White Picket Retribution

Original Photoart from the very talented artist Sue Ann.

Response A:

Failure to take ownership of one's responsibilities; failure to assume the consequences levied as the result of one's actions, can forever impede the self.  Here, the ratio and position of one's internal markings, may mire upon the fallback of cleverly sewn deceptions.  Yet, these deceptions, while moments of elation keen to immaturities sense of ego, it has harmful side effects coded within.  For all the spikes and shifts in life, the self finds movement in the diversity of its travels.  Here, it is in such motion, where stagnancy can divide the split between what is and what appears to be, where short term prosperity eventually tears the cheek, deep and achingly, as examined along scales and gradients efficient in predicting the developments of internal growth.

Response B:

What if Tom's duplicitous plan had been revealed.  What if the deceived demand renumeration, but without satisfaction they returned.  Is it inconceivable then, to imagine a retribution therein returned, where the fencing no longer would be found standing tall, instead it would rest, asleep upon the grass it's shadow overlooks.  And I can see the clever boy, returning to find the fencing a-rest.  Yet, considers not the consequence, but rather laughs, in that this was the best revenge his duped could do.  Yet the joke would be on young Tom, for after uprighting the fence again, he then knew, not only the whitewash must he redo, but now the matter of the grass must also be attended to….I can see him now, scouring the street, with intentioned eyes to find, those interested in playing the best of games.

Head on over to D'Verse, where Brian Miller is hosting Poetics.  He's showcasing the art and photart of Sue Ann, who has lent her work for our poetic inspiration.  

 

A Stilled Life

listen to ‘A Stilled Life part I’ on Audioboo

listen to ‘A Stilled Life Part II’ on Audioboo

listen to ‘A Stilled Life Part III’ on Audioboo

Just a few months earlier a lush green sprawled the skyline.  In this nook of the world, it is not strange to find a pinkish-hued sunrise.  That is, if you could find a line of sight from beneath the forestalling horizon.  With it’s deep-seeded concentrate, most days appear as brilliant pastel shifts, alternating through the lighter shades of the darkest portions of color itself.

But this was certainly a matter for the collar.   For now, let us focus much more deliberately; upon the actions and environs found within, much closer to, the hems and cuffs.  While in no way attempting to display a terse or curt brush of paint, I must direct the palate more distinctly toward the direction of the in-seams.  It is here, in such a location, where the covenants of solstitial behavior, garner the most fervent authoritative attention, yet whose goings-on, somehow, fall first victim, to the windswept decisions made by those who, regardless of opinion, demand prominence and influence over those directives made on the cutting room floor. 

Today a dirty flavored white-tinged blanket tops the now barren line of sky.  It is not considered phenomenal in the traditional sense, but for those in the known, such dealings are so aptly applied in this particular case, to a town, that, for all manners of speaking, could easily be described as dolefully needing a good winter’s reprieve.   But this is much too near, much too advanced a timeline.  For the many events that shaped what is as is now this day, took place in full, during those months of multi-colored foliage, where the winds toggled between a whispering warmth swathe to skin and a brisk prickling caress made to flesh still left unadorned.

Quiet is a word.  Silence is a sound.  Each of these, quite characteristic of what could be seen and heard, during this period which, when examined in retrospect, really gathered acceleration so fast, that the events themselves, didn’t span a terribly long expanse of days, yet, whose every hour, shall never dare go forgotten—that is, by those who continued operating without diminished capacity, a terribly small subset of those that made it through the hibernation that would soon follow.

A golden moonlight trickles through the massive arms above.  A station wagon, circa the mid-1970’s, flashes down, to what would be determined, if you polled the local townsfolk, as the main drag of road.  As the powder-blue relic jaunts atop freshly layered blacktop, its rear, driver’s side hubcap is released from its aesthetic obligation.  And follow it we do.  It wobbles along the road, which, if not for the time and hour, would never had made the left turn unimpeded by directional traffic.  And yet, here, at this hour, of this day, it does this precisely.  We follow and watch, as it weaves and spins its way down this side street, all the way to its final destination, at the midsection of the round curb portion of cul-de-sac design.  The metallic clinking sound it eventually made, as it spun its frame completely until finally motion ceased altogether.

