"spillages" poems
Feb. 2015
this writ,
content so obvious,
it begs,
why even bother...
Pen Man Ship
this is who you are,
this is your scent, scripted,
the parfume that memory triggers
declarative self-examination passing grades
if pen and paper
are your skin and blood,
then you, man,
ship to shore,
skinned alive,
in poems verbose spill all
ship in ship out,
the glories and the dreads,
expel ink oceans glorious India blue,
rivulets of tributaries,
spillages of what~where,
you are pen
you are man
you are ship
where intersect these routed things,
one is voyage~bound
for parts unknown
the pen be the oar,
and the man, the ship,
and when the sails raised,
the wind never fails,
only there is no
dead reckoning -
for there are no
landmarks observable
when sit~stand
to commence sail~writing
each writ a latitude recorded,
each poem a longitude drawn,
all together, a
body of work,
all together,
your life's coursework
is the captain's log
Pen is the Man is the Ship
in everyday words
he answers
the questions life poses,
in everyday words,
he realizes
the answers he (doesn't) posses,
with each passing poem
the ship, righted,
though the heading
remans unknown
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 3:39 AM UTC
churches―
where cracks on the ceilings are more than construction accidents,
whose floor has seen more discarded invitation letters than dustbins.
the out-of-tune ***** is where the nameless ghost resides
(the one who roams the halls whispering quiet conversations) /
the carpets are imprinted with bruised knees indentations,
the mirrors, with sobbing hunched figures reflections,
and the cement that echo wailed prayers muffled by layers of epidermis and cartilage.
hospitals―
where red stains on the walls are more than careless spillages,
whose rooms have seen more regret than those in Court.
the morgue holds motionless bodies ice cold to the touch
(those who are in line to enter Heaven’s gates) /
the waiting rooms are filled with wilting flowers,
the beds, with saturated salty tears,
and the emergency rooms that cradle desperate On The Knees begging and gasping heartbeats.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 8:15 AM UTC
No more fortuitousity happenstance
The white flag is waved
Like giving up on the highway
I can taste your cool porcelain
Following the rules
in splendid form,
social mores galore
clarifying the way.
No more spillages
I know where I'm coming from,
down the mountain
breathing and tasting.
Jul 18, 2022
Jul 18, 2022 at 8:24 AM UTC
Supple. Soft.
Bare it. Bare it now.
Tougher. Harder.
That won’t do. Move up.
Seamless. Untouched.
Grab it. Pull it.
Is it ready?
Inspecting for impurities
That will ruin this rare experience.
Drag it. Rip it. Tear it.
But no.
This time it glides.
Smooth. Effortless.
Over. And Over.
So fast.
Grinning wide.
Insides now outsides.
Spillages for someone else to clean.
Jul 5, 2020
Jul 5, 2020 at 5:22 PM UTC
She cleans until every surface gleams
Cleans and cleans to remove life’s grime
Just one more time will do it
One more time and she will be through it
No leaks no spillages allowed to remain
No signs of decay; life’s easier that way
She keeps on cleaning every day
As the dirt disappears so do the years
Until the next time she looks in the mirror
Sees the woman she has become
She can’t dust the lines away, the mirror never lies,
It reflects the story of her stolen youth
So she exfoliates, scrubs, buys cosmetics
The face she is left with she’s learnt to despise
Her hair is the colour of despair; grey, hardly there
To get out of her head she cleans instead
Cleans until every surface shines, safe in this sterile world
Outside rain is falling like tears, obliterating her reflection
Inside the house is a palace, fit for inspection
She cleans just once more, believing doubts will go away
Tomorrow today’s fears will be returning
So she keeps on cleaning, keeps on dreaming
Ready to battle another weary day
Jun 16, 2021
Jun 16, 2021 at 1:17 PM UTC
when you’ve written too many poems
vaguest of recollections of the prior,
having not seen many for years,
till someone drops one on my path in a
wave-by-remember-me, did I write this?
all I know, all I’ve learned from this long gig,
the best poems from my fingertips that came
tap tap tapping, were the ones, the provocations,
driven by loving the poetry of others, or those
all about others.
my eager meager ain’t much to write home about,
but when your stuff is a trigger, gotta figure,
there’s a bottle in the ocean that just hit me
on the head, messaging me go forward,
pay thanks to those who evoke, yeah, provoke,
new spillages of inspiring gratitude for
relocating my New Moon Melange^
yep that’s it.
*so is there
such a thing?
as re-remembering,
just knowing
my name is hard
(you understand),
the inspiration
oft forgot,
so I write it all
up and down,
insurance so to speak,
for re-remembering
when you stumble
on it, wont’t fumble.*
yep that’s it.
Jun 25, 2020
Jun 25, 2020 at 11:33 AM UTC