken,
stretched, silhouetted.
the ways that my fingertips
would trace the point of your nose,
the fluttering frames of your eyelashes,
the ever-running ridges of your spine.
how you would speak to me
about far-off lands, gods and Greeks --
singing, sighing, searching,
sleeplessly, sightlessly.
the ways that your nails
would ebb and flow over the distant
distinct disconnected dashes of those
that dared to walk before those like us.
meager.
minuscule.
misplaced.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 12:08 AM UTC
<Warning: This is brutal, I apologise if i upset.>
There is a scream beginning to resound in the caverns of my mind
Echoing around, bouncing forth and scratching at the walls
There is no sound to this unearthly yell, no form or function precise
It gives it's life to all i have seen, existence in calamitous expression
It cannot be ignored or pushed back into the depths
To writhe and tremble with the other demons thirsting for a chance
It exists as much as i can be, as real as anything here
Within i see many things, for the scream, the scream is me.
My mind is breathless as i am crushed by the lives i am responsible for
The empty accusing eyes stare sightlessly as they pin me to the floor
My scream is soundless here, however theirs is not
The empty lungs sound continuously, a cacophony of regret
This is not my scream, not my sound but theirs, for my grief
For they made their choice, as did i, it was me that walked away
It is for those that could not choose, had no choice, no freedom to exist
The children that paid the toll for the choices adults made
I've seen their tiny bodies bleeding out into the dust
Eyes in desperate incomprehension look at me hope i will make things right
And i cannot do anything but sigh in self disgust.
I didn't take those little lives i was supposed to protect
But it was i that had to watch them die, filled with remorse and regret
To yell within my echoing mind, why not me my life for theirs
And there is no power watching to make a deal with my despair.
That is where the scream began, all those years ago and far away
For every experience similar it has grown and developed teeth
And now it warps around my mind, suffocating thought
Because children are dying is an acceptable phrase and i rage because it's so
Rage again for i am powerless to change such a fate, mine and theirs
So i roar back in fury at the scream resounding through mind
For it's my face screaming back at me in eternal, cacophonous agony.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 12:41 AM UTC
The world is comprised
of the four directions;
I stand squared within,
eyelids closed tightly,
gazing sightlessly upon
the nothingness that is,
the nothingness that isn't;
a blind navigator
hoping to discover
the impossible path
back up the rabbit hole
to the reservoir of tears
some men call life.
~mce
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 5:38 PM UTC
(as T. S. Eliot might have written it)
Lady, three blind mice sat under the wainscot,
silently waiting, sightlessly waiting, while in the garden
the blackbird sang and the children
played at knucklebones. The farmer's wife
entered the kitchen,
entered the warm kitchen,
preparing to prepare the meal for the children.
Crumbs fell from the table
but the mice said , We are not
worthy we are not
worthy. And they all ran
after the farmer's wife.
Well, I ask you. Did you ever
see such a thing? Did you ever?
Quick as a flash she was,
took the carving knife to them,
chopped their tails right off.
Sorted them out good and proper, I'll tell you.
Did you ever see such a thing in your life?
Did you? Did you ever?
Three blind mice!
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 1:43 PM UTC