A quick panning of the area shows nothing unusual, nothing unusual at all.  Directly in front of where the hubcap arrived, a normal looking, two-story house with intermingling slats of siding, peach, white, peach white.  In the second story window, a dimming light can be seen flickering.

In the room, a young boy is under the covers, yet he is not asleep.  He remains awake, quickly thumbing through an old-pulp-style magazine.  His eyes are riveted to every word of the magazine whose cover avows, in brightly colored blocked lettering, “They live, and they live near.”  The campy style cover design shows a primitively drawn UFO with golden beams rotating around its body, and an intense beam of white light streaming directly below, bathing a stereotypically drawn illustration of a werewolf.

As the boy continues his reading, a voice emanates from beyond the door, “Flynn, I know you’re awake, five more minutes, I’ll be checking…” The boy does not respond.

Typical wall decorations indicate the child’s allegiance to the localized sports teams.  The posters hanging, Sex Pistols, Misfits, Hawk and Animal—the Road Warriors, Red Dawn expresses the child’s individuality.  Stacks of books are piled in various locations throughout.  In one corner we see Emerson, Thoreau, Heidegger, Calvino.  In another we scan through Goethe, Hawthorne, Baudelaire and Rilke, Poe, Kundera, Kafka and The Brothers Grimm.  Then, oddly enough, we spy a large stack of choose-your-own-adventure and Which-way books, directly located next to a swarming stack of comic books, some in Mylar sleeves, others, as if part of some larger project, open, with baseball cards acting as placeholders for future review.

The sound of footsteps can be heard creeping closer from outside the door.  The jiggling of the knob is clearly heard within the room, to which the boy acts swiftly, in one motion, dropping the magazine to the floor and shutting off the nightlight, where now, the only illumination, is that of the outside moon that partially makes its way into the boys room.  A woman, most certainly deemed as his mother, creeps in the room, peeking in as she had declared she would but five minutes earlier, to ensure her son gets a good night’s rest.  The light from the hallway behind her is barely enough to create a full shadow.  The boy is completely under the covers, when she speaks, “Sweet dreams my sweet boy.”

When the daylight breaks, three cocks crow, presumably from the farm a block behind the cul-de-sac.  “Flynn, hurry up, you know you need to eat something before you leave…” the mother’s voice trails off…

We backtrack out the door, still ajar from the night before, most likely from his mother’s late-night visitation.  Down the grey carpeted staircase, over the laminated wooden floor, and into a kitchen area, where a fairly attractive woman in her late 30’s is busy finishing up the last batch of pancakes, scraping the last bit of batter onto the skillet.  At the table a teenage girl, who cannot be more than sixteen or seventeen years old, in pigtails and wearing a seductively selected outfit, as if it were stolen directly from an episode of Sailor Moon.  She’s reading through some homework, complaining about a test she is nowhere near ready for.  She’s barely touched her pancakes, but we notice her glass of orange juice is but half-filled, with the evidence of consumption readily seen in the pulp still clinging to the sides of its vessel.  A big white dog is begging, tongue hanging low, hoping for any scrap to hit the floor.  His patience pays off, as the girl breaks off a piece of pancake and delivers it to him under the table, without even looking.  He takes a quick nip at the food, and MARISA screams out, “bad Felix…that was my finger…”

“Wasn’t your father just warning you about feeding the dog” the mother barks at her daughter, as she rushes out the door, bag in hand, only to return moments later, bag still in hand.

“Looks like dad forgot his lunch again…” 

         “Oh, he didn’t forget…Marisa, go check on your brother…. (Yelling) Flynn, Flynn, hurry up, you’ll be late…go, go now…”

“(Griping) why, is it always my fault the little freak is such a freak…” as she stomps off up the stairs.

“Thank you, my ever-loving daughter.” The mother praises her daughter, both lovingly and at the same time in mocking fashion.

Moments later, a deep, echoic scream is heard from upstairs.  The mother drops the decanter of warm maple syrup and rushes out of the kitchen and heads up the stairs.  The dog sits there, lapping up the sweet spillage.

Back upstairs; we see things from the swiftly approaching mother’s point of view.  Marisa’s back is seen through the open door.  The mother slowly halts, fearing the worst.  She comes up behind her daughter, who jumps as her mother puts her arms around her.  The mother screams…. the daughter replies in kind…then silence…dead silence…

The boy is not in the room.  But the room is covered in blood, much more blood than one young and undersized boy could realistically house.   Quickly, the mother picks up the phone, bloodied up as it was, and dials 911…”yes, Rudy…no…. please hurry up…something terrible has happened…Flynn….

