The Chalice

Nobody uses that word any longer, do they?

I used to hear it once in an often, after services would conclude,

Yet, perhaps, that is the cause for my dissimilitude, perhaps

I’ve been cast unto damnation, like so many other under-educated sots, suffering the

Fate of the intellectual, an illness purged from the seeds of the hollow voice,

Green and yellow, shiny and terrible, radiant goblet, chalice of shame,

 Goblet is a better word it seems, substance and a rugged, man-like charm,

As it was filled, a random splatter caressed the air,

 Fluid delivered by a man of the chair,

He seemed reluctant, fawning ignorance to mask the blame,

To guard his soul somehow, protect what is left remaining of its’ worth,

A contemporary incongruity I would claim,

But I wasn’t motioned, not this round,

But one time, a fractured song ago, there was this question posed of me,

Unable to properly answer, I beckoned for the crowds’ discernment,

Yet their answer had little to do with the man I am, but rested mainly with boy I used to be,

A pause conveniently flapped its’ wings, and offered a veil of ignorance, for which I could not hide behind,

And quickly this notion fell swift and fast, evaporating into chagrin and perturbed glares, from old and young alike,

Broken like a promise, my mouth agape, arose to speak, but instead of wisdom out spoke inconsistency

A misconception formed, bred through incorrect data and misquoted apologies,

 Collars grew tight for some, a moistened empathy from those who brightened the pink to my skin,

Without saying much I glanced above, to see the unlikeliest of sorts looking down to me, these eyes spliced the dimness well, a light was formed and pennies I tossed, which travelled to the well.

Predator

Chin to the shoulder,

Locks assail the eyes insecurity, lash growing longer,

 Phantoms pressing stronger, a torsos’ quest for purity hindered in spinal insecurity,

A mental shift is taking place, doors will break and secrets bleed, acuity diluted from forge to wake,

Chimeras and the emotionless candor of a paradigms’ quake,

Skin colorless, pores tight to touch, sweating venom

 As procured vision corrupts,

A postulate case of acute asunder,

Desperate prayers spoken in distress,

A fever born from out, flexes within,

Worlds of words, submitting to a plundering plight,

Grasp then fall, clasp then crawl, around the corner

 Rivers of dementias’ beckoning call,

Implied paranoia, injecting gall,

Mind growing colder, will tasting stale

Eyes to the front, Ears in the right,

Vision off centered, audibly censored,

Eyes in reverse, Ears leaning left,

Sight unseen, Decibels in splendor,

Cadence coming from beyond each corner

Footsteps bolder, Breathing faster,

 Knees chest high, piston-like thunder,

 Chin to the shoulder, Chin to the shoulder

Hue

There is a light that appears,

From time to time, every now and then,

At times frozen, others very warm,

Sometimes it blinds,

 Shining bright,

It’s never knowing the where or when,

How it will look,

When it will appear,

A mystery so intriguing,

A Symbol so appealing,

It’s the slightly remembering,

And never forgetting,

Simultaneously pretending,

Gently swirling in your head,

Always different,

Never quite the same,

Sometimes flickering,

Occasionally in freeze frame,

A variety of color,

Green, red, yellow, blue,

Such a never ending significant, comforting hue

Warhead

Bring forth your arsenal,

Blue skies distant once again,

You’ve fallen down on hardened time,

Relegated to observe the tyranny,

The Humiliation, the decay,

Blow up the routine,

Redraft that scripted page,

Cast blame, cast doubt, unto old premises’,

Dehydration filled affirmations,

Soon, one day, you’ll know, if not already,

What it means to be without…

Take shelter from the falling sky,

Warheads above, high and wide, from shore to highest tide,

The shrapnel comes from every side, in all directions; debris comes nearer than the scriptures tell

Hide your pretty face tonight,

Else scars may claim the loveliest of smiles,

Brandishing your sword this eve,

Ripening that bayonet,

Your shield will not defend, against the evils which have come

Kneel beside your holiest place, holding preciousness to your chest, clinging tight to conviction,

Clutching out for a last embrace, close your eyes, soon time will erase.

