Words Repeated By Children

There are certain things one restates

When in the company of children

And then there are those,

That lose all potency, when a softened

Stance is struck

There are certain things

That kids these days

unexpectedly repeat

They’ll spin back those nasty verbs

The ones you didn’t think

 they could’ve overheard

And oftentimes, they’ll use such terms

When an argument ensues

But instead of admonish them

You cannot hold back the red

And demand they repeat back what they just said

For there’s something inherently funny

when vulgarity is spoken by

innocent girls and boys

oftentimes, such a riot

you cannot remain quiet

and your laughter quickly turns to tears

which of course

is something children hold so dear,

that is, the sound of elation in you they’ve caused

so, unfortunately they’ll surely use such words again, if only to regain your delightful applause.

And so, to compensate

you create made-up languages to replace such words

Or simply become that parent that always and forever spells

The Demon's Mother

Born on the banks,

Salty-water riptide stern

Burgeoning current- bound to stir

Backwater blush

Deposited silt and thrush

Swirling eddies grow in you

Entangled miles of entrenched sneer

Years ahead the years long before

Corrosive and indivisible—O’ what hate does breed

Chirping sharp, snorts and moans

If not for love, you’d have been without home

Misshapen smile and lizard skin

Solicits fear in them but anger in you

From cropped palate to claws & tail, each akin

To those boiled last weekend

Yet despite the alternative reality, from what we’ve been taught

This beastly sight, swaddled white, you hold to tight- preaching the fine line between disgust and delight

Everyone’s eyes avert—as if any child could be less than pure

Prayers line the lips of aunts at church

Each offering solution to his curse

Snarling weeds enrapt the hart

Roots connect deep in thee

Allowing the dead to breathe

Trimming clutter from the brook

Agonizing pains for a child so demanding

Yet all is well when he gives that look.

If a woman spends nine months of womb ripping pain, only to find an unexpected sight upon delivery—what does that do to the love shared between mother and child?

If this child is human in name alone—what toll does this have upon the mother-child paradigm—will she still decide to take him home?

What’s a mortal mom to do…

--but love this demon she’s birthed unto

 Well I took this topic of parenting in a different direction today, added a little bit of metaphor into the mix.  But the basic question is a parent loves their children regardless of "anything."  They can certainly disagree with decisions their children make, or become disappointed with actions etc... but they should, someplace inside of them, still love their children.  

I guess I've been reading a little too much psychology.  Whenever I see a mother or a father acting in less than ideal or horrendous manners I always wonder how their upbringing was, in fact it goes beyond this, anybody that does something what I at least, consider to be wrong, I think that perhaps if their upbringing was better things could have been different.  Now I'm sure that not ever ne'er do well comes from a bad family, but there is something to the train of thought, at least in terms of likelihood when put through a psychological filter anyhow.

The story that sparked this though is how a parent could go and have a blackout around their kids and then not know who took their child-lots of fishiness with that story.  So of course I instantly thought back to the Casey Anthony thing and it's a bit troubling to think of how things like these and others get going.  

Anyhow, glad I got that out.  Thanks for listening.

The Good Father

Door Knobs clog, puttering with-

Explanation- by making stories

Sadness- with clever quips

Corduroy jacks can’t life the spare

A circle of valor sleeps

As all things mount

Some visit the well

Some transform in else

Many tears will fall

This you cannot defend-

But from sorrow or Joy-

That’s a game for playing

Jagged symbols clash in sync

Burdening the world you try to bring

Hems of meanings strewn

Seeds sown often listen to others

Sometimes it’s better to be a friend

But mainly you should be a father

The claustrophobia of sentinels

The silent echoes in the night

The worried welts we build inside

All worth the price of a smiling face

A good father will provide

At all costs, thinking only as to how

In a land condemned by greed

In a land alive with infamy

A good father will protect his own

A good father will protect his home.

