Long Division: Strains Of One

Dainty figurines, collide-expand

Upon the altar, knotted-stained

For which they stand; warped and dated

Like the mores buried, still, straining to inhale

Knee-deep down, beside, within—

The Laundering of time pronounced, for without

Borrowed—procured ceramic, forgone—

As it is with the stuttering of art, from in,

Unknown qualities emerge, myths and absolutions

Laying bare before the mantles, and within

All illumine beneath each face it makes appear.

  “      Strength bemoans the martyr, as the power of fear, is concealed within each face before you here—those of strangers and Judases alike—whose stones are visibly clear, not in hand but in the discoloration within each their eyes”

The Letting Go

Softening the blow, letting go—

An entrapment’s set, a trigger’s tripped,

Beguiling solemnity, into a boxed chest of wood

Made of oak, notched and cured—

A tiny key violates a lock of bronze,

Concealing a past betrayed by love

Possessed by lost emotions, a vacant heart persists—

The forecast predicts a surging storm beneath,

Unearthing the many passions deadened by grief

Tethering tomorrow, with the fibrous tithing’s of today—

A venous strain, an ascription stirred within,

Initializing myriad dimensions, then staining them in blood

Vultures circle the hypocritical norm—

A broken voice cracks and screams,

Illuminating the sounds of a shadow fevering the skin

Softening the blow, letting go—

Things happen and then they don’t

Well, I seem to be a day off with my responses this week.  This is two consecutive D'Verse evenings that I've missed out on the link-up, but each time an excellent theme was provided, and therefore, I just had to respond regardless.  For this week's Poetics theme, Claudia presented us with the notion of Letting Go.  

I've always been intrigued by the open-ended possibility with this idea.  One can interpret the theme as a release, where tension is broken and this then opens up new and often undiscovered pathways.  Another possibility is looking at the theme in the manner of eliminating constraints and going with the flow, giving oneself up to the spontaneity that this new movement takes us. Yet another is the old idea of letting something go, giving it your blessing to leave.  Here there is a notion of freedom, yet also the portrayal of giving up control.  I think this also fits the popular saying about love, "set something free if you love it."  

Then, along the same lines of giving up control, one could look at this notion of letting go as being something akin to giving up. Perhaps you no longer have the will to fight whatever is oppressing you, whatever it is that is ladening such a burden upon your shoulders.  So here, you just give up, letting go, and allowing what will be, to be.

In any case, Claudia provided an excellent article on the subject and opened up the discussion to the poets of D'Verse, who, to no surprise, offered excellent insight through each poem shared.  I urge you to check out the post, read many, if not all, of the poems shared there, and perhaps, you, like myself, will find the inspiration to compose a response regardless of missing out on linking up to the Poetics discussion itself.  Cheers.

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.

The Extinguished Revival of the Contemporary Arsonist

listen to ‘The Extinguished Revival of a Contemporary Arsonist (New)’ on Audioboo

It’s not what takes place at the birth and

death of every hour, but instead, what symmetries are provided upon the thirties— dividing lines of power

Amidst a veil of tragedy,

an encapsulating entity reveals itself

to be, a personality of untapped

potentiality, a reason for forbearance, a reason

to atone what’s been lost by disdainful blows

Amidst the reaches of escape,

to which our tragedies often follow flow,

we can enunciate the possibility of rendering

useless, through the daunting effects they often play

No longer must we wallow in our pitiful seas of

sweat and fear.  No longer is it necessary to dream alone in black and grey.  Now exposed, a new destination ignites the

sparks to which we pour our promises into, offering the symbolisms of hope and the prayer that shall lead us down an enlightened path

However, consequence is always alive in every choice there is to be made….

              Those that harrow our escape, can include what would be soured at during any other given time, yet in such spots as these, the finer points are buried beneath the opened windows that this new brand of savior here completes

Amidst a veil of tragedy, an encapsulating personality reveals itself.  It is here where we eagerly agree to its many hidden terms, where it dethrones us of our combative sense of self-loathing, and leads us up the peaks, to a world completely concealed by the bountiful wonders that shield us from evil’s corrosive eye. 

Yet, to such a choice, consequentiality demands repayment of our contracts stipulations.  Here, we find our chains forever freed, yet still, we must substitute one oppressor for the next, as we find ourselves knelled to their feet, offering up our fealty, bare and ever-more-forever frightfully exposed.   

To such ends, we mind not the burden caused by our individualized subservience.  For it’s not the expressions…no, it is the expressions, glazed upon our family and friends, which make extinguishing conflagration’s kiss, a sacrifice we’d, without doubt, if revisit we ever must, willfully renew, without a bat of lash or a shy of eye.

