Internal Scream

Thursday, Anna posted another excellent article and challenge with her latest offering for the postmodern series that she's been working on for Meeting the Bar at D'Verse.  I urge you all to read the article, check out the myriad of writing challenges she directs you to, and definitely take a read through the linked poetry that others have shared.

I've been rather lethargic the past couple days, so unfortunately I didn't get a poem linked up in time, but came up with this piece here, and thought I'd post it anyhow.

Eternity is neither a straight line nor a circle.  It can and cannot be comprised of data alone. We must find the impulse

To what is planned internally, contrite or overt, sentient or parabolic in its off-putting collage of demonic possession. I

plan  scream,SCREAM to dream, planning, play, planner

May  Scream, sCream  may not manage to, or opt for, or

Dare scReam, ScrEam consider, think, fade, fail, dwelling

Isn't  screAm, ScreaM   attrition, collate, collide, meshing

Not   SCReam, scrEAM as a rule, never leave as is, allot

The  ScReAm, sCrEaM pigmented in variety, hue's light        

Lily  ScREam. sCreAM flower, shades of depth, dense, fog

Low scREAM, SCReAM leaves; lifts, lunges, plunges, push

Lens SKreem, SKRRRM claws/paws, scratch, scratching        

It’s inside, the ulcers bleeding out, curdling, it is only without

It’s the only thing left in tryst, asunder, lust. It is only, only and nothing more than only, when what is caught inside the facades implored reflect the carbon lifted under chambers dark—composed of voids and mistresses, tearing apart the seams of a shapeless existence, skirting the equanimity of tragic distance.  Parables are nice. Songs are too.  Yet, when in a state, illogical connections, are the sanest only to the one otherwise considered as being millenniums away. Relegated.

“we build walls, impenetrable walls. We do so, in order to prevent invasion.  To keep things out.  Yet, too often, these same walls, successfully keep things far, far worse inside”

Reconstruction

I wish you well

I wish you right

I spell your name

Upon my mirror’s fog this night

Fatigue is but a severance

Cutting short the light inside

Shaking, trembling, fading quick

Not sure of the words that crash you down,

Not aware of what it was that worked you up

Topographic

Buildings grow

Gut the earth

Kill the dirt

Transplant the soil

Converting the natural

To cold concrete and steel erect

Didn’t we learn, not to try and touch the sun?

Was the message blurry, was the eyes fogged up, could you not assemble the warning that the myth constructs?

Alas,

Daedalus,

Here we come

again

Merry Christmas To all. 3 Poems to share.

Merry Christmas to everyone.  Hope you enjoyed a wonderful Christmas Eve and share an even better Christmas day with your families.  At my house we celebrate our big get together on Christmas Eve.  It's always a big event, and it was once again this year.  I'm stuffed.  Completely ruined my diet tonight, but oh well, one day down and the rest of the year to make up for it. :)   

So, for tonight's OLN, I thought I'd try to do some Christmas blogging.  I did some Haiku, which, for those who enjoy this form, can be found over at my Wordpress site.  I made some Christmas cards over at Sqwerm, and for here, I came up with three poems.  

The first is a very abstract Christmas poem, where, without me telling you it's actually about Christmas, would most likely be difficult to figure out.  The second is a mix between abstract and straightforward and The third is straightforward.

Again, hope everyone had/will have mades some great Christmas memories this year, and thanks again for all the support, with all my sites.  Thanks.

Christmas Poem #1- Abstract 

There, upon that day. Titanium Trioxides were found,

Buried at knee-high depth, in that, the hope chest, of antithesis.

Eyes, lithe as a cantor’s range is long, intuit calm, each the melody of its psalm, sung low by cello’s voice, harnessing the third option, found in-between, life and feint. Parallel to the beams of ray-fly-fly-fly (enter harpsichord)

This restoration, where those charred sighs cringe, quenches the fatherless emotions. These are those that you always played make-believe upon, that this all, all of it, was but a side-effect of the dream you were sired from.

These singeing solemnities balm the undercoating with a cryogenically optimized lathering, scientifically known as frost.  

Upon the lamina of the blind, augmentations sear those images found therein.

And here, you remain, in frozen chains, rattling to the east and clinking to the west.  In your mind, the slightest changes ripple an effective elation within the north and bury the other 364 deeply south.

Christmas Poem #2

For tonight was an eve, like any day before.  Yet this was a prelude to a day of incomparable bounties and, for some, the birth of a Savior that will one day rise again.

Here so many dreams have already appeared to us and still, the promise of the many more yet to appear is strong. Here, you know, you just know deep inside, that those jubilations and gifted offerings will certainly come true, perhaps even in the morn, when you once again flit your eyes.  

It is a day that brings the promise of salvation, the unification of family and the hope for a better tomorrow. A blissful dream.  A cherished reality.  A day that is ever built up to.

Christmas Poem #3

The children elate so swiftly as the morning’s curtain pulls up high.  Feet scuttle to the tree, shaking presents faster than the parents can wipe the sand out of their not quite awoken eyes.

