Of Porcelain and Snow

of bark,

a daggered dress

remains

teacup stains of pearl,

of shard,

a charcoal tint

blessing

marbled stones in gaze

of flame,

a wick—blustered

root—wrenched

tress—stamped to palm 

of clay  

a ruffled wing

plucking

sky-dress tattered pink

of puddle—

rubbered soles

skitter

citrine rippling wake

 Over at D'Verse they're hosting their FormForAll and this week the prompt deals with the connection between classical Chinese and Japanese poetry.  Blue Flute guest posted a tremendous write-up and asked us to compose a piece using tangible imagery.  I did my best here, and not entirely sure how this piece came to be, as  I started writing about fluffy yellow rabbits, easter-eggs and green straw and then somehow this disturbing piece of the uncaring/unseeing eyes of society, ignorant to those desperately in need of help.  Quite frankly, not sure if I should be concerned or not.   

Also, side-note here, I think I fixed the word-verification thing that I guess somehow appeared at my site.  So, if someone could just drop a yes or no in with their comment, if, in-fact, it has been pulled.  Thanks   

Empty Parking Lots

40 watts

Dim, ample though

Plenty light

From that man-made Sun

In the darkness’ fading shield

Skylines bloom as they reveal

Rooftops, like castles, majestic and grand

Despite the broken shingling falling down

The first topping of frosted sheet

Winter’s voice is not as far as it once was—

Only days ago—and then the ice becomes confetti

Something…Maybe

Something…yes

Sometimes I sit in vacant parking lots

To watch as the empty lines fill in

Scribbling memos to my self

Verses to recall on some future calendar

…and in this suburban

Isolation,

I wonder…

Where have the poets gone?

It's yet another Tuesday, and to answer the last line of my poem, simply head on over to D'Verse, where Claudia is hosting Open Link Night. 

Really, If you haven't checked it out, OLN is definitely the place to be on Tuesday for a great mix of great poetry.  So I highly recommend that you head on over there, have a few pints of verse and while you're there submit one of your own, there's a crowd hoping you will.

Apocalyptic Son

On a Sunday lacking sun, a son traverses empty roads, upon a mission of repose.  Carousing placated lots and fields, in search for a compass clear, yet in doing so, a presence felt he does become.

Escaping the cloudy dream ennui would love you to believe.  Shaping the shaded particularity of particulates within, a hazel-greenish glimmering grin. 

Foraging the aftermath, calculating inflated costs at every turn, shrugging shoulders up and out, as pariah’s doubt fills the bloated sensory. 

Pits and pots and cracks amiss, leveling locations meant for bliss.  Candor amassing sand and grime, with each wheel turn, more mud it finds.

The evening prior was Saturn’s day and in his images ringing scattered moons amongst.  A meteoric rise from the south, launching pads whizzed and banged, dramatic flash-mobs fidgeting smog, domesticating horrifying promissory notes of deceit, as a brutal vocabulary was spun by nature’s pen, tipped and felt.

And now they call for an encore.  And now they take a bow.  Before the crowded masses huddled in scowl.  Emasculating herculean humanity, soft skinned souls arrested in surprise, to the drop-dead beats of ballast heard. 

Condensation’s frigid fate relaxes in sheaths and grates, ingratiated by the letters youthful hoarders use to test their trade.  Standards of privacy lay isolated amidst open fields, spackled with dirt and amber clay.  Bashful barterers far from their serene, prioritize internal valuations between shackles and shades.  Lonely crustacean, parched and dry, would relish but one spigot to try, for spine to fluidly bend again. 

On a Sunday lacking sun, a son peruses the wreckage that’s been done.  Furious and ferocious symbols scatter empty palettes, which once were cluttered thick, seeking another to join, in this regretful trek, as eyes meet foreign Griffins talons descend, sinking into your familiar streets.

Upper torso and head, with wings the eagle’s image flies.

Legs and trunk bronzed and bulked, lionized, they tout branches, alms, kalamata shapes in hand.  Yet the survivors only hear unsympathetic roars of rage from the kingdom close, for so few there are left to save.