Together, forge forth and forward recall all the reasons why, we began onto such onsets, striving to, not complete victorious trots about a central stage, but, to do only what we can, and try, is, at last check, synonymous with the definition that embodies the spirit of man

Stop on over to D'Verse where Open Link Night will take its usual spot on the Tuesday Night place to be list.  Doors open at 3pm and it gets crowded really quick, with the party running all night long and longer.  So, write a poem, post it on your site then use the link tool at D'Verse to share your work with the D'Verse community, where a plethora of amazing poetry is always on display. Cheers 

Streams and Tributaries of the Subconscious

Rifling through the times of sand and cloudy watermarks,

Embossed upon a rigid vessel beneath the walls of bone and flesh,

Like pistons it thrusts the contents through the tunnels, infecting each part, every position, while awake, while asleep, devastating all the states and conditions.

Shifting through a dripping veil, filters to the dust and air, if I might, I may proclaim, the idea of the vista being longer than frame.

And please don’t remind me of the panoramic crutch we so unconsciously wear from ward to ward,  on our souls within our hair,

As we make our vicious mark truly our own, towards wherewithal, into the scared little eyes of a devoted stranger,

 The ingestion, every ounce of life digested, mortally wounded by the reframing of the pot, blackening the Kettle,

It’s prime that we make every candid measure and never fleece that which we shall let within the temple of the mind,

The eyes are flagrant yet beautiful as it casts its gaze upon the neon lightning revolving from smallish orbs to gluttonys’ moon.

I cherish that time I once held close, yet like most, I let slip away,

Resembling of a fleeting ghost, on a rafter made from coiled swine, intended for those severed sisters of the searing flames and nocturnally devote to the crimson kiss.

I hope in earnest, yet tread dishonestly, it’s not my fault, It’s the way I God made me, so there must be a reason for the nasty indecisions and the slipping of the conscience at times needed most,

Nor is it my retraction, my overreactions, responsible for the fading of the waltz, where once a partner could twirl their other around a ballroom and land upon an undiscovered moon,

 No longer is the chance, of the opportune idealist, allowed persevere,

Now is all about the shallow hours and the morning mists, allocations allowed for genuflection and reminisce, short moments we get a return, a reprieve into times we miss so dearly, yet are remiss to let our emotive valor announce as so, to the point of extinction our history has become,

Onward and often to the tower of hope, that’s where they send us when we’ve got too bold, revel in such time, allowing our faculties to unwind and retie themselves, from the mourn to the afternoon, the plateaus and the obscure tones.  Soon we shall have all of that, away with marshy dark back tomorrows, The forgiving light, is forged from cradle to spoon, from laundered thoughts and photo-mats, from vapid prognostic residue to every promise kept before.

 I wait no longer, but rest assured, I grow as fond of time as the picnic does a fox,

 I sleep rarely, yet when I do peace flowers the plot of earth my head and hair attach upon,

 Through the many countless hours rehearsing such fallacies and fabrications one can recount, the stronger version of you shines forward.  The mirror has become my tuning fork, the Sand man a long lost friend.  With these two fine soldiers and many to go unnamed, through verse or vision, mirth or might, we silence all the ravaging of those jaded claustrophobe’s, mishandled man-beasts, that roam the truncated earth this axiom calls a spine. 

Light shall envelope us when filtered through a prism’s focus, bleeding love to each and every man.

Some way you and I, and the others too, arrived at this place, alone yet together, where turn-around was not fleshly available, we were permitted to lunge rocky stones and bones from the deadest men, attached to such, the lies and truths we could create, brew a society no man has ever heard or dreamed to believe in, a place, so splendid I can never remember thought coming so alive as they have these so sorted of moments I have these past so many days and nights, away from family and friends alike, departed all the salutations and nods and well wishes, we came upon what the nomad swore would change our views, and overwhelmingly impress they have, 

Such is born the octopus man, the art of plausibility, the embodiment of can-do-it collected in dried ink and papyrus, 

You and I need not fear forgetfulness of inspired thought, nor will we ever need to endlessly repeat those things which must be shouted from the highest peak or else it will drown in an air of loneliness,

With this means of cataloging experience, displaying our rites and rituals for all to follow, and everything in-between, nothing which lives within us, is us, will ever go lost again, better even will be those memories they ordered us to forget, now we are enabled, lest they come past their own prohibition, armed with burning flame, else they find themselves alive for the initial time, a power they will never let escape nor elude any mind, and we will ignore the ills they so ignorantly enforced and  welcome them with the widest of arms, and the most glowing of lights, we’ll be happy to hand them an inkwell and an empty slate to begin