 Victoria is hosting Meeting The Bar tonight at D'Verse.  She prompts us to write with a keen eye peeled toward the symbolic.   Using symbols in my writing is one of my favorite things to do.  In all honesty, you'll be hard-pressed to find anything I've written that doesn't have at least one instance of symbolism in it.  This love for things symbolic goes back, way back, for me.  I've always found that by reading material that fully utilizes the symbolic, it opens up multiple stories within stories, it helps layer and reinforce character, theme, plot and mood.  And, well, let's just face it, symbols are like puzzles, and who doesn't enjoy a good puzzle.

I easily could have linked up something I'd written in the past, but in reading Victorias excellent article, I was inspired by the excerpt she provided from her book, and decided I'd take a swing at a short story, or, well, at least the early part of one, trying to infuse poetic prose as well.

If you want to check out some of the symbolic pieces of poetry I composed, simply look through my catalog and odds are you'll find something with a symbol or two within it, the heavier elements of symbolism are predominantly in the more abstract pieces.

So, be sure to head on over to D'Verse, check out the article, and get your symbolism on!!!

However, I am also going to link up a piece I cam up with a few weeks back.  And, the only reason I'm doing so, is because Victoria listed the ideas of dreams, which I find extremely fascinating, and this piece is entirely dream based, using dream symbolism throughout, and it was a lot of fun as well, so thought I'd share it here as well, for anyone who wanted to check it out.  Dream Doors

A Sensorial Reckoning

listen to ‘A Sensorial Reckoning (Part I)’ on Audioboo

listen to ‘A Sensorial Reckoning (Part II)’ on Audioboo

I can see the freckles of light spackled subtly across the canvassed sky

Soft yellow soirees mingle contentedly with lavender dreams while maroon tinged eyes examine the sepia tinted clippings intently arranged in separation, scattering adjacent images unto distant frames of grey…

Unremarkable scents stir forth the borrowed time, mahogany blended aftershave musky in apparition, begs, for forgiveness, as the lilies and lavender shun, offering only follicular lilting, as the answers dispersed throughout the directionless wind.

The coarseness of the carpentry, return our illustrations to the evenings spent under moon-tipped stars, prominently peering through the old dilapidated toolshed where he’d tinker, until dawn anoints a new day upon the dwindling moments left by last nights staid.

…tis the moment all time paused except for one.  With all the glittering composure of enthusiastic fireflies lightening the dark dales beside the summer woods, she danced in hovering sidesteps and through symbols situated mostly upon the waves often surfed moments before dreams fully inhabited the imaginations that swirl about your head.  Rhythmically nonchalant, as you appear to every gaze that is not mine, focus can only make pretend, what the taste would be in actuality.

The synapse fires, pulsating forth infatuation through the rationally nervous protector the romantics inside so desperately despise.

…and watching the room move anew, a dizzy bluster reels the soul, into tracts of disbelief…fore when the eyes gained balance once more, it was as if, her ambiance never had appeared at all

If she had, I would’ve known, for my skin always glistened when she grew close, building sweetly until the space between was impossible to define…

Every year, at this time, I envision this empty space, complete as it was five years before, swimming with inhabitance, full as it ever was, alive, with humanity celebrating the music of the time

Every year, at that moment, the space again returns, as it was, with you gliding across the room, dancing upon the fairies dust invisible to the eyes, all, that is, but mine

And as the seconds merge into the last recalled, the field grows back to how it appears to all who pass it now, empty, replete with dandelions and tall weeds, ever a reminder why I allowed repression to steal from me, those moments alone, in the dark of your sedan, anticipating the evening yet to come, where two would unite entirely becoming singular and one