Drifting through the feeble praise, from distant soldiers left unscathed, the tautological preys upon.  The man is shaking his head.

The son shines his beams, high yet with dusted distractions sparsely dancing through the wavering rays, aiding reddened, sleepless eyes with their quivering light divine. 

He’s praying there’ll be others, draped about, amongst, by the tapestry of the night that’s yet to come. 

The silence befits the wanderer.  There aren’t any distractions, yet there is nothing but distraction.  The mind is wondering where the departed flesh has gone.

The questions that mount, he cares not repeat.  Answers scuffle briskly at the stamping of their ne’er-ending feet.  Needless admonition moving left to right then right to left, traversing conversations that were left unsaid.  Smoking barrels commissioned for purposes of health and recreation, appear to be the solution, appear to be alive, yet at this point, he begs but ask the question:

Is this just another mirage built upon deception or is there hope beyond these tracks?

Streets of Dawn

I love the emptiness found on the streets of dawn

I love the solidarity of sound in mind

Crisper awakenings, cold and yet to thaw

No stares surrounding

Nothing to overcome or defend position/place

With dew still fresh promise has yet to beget scorn

Scowling pores have yet to swim upon clogging stench

Perspiration of densest precepts confounding

Breaking judgmental genes and its derogatory blight of spine

Alone and wandering

Bread broken with pigeons prior to morning flight

No psychoanalysis only tar’s silence, born from the fault of ash

Ginger swing

Lingered long

Scrumping apples from a poison field

Unearthing wounds scars have long since housed

Roots revealed, of the wounded charms, marinated & resurrect

Marvels fold, as silence grows much too loud

Burdened by echoic dynasties deepened by a quivered cobble

If a monster was made to be,

Shaped by molds buried deep in me

Imagined from a lifetime of composite imagery

Grow it would

Strong and weak

Bold yet meek

Craving but withdrawn

Pummels then crawls

Caffeinated scales trickle through

Each and every part of a piece of you

Isolations emerge through silent reprieve

Far yet finalized stars of fizzled dreams

Rusted rivets atop hinged wings

A procession praised by violating sage

Storked flight, into smolder, out of lie,

Vicarious thoughts of songs never played inside

Calyx aback yet severed strong

Dusty vision through veils floral

Sore thumbs pretend to mend

I hate the emptiness that waits for me, on the lonely streets of dawn

Shell Game

I am just a shell,

Of who I was, once before,

Which in itself, was a shell too,

Of the man I could have always been,

To think of all I could have done,

All I could have accomplished then,

And the possibilities I’m not doing now,

A bitter regret as it first goes down,

Nausea blended with uneasiness,

Followed by an overwhelming,

Polarizing urge to change,

And I’ll feel good, while the feelings fresh and new,

But soon the warranty will expire,

And I’ll go back to doing what I do best,

Stagnancy and procrastination,

As the new found arc travels

From regret to desire to afterthought

And back to regret one more time,

All my life I’ve hunt and pecked,

For that slightest etch,

A life altering epiphany,

Some free flowing cosmic offering,

But now as it stands before me,

Staring, begging, encouraging,

I pause, I quake,

I sweat and shake,

I wait, I delay,

I approach then stop,

A nervous, delirious response,

I’m right there, and yet I’m still here,

Immobile and In hesitation,

Can’t disappoint, can’t make mistakes,

 If you forgo action and walk away,

Step to step, fully knowing,

The hands would move too fast,

But nonetheless help I wouldn’t ask,

I’d know the answer, yet I’d second guess myself,

And wind up choosing the empty shell

Like Ink to a Page

Like ink upon the page,

Like water to the wave,

Seemingly essential,

Yet their happiness

Doesn’t solely depend

On the existence of either of them,

The ink could dry

The page could burn

The wave could die

And for the water, so many possibilities of decay,

And yet,

The ink could be pieced together,

The page could contain a message,

The water could rise and create the waves

That for the man at sea

Either save or end his way

Ink is like oil

And the oil spills upon the water

A page is scribbled upon and tossed to sea,

But not before the match fell on print precisely,

Hell to come if flame to meet,

And the wave would see to that.  Emptiness.