Papers are ripped and tossed aside. The pure euphoria found in these precious seconds, should be bottled and saved for those days that aren’t so bright.

For on this morning, within the children’s eyes, there you'll find, enough light to illuminate the darkest of the darkest nights.

And without even opening their own gifts, the mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters, are all filled with what this day holds dear, a joy so fulfilling it shines down many, many moments that are immediately collected and stored for all the rest of time.

D'Verse has decided to keep their doors open tomorrow for any who wish to celebrate Christmas by unwrapping presents of poetry.  I'm sure many are occupied with celebrating this day with family and friends, yet, if you find the moment or that need for poetry, then stop on by and see what gifts are under the D'verse Tree.  

Merry Christmas to all and may all of you receive every gift you could ever want and need.  

Growth of the Tempest

By neap tides flow

birthing out the ebb of whim

With strata high

the clouded mind will Cirrus cry

Whether gust or gale

summations incur each and every

A wrath of Neptune concurrent

with the moon’s posture, as it left you last night, longing for

    Winds billowing cross the neck’s fracture

kneels compartmentalized in the moss and mud, where

Mere seconds expose the reach of sky

uncovering the discounted diatribe on which our abated lies

so soon follow,

Lost within, you idly stray; the depths exposed are the same

in where the tempest grew; whistling as it whetted plots of soiled

garments made of stone.  It’s all they ever owned.

Center of Wealth: a gift of presence

A scathing lifeline descends upon the premise unnamed. As precious frayed, as it ever was first believed.

Finding one's center is never as simple as making a decision, a statement or declaration that says "I will find a grounding today"

Earth rests beneath.  immobile yet spanning a distance beyond the present scope of script.

nestled warm beneath one's root, too often becomes the occupation rather than the desire.

We travel expansive depths to share our blood unto the soils in which we sow our seeds within/upon

limitations are not endings.  chapters are intermeshed, entwined. codas everlasting.  Plots are open, free to challenge, to explore.  We are afar despite within our beds we sleep.  We are home in spite of the location of our presents find our blood within.

Limitations are bound only to this realm.  limitations have not been proven.  They are every only guesses garnered upon the soul by the souls of the untested

************************************************

I have a story to tell.  It may not be of interest to anyone other than ghosts.  Yet I can speak to them.  That is, if I have the proper crystals to meditate upon. and if you'd hear them sing, then song would inspire you to locate future's boundaries yet unclaimed.

Darkness breaks before the dawn shimmers it's first quivering fragment of light.  Dawn glides gently into the blanketing surrounding of dusk, enveloping us in a deluge of evening that is as unique as it is not rare.

We move between many worlds.  We shift seamlessly in and out of.  We are unaware, yet knowledge does indeed subconsciously divide.

Fortune is not measured by coinage accrued.  if it did... well, many of us would be as poor in health as we are in walking daylight,

a burden. inhaling our castes. to haunt everlasting.

distorted then. askew. yet pierced with fire, singed by frozen blade. disoriented yet not afraid. for conscience bears wherewithal. A knowledge harnessed deep within. albeit brutal the manner to which our days be spent. regretfully, the tides may disencumber what's been made, what we've toiled our entire lives to find, work towards, and yet the tides may disencumber if deemed to constrain the growth our gardens had originally been planted for.

****************************

Solstitial flagellation is found and you know not the accepted course.  Stars scream as you encounter the laceration's of truth's gaze.
burrowing
burying
time's
loving
spell
deep
in-tune   to a silence that sleeps as peaceful as most lions wake

*********

Indigo guidelines harbor the beacons evenly placed upon the placid calm.  Silent refrains echo from above, beneath.  Breath is abbreviated, yet full.  Eyes are clouded and murky, but see we do.  Touch is invisibly felt, yet immersed we thrive. words mean nothing when in-submission.  thoughts though, they build temples upon stars.

a grey net meshing collapses over our nestled tombs.  As if materials from this realm can ensnare those who walk the avenues unseen.

Eyes. alit. Reawakened. Whole. Renewed. Alive. free

***

Lifetimes are but a rambling of decades.  Decades a corroboration of years.  Years collect the seasons full.  Seasons take their wisdom from the months endured within.  months succumb to the days that fight direction.  Days are comprised of hours.  Hours then of minutes.  Minutes of seconds slipping silently yet not as slow as one would seem. Patience though is timeless
Presently oblivious
a present to the blind
unbroken/parallel
lines move
and our necks can see
forward, up and wide
as if movement was never meant to be, yet be, it does just the same

the spine straightens
and the ghosts
well, they remain….and that is fine
for they should not inspire fear
we should not run,
instead smile
invite them to the comfort that they seek
thank them always
for their presence
is a gift
that
only
the grounded can properly conceive.

*


Karin's opened up the bar and is at the helm of this week's Poetics at D'verse.  Stop on by, read her article and those poems written in response to her offering of Presents/Presence.

For me, I thought i'd do a guided stream of consciousness piece, that incorporates some eastern concepts while trying my best to stay as true as possible with this week's theme.