Thursday, February 28, 2013

Time is a Caravan

Time is like a caravan,
Sometimes toting monuments,
At other’s chipped and broken pebbles,
Released prematurely from it’s elder stone

Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Found From Within The Talon's Side

A flagrant volition—a violation, an action and a scowl—determined aggravation from the tongue of pawn—intrigued by the rapturous ideology presented in the late—by an allegorical phantasm of chance, an echoic beauty—one whom not even time could prevent the inviting allegation to conceive it’s concocted arrhythmia to the weather-worn hopes of one as he—

 Held in awe, by a desperate princess, bearing fruitful presents and an unholy proclamation of some love-stricken scheme that preyed endearingly, to every impossible shard of dream ever awoken from—

Encased was a promise, a scented sentence if detected, for this vow, was considerable in all it stood for to the two at hand, yet dynamically catastrophic by those in opposition.  This love, between two such as these, was in fact, in direct disobedience of the caste each were forced to lead their lives upon.

Sufferance would indeed be remarked. Damnation would, in all effect, be set in spades, even as twin bounties corrugate between the sky and all the Heavens it protects, and the reams of suet still freshly stifled, as the heart’s contents remained—where still set the bone, strangling upon the saltiest of teardrops ever wrung.

Vitality was denied through end of breath. Parturient strands unabashed by the chaotic consequence at bay—unintended for, yet persisting nonetheless, were its strides—a collateral
Striation, bound by sinew’s string, looping through the bitter entanglements of the amnesia stricken torso to which the factions fortuitously release, divide—segregating lower lip, pierced by steel and ember and the upper manifestations—the mutations estranged by first sin’s blaspheming kiss.

Protracted involvement. Sacrilege upon the altar of the
Withered. Flesh of songbird, broken wing—yet clung it had, dearly, paying ultimate price to perform it’s duty, clinging tightly with pride, onto the message placed within its’ talon’s

Tuesday is once again upon us, and that, of course, brings about the greatest night of poetry around.  Open Link Night is a world-wide phenomenon, where lover's of poetry get to read, listen to, write and share poetry of all type.  Make sure you stop by D'Verse starting today at 3pm.  Cheers!

Monday, February 25, 2013

Imagination In A Time Of Denial

I’m not sure what I was thinking, as if what’s been static for thirty-eight years would change in the blink of an eye. No, thinking like that is what people keep to themselves, yet, I continuously slip open the side of the drapes, crinkle over the edge of the blinds, and peek, out into the world beyond these walls, where, lo and behold, the same image that’s been etched into these eyes for my entire life, was still as it had always been.

Then I closed my eyes, pondering deep within.  Here, I traveled to some other realm, a place where nothing seemed or felt the same.  The beauty was outrageous, the air so pure and fresh.  My eyes were then reawakened by the unfamiliar smile spawned upon my face.

Quickly I went to the window, pushed the drapes slightly to the side, crinkled over the edge of blind and peered outside.  It was here, at this time, that I realized, for the first time in my life, everything, everything I’d ever known, had changed, and the pinch felt as real as it ever had.

Sunday, February 24, 2013

The Ruins of Open Wounds

Her eyes were both wide and meek
The sides, verbose yet incomplete

There’s a siren by my chest
Whispering the sweetest sounds—
Caressing skin writhed in some past-lived ecstasy

Painted rainbows twist and swirl,
From peaks fervent bright,
To tracts of clay buried miles
Neath where seas once stirred it’s might

But still I couldn’t speak
For A mountain I’d become,

Crumbling—at first came down the minaret,
Wobbling spires traipsing the hymnals ever worn

The head, the heart, the arms
Deride brutalities unearned—persist until
Obstructed visions collided forth upon each sect of fast fulfilled,

All that lives is all that’s died
Beneath the trellis moon
Commingling amongst a fragrant sky

The last steps of this laundered dance
Elucidate each moment that led to this,
A parade of never standing—
Amassed in shards of slivered signs

Scars of vitriol’s past,
Unleash hollowed warbling’s unto
The clouded veils preceding the hours
Prior to the separation of world’s imbued

At the foothold of echoic reenactment,
A pawn in princely attire steps,
Upon the golden throne—unnoticed,

Until all that’s left is a replica
Of some other’s would-be tomb—
A masquerade proven unresolved
In this obligatory palace that remains in ruins

Friday, February 22, 2013

Love Graffiti Style

Compressed or constantly
I                 HOW DO YOU KNOW?
All Around
Compressed or
F l
in               how can one tell?

Stop on over to D'Verse, where for this weeks Meeting the Bar, Anna is exploring Graffiti and how it relates to the world of poetry.  Definitely a D'Verse you don't want to miss.

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

Ode To A Doorknob

Just something I whipped up today…An Ode To A Doorknob

Well rounded and depending on the day, brightly shining from the sun’s brilliant bronze cacophony.

Sometimes you’re cold, at other times you’re too hot to touch.  And there are times when you’re image reflects much brighter than any mirror could ever hope.  And then, there are also those times that you’re so smeared with dirty prints and dustiness, that nothing can be seen at all.

We touch you, and each time you allow us in. Or you don’t. 

You touch us; each time you let us out. Or you won’t.

You’re there. 
When you’re working you never seem to move.
Yet when you’re working, you always seem to move for those who take the time to turn and see. And still, because of our love or neglect, you, like us, change completely, again and again, through the ins and outs, cyclicality persists, again and again and through and through.