Razors in the Pillowcase

Exhaustion praises diligence

Of, he who rests his head,

Passing love-notes to those who clasp at comforters

Fawning over she, who lowers lids,

Time will pass during moments encased in the sand-man’s keep,

Rain could fall, ground may shake,

Luxury surrounds the captive

While mythic figures multiply,

Bowing in subservience, shedding homage for the breath they take,

Requesting permission for enemies to hunt and slay,

The cock then crows and lights pierce through,

Blinds and curtains,

Drapes and darkened tint,

Masks to wear or veils to cloak,

None shall survive when facing the break of day,

Inevitability is alive and inevitability always gets its’ way,

The mind shall leave pleasures wrapped,

To return, perchance another glance,

For now and every time hereafter,

Like razorblades within a pillowcase

As fate dictates, the flesh shall awake.

The Russian Doll

Layers peeled like potatoes fated to a distillery,

Skin shed, time upon fractured time,

The powerful enigma, the Omniscient Cantor

To his hymnals of forgiveness and forgetfulness

                The hand of the artist revolves in cyclical indemnity,

                Guilt layered youth upon elder form,

                Structure confined to intent,

                The artist struggles with his own contempt,

                                Recoiling like a cobra,

                                Tossed from wicker, disoriented in vision,

                                Senses ruffled by the vicious flute,

Artistic indifference, fails to cast the mold,

The smaller self emerges,

As the open-world then withers, in its’ traditional regards, falling like snake-skin,

Slithering past the point of coherence,

Pushing through the blankets of confidence,

Arriving upon self-discovery, self autonomy,

Through the disenchanted illuminations of sinful hints,

Like a Russian doll,

Another mold for society to bend.

Blades of the Soul

Reaching towards your afterlife,

Forever in pursuit of tomorrow, as whispers guide what you hear,

Failing to see mirrors and light, instructions dictate distrust in fear,

You visualize how things should be, yet the eyes paint too vividly, instead of leading they succumb to blindness,

Distancing from the present reality, blankets cast covet tactility and idyllic portraits run, distorting interpretation within the mind,

Pores open wide, tingling from the cold inside,

The wind it mirrors the image told, colliding with the heartbeat of the heat outside,

Your broken visage caught in the undertow, a deadly prophecy carefully constructs a veiled image of truth from a lonely remnant of the swell,

They’re swimming in every niche, shark-like apparitions, chasing something, known yet unknown,

Circling the outer sphere, diving and repeating, sensing coda coming as blood curdles in the air,

As speckles float and snowflakes fail, an escape path’s drawn in precisions’ glare

 A provisional clarity glittering through the atmosphere,

Yet confusion clouds, confounds your every bit

Lost then regained, misplacing intuition and the coat-check stub along the way,

Retracing steps and dodging traffic, In search of your blades,

Nervousness, doubt, of which without solution-less secrets are all that remain,

Claiming your direction, you believe, confuse tomorrow for today,

Hunting, pecking through each minimalistic reflection seen,

Comforting voices convert to code, obscure, foreign, understood just the same

As hairs split inches far, frozen in a moment, parting is the saddest portion of divide,

Standing now, amidst smothering cold, frosted words are swung upon with blades re-owned.

In Times of Space

listen to ‘In Times of Space’ on Audioboo

Seconds linger in my eyes,

Shadows flutter their soldering hell-byes

Interesting creatures our darkened sides can be,

They choose static greeting over growing sentimentality,

And some days they will just stand there and peer deep within,

In times of Space I crave withdrawal, I need retreat,

Minutes hover in the sky,

Chandeliers softly sway- as chandeliers do when touched by hand,

Diamonds tossing to and fro, clinking, clanking the once hidden prism’s light,

Swinging and moving rhythmically

The cast off, a saturating amber glow,

Reminders, Reflections, Images seen through veiled eyes

Swinging and moving to a disturbing rhythmic beat

This light fixture, this glowering perfect beacon of despair,

 Architecturally sound, yet seemingly incomplete,

It shall transform, in figure and form,

A pendulum shall soon take watch over me,

Moments tread and seconds flail,

The shadows will find me in no time now, 

Hazy thoughts will not remain covert for long,

 Soon my every thought shall spill through the room,

Forced to listen to stories which bear no part in this tragedy

Their coy inflections and the painted smirk I struggle to create,

Then they pause…..And all I want is time of space.

