Hell

Starcrusher
Stands
Alone
with
coins of gold
prohibiting
ocularity

a silent shroud
a table-filled feast
where hands are chained
where feet are chained

and toothpicks pry
open the lids
so
starcrusher
can see

everything
he can't

everything
you wish you wouldn't

a feast without recourse

Silence of the stars
clash
as petrified gullets
gnash teeth
improbably


Over at D'verse Stu is asking us to get in touch with our nightmares in his Nighmarish verse prompt.  Head on over there and check out some great poetry.

Clay Meant to Mold, Is Impossible Not To Hold

A craven/ a cave-in

a rave-in/ a raven

a maiden/ a maven

of interesting things

A sector/ a vector

a radar detector

a transistor/ a resistor

of villainous things

A shadow/ disfigured

a shaded course/ quite twisted

a shady source/ ingratiates blisters

of blazing discourse

A Blazon of legs/ a blazon of arms

with rhymes succinct and rhythms distinct

a range of emotion’s bridged by devotion

of tides and floods embodying love

A verse severe is easy to hear/ a verse so dear, pray it stays near

the colors of space learnt and known, occupying one’s sense of home there’s often a hint and always a trace, alive within that helps define the shape of things yet to come

(Un)

Unemployed
Uninsured

Yet

Unimaginably

Unabashed

Understandably
Unhappy

Yet

Unabatedly 

Undeterred


Uniquely Unimpressed
Uniquely Underwhelmed

Yet

Unanimously

Unwavering

Until

Undiscovered Unwillingnesses
Undistractedly Undermine
Unyieldingly

Until

Untold Unpleasantries
Unravel Unctions
Underneath

Until

Unsalvageable
Underpinnings
Unveil

Yet Until

Uncurable Undercurrents

Uncompromisingly Unbend

I'll still believe

Unceasingly

The Vanity Plate

Well, I wasn't feeling all that well yesterday, nothing physical, but just one of those days we all get from time to time.  Besides the feeling itself, it stinks that it happened to happen on a Tuesday, where OLN is in full effect over at D'verse.  I've definitely a lot of catching up to do but that's cool too, gives me a few blocks of excellent reading to do, rather than all packed into one night.  But anyway, please check out the link and get your read on.

This piece totally came out of the blue, actually didn't have anything written, and while still feeling a bit like I did yesterday, I didn't think I'd come up with anything for today either.  But luckily while out this morning, which I have to thank Jello for that excursion, (I'm so addicted to Black Cherry Jello btw), I happened to see this White Cadillac out on the road.  I'm not particularly a Cadillac kind of guy, but what struck me here was the license plate.  Thanks.

I.

Silky smooth, her

White walls rolled

Ever slowly—flaunting

It’s bedazzling view,

Emanating in freeze frame

Ever slowly—flaunting

The freshness of its lustered cream,

A lathered richness bathed to skin

Ever slowly—flaunting

From the sparkling shine of chrome

to a pimped-out trim that’s all it’s own

Ever slowly—flaunting

It’s a wonder, how eyes could still see

Anything beyond the aesthetic glow

Ever slowly—flaunting

II.

But looks aside

I could not help

focusing my attention to

inches below her trunk

Ever quickly—flashing by

Here, it was,

that her vanity glittered forth,

a plated licensing of gold,

reading, “GR8 HAIR,” in all one word

Ever quickly—flashing by

And yet, the first thought that came to me,

did not pertain to the myriad of potential possibilities—Why

this choice ?—for the reading surely would—provide the implications

so easily perceived—as to an individual’s occupation and/or personality

Ever quickly—flashing by

But so fast the flashing would pass, to find

me pondering in curiosity—wondering if this person also possessed,

A plate that reads, “NOT SO GR8 HAIR,” all in one word,

For, you know, those other days, the ones you wish to just go away

Ever quickly—flashing

  

