A Hesitation Spawned Through Over-Anylysing The Importance Of First Impressions

As prolific as I can be I straggle along when decisions are anything more than theoretical

As in touch, as I feel to be, with the muses that persistently confront me, knowing just what to say here or there, when I reach a point where so much must be said, this becomes the most daunting task of darkened dread

And I ask myself…WHY?

                                Am I tongue-tied and stifled

                                         Lost amidst a sea of words

                                         Perspiring for no reason

WHY…

I could write a biography, chapter upon chapter, of what there is to tell, what there is to know, and yet, within those populous of words, none work as well, as hello.

Then what comes next…how does one matriculate from salutation to unearthing life’s mysteries.  Well, perhaps someplace in-between.

And as I hem and as I haw, doubt creeps in and intensifies it all.

What is there to fear?

What’s the worst that can happen?

Right?

Darkened Panes

listen to ‘Darkened Panes’ on Audioboo

It’s the scar tissue type

         of hope,

the kind that’s

drawn too far past—

 the frayed lines

of sympathetic appeal—

          

It’s the moistened blanket

twice applied to feverish brows—

molested by dampening tears

escaping their shadow’s cell

It’s the weathered apparel

hesitantly breathing

yet often lacking the design

of symmetry—

dividing the pangs of ulcers deep;

         below the crested veil, yet well above

         the coded resolve—

It’s these battles

waged in a cuneiform of turmoil

amongst the bridging gaps of confused allegiance—

where cultural dignity is pitted so squarely

against the necessities of economy

It’s the imposter behind the curtain

in the back room with the purposefully darkened

panes of glass

                  “Not the one where…”

“Yes, that’s the one…

         where good mothers and fathers alike,

         tell tales of exaggerated consequence

before applying the forehead’s midnight kiss goodnight”

It’s these stories

that can make one wonder what exactly was seen

to prompt such tales, that are remembered all too easily

was it an unnatural gleam—

or a bothersome tic—that

marred the desired fabric of their creations frequency

It’s the words of a storyteller, relaying:

warnings—

             as subtle overtures of persuasion,

                                    unintended to incite implication,  

yet performed, in such a way,

where a tad too little premonition,

is weighed upon, as to how

  potential seeds

already have been,

inadvertently delivered somehow—

never considering the fragility of

         a child’s mind, where fractured

and faulty filters have yet been taught

It’s these moments

of self-revelation

that act as epiphanies—

          as warnings

of what could be,

if we,

choose not to act

accordingly

It’s these memories

         that we remember all too well,

as we sit

patiently behind

our darkened

         panes of glass

For Open Link Night over at D'Verse.  Be sure to head on over there, the Bar's open and the poetry is flowing fierce.  Sit back, grab a glass and enjoy.  If you've a poem of your own you'd like to share, simply step up to the mike and join in on the weekly fun.

Fear: Reframed

Well, I wasn't going to post a second piece tonight.  Kind of wanted to get some feedback on the piece I posted earlier today, but this prompt over at form-for-all at D'Verse, was too good not to take a stab at it.

It's called Framed Couplets, and Gay's write-up is very good.  It's a form that, in short, uses nine syllables per line, where the couplet's first syllables rhyme as do their last ones.  It was one of those that seemed much easier before actually doing the writing, but aren't most of them though?  Anyhow, stop on over and check out this form, write one up and link up to D'Verse, but at the very least head on over and read the great pieces composed and linked up already.

Intrinsic qualities buried deep

Interesting syllabi’s slowly creep,

Sophistically washing love with shame,

Suffocating bliss with doubt and blame

Found are the fragments that still conceal

Foul thoughts protesting joy, reveal

Detaining crutches that hold us back,

Defining man, solely by his lacks

Variety and selection, are

Varicose to those afraid to start

Travails, shielding as not to betray

Troubled arteries alone and frayed

Fear for the Examination of One's Art

If painted by an unflattering brush

What concoction shall the subconscious construct?

  

I dream too many awful dreams

And fret each the words used in dejecting me

Index librorum prohibtorum, will my work be cast unto the forbidden

Or will redacted treatises compose themselves, only to be allotted the resemblance of being seen, by those whom my work’s intended for?

Index Expurgatorius.  If this redact does devour, my precious words, in their enlivened hour, why may I ask, are some loved and others dispatched, to where broken chapters wriggle so very slow?

Potteresque terms for sure,

Yet as with magic,

The fear is real

Invective natures I may assume

Vituperation certainly could become my friend in flame

As can vexation when brewed within

But,

To create a Jeremiad,

Before the eyes can even scroll

Seems premature, blinding

And a waste of thought and time,

Which serves no purpose, none at all.

 Yet, it does seem like a place,

Where too often poets tend to stroll

Anabolic

The twists

upturned

Upheaval tense

Please, feel free- go again

It's a notion

Not a devotional

A pocketful of potency

With lines astral

Where cats and tigers share the photo book

And hunters sip moon milk with a couple of twins

Into barren voids, few tilled, far of fleas, from here to…

Are you libel?

Did you spit- intentionally nearly missing, still with fist waving?

Facial tics, one could clearly spell- of shoe polish in the nasal swell

Creatine crust-loaf of bread

Springs mountain dust- raven fly, 

Gotta be, have to see, keeping up to keep enough, pairing off to split the rift- soiling tomorrow for today- acme covered acne rain, sprout, sport, spruce, lift- is this going to be, another untold story, of should have's and could have beens?

Build it up why don't you? 

So you can tear it down again,

Hopefully one day

You'll have a story to tell

which might you have-

Yet fear one may,

It'll end up bad... 

Stock

A hand brushes over the dashboard

Rough texture inside out

Faux leather appeal, superficial and real

Too many scents of varying fragrance

The pleasant aromas go undetected

Stopping short of their intention

The wheel is wrapped in a similar skin

Broken patterns alternate

From wrist to thumb, to wrist again,

Almost ready to depart, just one more thing,

Teeth dangle from the palm, scraping softly on the ring,

Upon ignition piston’s fire, chirping lights to spawn desire,

 Anticipation’s ablaze within, balanced by learned patience,

The glass, washed and cleaned, tempered finite,

Strange reflection from it gleams

 A nick in the glass, a crack to the shield,

 A stressor is discerned,

 The unfamiliar in a pristine world,

A pebble, so gray and small, its spider web rippling out,

The tiniest of blemishes loom, casting doubt, what to do,

 Stock emotions, overwhelming and severe,

A juxtaposition of uncertainty and fear