Origin Story

I've been meaning to create a blog for much some time now.  There are numerous reasons as to why I've never got around to starting one until now, the main ones though are my key 3 vices in my life, Distraction, Procrastination, and exhaustion.  Distraction and Procrastination seem to go hand in hand, or at the very least procrastination really becomes the product of distraction, and as far as exhaustion goes, I really, at this point, just have to deal with it, I require certain prescriptions due to injuries sustained a few years back and being overly tired just seems to be one of those side effects that pester some and not others, I happen to fall in line with the pestered crowd.

In any case I've finally gotten my bearings about me, at least for now, and hopefully this blog will provide numerous benefits:

1.  The top reason I'm creating this site is for therapeutical reasons.  I feel that if I set something in motion, this blog, and place myself in the committment circle, making a promise to myself first and foremost, and then to whomever chooses to visit, then I'll be more productive in both quantity and quality of material as well as helping me sort out the days and create some form of order in all the chaos that seems to almost hourly smother me.

2.  Another reason for this site is to help me deal with ideas and issues, sort of a sounding board, and I find it easier and more enjoyable to work things out via poetic output.  This is kind of an important idea, as I'm really about learning through the subconscious mind, and believe the mind truly does speak to us when we give it time and a medium, of which I find poetry to be the perfect medium.  So upon completing a piece I'll look at it from all sorts of angles, internally that is, and see what I can get out of it, so at times the work I post may not be what some would call complete.

I prefer working with first drafts as they seem to be the truest connection to ones' soul.  Occasionally I'll analyze something I've written and then change things up a little, that is if I can consciously think of a more cohesive or more descriptive way to state the message I feel the first draft contains.  However, by doing this I may be changing something important, something unintended for change and quite possibly would be distorting the meaning altogether, so this will be and up in the air type of process as to the when and where I alter pieces.  I will however make mention if the piece is a first or subsequent drafting.

3.  As with any piece of art released for public consumption, I'm hoping that readers can find ideas or images which they can relate to either directly or indirectly, and hopefully provide their minds a vehicle from which they can springboard over hurdles in their lives, bandage wounds that were at one point seemingly clotless, or just provide a momentary respite of inspiration. 

I'm not ignorant enough to believe that everything, or anything for that matter will create a spark or a salve or help/assist anyone else, but that is my hope and intention here by posting pieces that have helped me out, or pieces that I feel could possibly help others out.  But each person is different, and each mind works in completely unique fashions and that, in my opinion anyhow, is what makes reading and writing poetry, the varying interpretations we gather and create, knowing and unknowing, such a special medium.

At times I'll list ways in which a specific piece has helped me, but not too often as I really don't want to force-feed my own interpretation upon others, or skew their experience in any way, so unless the message I received was so profound and need feedback regarding such a message I'll probably leave the piece intact without impression for everyone to delve into individually.

I do request and encourage comments from anyone who cares to share their voice on a piece or if something they read affected them in meaningful ways.  This, the ability to share and interact, is probably, in my opinion, the greatest gift this vehicle of expression has to offer, and is the main reason I've been kicking myself time and again to get something up and running.

What you've just read here will almost certainly be the longest piece of non-poetic conversation published.  Occasionally I'll broadcast things I've experienced or issues that come to my attention, of which I'd like an audience, but again that is not what this site is about, and for the most part, outside of comments and response to comments, won't be part of the daily offerings.  This site is about a lot of things, discovery, relations, sharing emotion etc...so I do apologize regarding the completely non-poetic origin to this site, and wish to state I simply felt it necessary to explain certain things, before things get really going, so everyone knows how I plan to operate and what readers should come to expect of this site.

My first piece will be coming soon but until that time I look forward to sharing and discussing all things poetic that consistently swim around this persons mind.