A Spectre's touch

You aren’t like me

never have, not at all

It’s also true that you’ll never be

and that’s a truth I’ll happily call

The devil in a junkyard

His henchmen out at play

creepers lurking in the scars

scaring the lightning bugs away

Bone justice’s betrothed to us

Here now we’ve been wed; forever joined in vows just bled

Never strayed can we be, forever is not but a rhyming melody

What began as lust, now owns my unrequited trust

I don’t care about those painful words that they speak

I ignore the lies; I damn their pain

You’re the only one I’ll ever need; you’re all I’ve ever sought to seek

And if the truth aches deep in you, we’ll damn it all and start anew

you might strike fear within some,

seeing the ghost that you’ve become,

but I’ll never flee, I’ll never run

…and yes, it is true

You aren’t like me; you’ve never been and never will

For I’m dead to life, or so they say,

And you’re alive, living life through all I believe

A spirit resting peacefully still

Hidden from a world

Whose truth

Only you can truly see

A Stormy Sea

A constantly stormy sea—

beset by clouds of

varying darkness of degree

Interminably, an obsidian tide

rushes forth, with it’s blinding

waves of rippling course

After our clouds have grown clear, 

skyline’s tempest shifts to a scene,

where celestial rays inch their way,

out from beneath the shadow shroud

Once completely free from darks and grays,

a final splash of powder blue,

forever alters the color wheels pointed view,

But beneath the freshest of these coats serene,

a blush-stroked canvas often frays,

opening wounds that once were made—

and no longer can our painted cicatrices forever stall

the untethering of bruises buried deep

Insight buried in a box of dust

Relinquish power,

cede control,

abolish apprehension

of everything unknown.

Tension writhes in fear

It’s leaves wither in despair

over a coming cloud, that is

told to be of foreign origin, has been

foretold to bring the swirling whirls

of disruption and the wrenching

gusts of disturbance,

that distances the warmth above

away from the barren vacancy

existing below,

it provides a commonplace, one unlike

what most had ever grown accustomed

to seeing, to breathing in, something so strange

and wonderful, you ponder it’s meaning, and

amateurishly chart its probability of having been

created from heaven or heathen

and this borderline somehow

offers a tingling sense of desire,

a curiosity, an anticipation, an uncanny

combustion of fire—waylaid in its dormancy

while all the while impatience shrugs

it’s vengeful neck, from which the body heats

to an ungodly burn—painting thoughts, color

and emotion in an increasingly frantic harness

of terrible twos at thirty-eight, transforming

the pleasure of the new, into the jaded askew—

and so the grey floods the freeway with the oil upon a seemingly gentle feathered brush.

And so charcoal dances, always is, dancing in the distance, waiting for the dry-erase wipe of pleasure.  Anticipating conditioning will coil in the way it always does, and bleak ennui shall once again fill the ever-combative attention span of the what’s next to break societal view.

and it’s in this fledgling composition, where

wisdom could grow to be unlike anything

we had ever known.  But sadly, patience and savor

is not encoded within.

But the composition accumulates its dust-filled coat,

wearing it like a badge of honor, understanding it is

but a statement of the current time, knowing, knowing

that one day, a hand shall wipe clean the dusty frame,

and there, in that moment, these eyes will truly see,

the wonder and importance of what lies beneath.

Time Trials

We have every second
of every minute,
to make every hour count

Our every hour,
organically travels
a path from midnight to noon,
sun to moon, dusk til dawn,
dawn til dusk, in every hour
we place our trust

We have every hour
of every morning and
of every night, an essential
moment, in the life of a day

Our every day,
moves in six times four,
four times six, seven cycles,
repeating within, cycling without,
Our every day inevitably
moves from day to week
From week to month,
and months to seasons,

In seasons we change,
or remain, yet it's a given
that scenery shifts the
sights we see, and therein
we lose an hour, only to
gain it back again

We have every season,
which becomes a year,
every year a decade,
and for those fortunate
enough, perhaps they'll
age enough to see a
century of memories

For some there is too much,
for others it's much too few,
flying by, slowing down,
but I suppose, for most,
we ought to live life to the fullest,
making the time that way
have enough

Whether alone or together,
we have the means to love,
something timeless, something
that moves eternal, from
spark to spark, from heart
to hear


Reposted and Shared with Mary's Poetics article on Time over at D'Verse. Stop on by and Make the Time to swim amongst the poetic hourglass, where the poetry is what moves the sundial, making the most of the time we have to share.