Genesis

I.       NECROTIC AFTERBIRTH

Wounds first appear dry

Eventually they split and tear

Until it becomes who you are

In cogent clemency

Salt mines bitter wit

Derisive to the sum of wholes

Salutations stir in winding sheets

Upon the scapulars of whispered words

Tendrils dance in shadow, amongst vetch’s climb

II.     KERNICTERUS

         Misanthropic stew in rot

         Clothes the inner seal

         With an evince of reproach

         Coated generic stem to vine

         Epoxied days number near

         Reddish mount, clotting strain

         Calendar grimaces percent of claim

         Solidifying pessimistic droves of sludge

         Inevitability serrates the breeder’s guilt

III.    BELL’S PHENOMENON

         Dew thistles valley

         As moistened arrows split the spares

         Isolating tightly exposed clench

         Circumvolved oculus axis’ spin

         Gyration’s hypothetic pose

         Enabling fluid’s covetous sheath

IV.    HYPERMOBILITY SYNDROME

         Minor threat, severest to limb and bone

         Disjointed treachery sprains; birthed in lax

         Excruciating is the burning; mushrooming inside

V.      SHOW AND TELL OF TISSUES SCARRED

         Displeasure and violent throngs

         Push the impetus to nozzle high

         Urging reluctance ghost on promenade

         Piquant cells Identify anew

         Scored in searing plausible

         Violation of the indices

         Saline purge sweeps the sore

         Brackish scents begin to swirl

Igniting suppuration’s vulgar kiss

         A monitored fault line

         Corrodes receptivity

         And thus, a birth begins

         Numbness apothecary

         Slits a-stir in a briny blur

         Yet nothing is comparable to a drug inert

VI.    METAPLASIA IN JACITATION

         Phoenix imprints its trail with blood-burned flame

         Wounds shed marooned tide; cluster, frozen drips divide

         Lips yet pinched, its aim to cloud, falsetto under guise of pearl

         Altered patterns replace tendency

         Inflecting skewed canvas (prospecting of cavity)

         Deadened by, yet alive through

         A rearranged point of view; dangling; shredding skins that shed

         Delirium and Restlessness’ commingled commonalities

         Abnormally restructuring constituency

VII.   DIDACTICS OF CODA SECT

         Inception guarantees nothing

         Belly’s bloat cannot claim psychic craft

         It’s the emblem and insignia, X & Y elated in creative act

         It is what a parent needs to believe

         That said seed blooms to birth, is deemed hale  

         While pronunciation guides each word it learns to speak

        

         But, it is only through misfortune

         That the fallacy of blueprint skirts the mind

Expedited random twitch, in skull, to tips

Chirping signals loud and dry

But only one correct answer looms

Yet many choose the fault-line

As the easiest of immoral flagrancies

Walked away,

From the nesting sweet,

Abandoning,

Each and every dream,

Ignoring your role in all

Washed hands with tears still numb

Crumpled blueprint skims the can

Salt burns until endings deaden

To void with closed eye alone

Does not change the text

You are still the creator

And love is what your monster craves

For a father, the son still needs

Defective. Nil.

Abnormal. Nil

Alive. Still

Beautiful. Yes

Desires. Same

Pains. Too.

Blood still red. Like your own, is your own.

 I look forward to every Tuesday, as that's the day Open Link Night takes place over at D'verse.  This week Brian Miller is hosting the party this week, no doubt eager to get ready for a long, but inspiring night of poetry, pints and shots lining the bar.  


As for me, I like to offer something a bit different each week.  I guess you could say that, for the most part, I put down experimental pieces each week-all in the name of diversity of course.  This weeks no different.  As I spent some time the past few days trying to come up with a theme, neat game or some nifty wordplay I just wasn't feeling it. I was having a little bit of trouble finding an inspiration.  But, as seems to be the norm, when I wasn't expecting anything, an idea formed.                 

I was scanning through a Medical Dictionary, looking for inspiration and a few terms found did the trick.  This piece is intentionally choppy, disjointed and left broken.  My intent is to bring about several responses at once, discomfort, confusion, sadness, disgust and reflection.