But I remember nonesuch visions painted besides that shore, overturned and crawling, overtaken by instinct, instinct which would revert to guilt, eyes blinded from the smoke and flame…I do not dare remember…my voice calling out for you, but for the first and only time, your refusing to return my call…and the scene that would soon fill, blanket placed about my shoulders, a cotton I felt nothing for, as ghosts tended to the wounds accrued…but where, where were you….I do not remember them spending two days before they declared the permanent void that forever devours each my waking days…I remember none of the events that followed, the decorative but empty pine, lowered deep beneath the upturned ground…Nor the faces of the townsfolk, as if, this was partly my fault…Never recalling her father, chastising me, so vehemently, for never having been worthy of her love, that there never would have been such a day, if I did not so passionately pursue her in such convincing ways…I do not remember purchasing this property, these endless fields, overflowing high for evermore, an endeavor miles long, the creek and that shore, the trees and this beautifully fucked up sky…I cannot remember…NO, I choose to not, cry, not a single tear, for if I would dare to do such a deed, all hope of a return would disappear and overrun me as these weeds do this field…

That is but a part of me…for the other refuses to remember, as such events never happened, and as for the rationale resident to the rest, well that, I never cared to examine, for lately, it does seem, that decisions are something I don’t do best, for I adamantly swear to any and all who still, choose to lend their ears to my words, that every morning I still hear your laughter, still envelop in your scent, feel your arms caressing as they always had, and then, from time to time, more the often than the naught, I am positive I still catch your sight, dancing, gleaming brilliantly amongst the wildflowers under the serenade of an ever luminescent night time sky.

I thought I'd share this piece of prose poetry that I'd been working on a little here and there over the past couple weeks.  What started as one thing, took on a life of it's own and a story materialized.  Hope you all enjoyed.

It's Tuesday, well it was a few hours ago, but still, Open Link Night is still in full swing.  Stop on over to D'Verse to join the party, read all the amazing poetry on display and hey, if you feel inspired, which I'm certain you will, write a poem or prose poem and share it for everyone to enjoy.  Cheers.

A Provenance (Terrain Re-Formed)

listen to ‘A Provenance (Terrain Re-Formed)’ on Audioboo

Acerbic stenographers astringe notations sharply—

alleviating bite, by renovating the acrid testimonials carved

to mind—honing gently the slashing song—where whispers carve forth

trenchant pleas—pallbearers to the instigating insinuations, guardians of the purulence, rife, when upon mordant lips, the secreting fixations of, yet, another reverence to those that blindly guide their steps of rote, allowing the innuendos, their latent stand, to the government that we know, have known, a priori, perchance, breaking spine over cragged vales, built from self-sustained flowing depositions, aqueous but not in water, instead, in the substance known as blood,

Anted up to and for, the ever-growing populous, prepared in sacrifice, delivered for the ever eluding but finally found, pluperfect fertile plots needed, by and for the contrition and rebirth of this, the endearing soliloquy, as alone, a foundation for what is formed and of what will always be, alive within the compositions housed up inside all the entities deeply affected by this dream, this dream defined as love. 

Like the sepal, a parent must fall and leave

once their bud breaks free

She came at him, as if she were the xiphoid, thrashing

wildly, ready to pierce, through wood, flesh or steel

Where Zurvan’s voice is lauded high

and translations proper scintillate the prophecy,

then time and fate are thus realized, not as

the enemy of mortality, but as constructs, devoid

of the emotional absentia of non-particulate cohesions of deign

Of which path proves to find, Quegh in hand, brim to lip, flushing, funding remedies to one’s thirsting space

aftertaste, falsetto’s straining cry, wryly crinkle the abased breath, curtailing to prometaphase—in which, as to where, affectivity submits fruition unto, those echoic wrests and culls anesthetized aware within—self producing vials of relaxation, grifts the flesh of its willful mastery, tranquilizing away all of tensions anti-gifts, paving forward the pathways to a pastel future’s beautifying provenance

Like the epigraph—attached to the blankest page, the one that oft arrives first, before introductions or indices, illuminate what journey borrowed words will play again—meaning staggers upon a skeptics skin—ever eager to prove the story’s premise is as was foretold, if only to eradicate doubt from the perusal within the crevices painting the walls of the minds many precious folds of fate and time.

Of Piety and Penumbra

Stu McPherson is hosting Poetics over at D'Verse tonight, where he presents a well-written, and very interesting theme for us all to pursue.  This theme is that of Beautiful Sadness, the unexplainable incongruity that sometimes presents itself when experiencing items of inspiration, beauty and pure art, yet, it is here that you are thusly inspired in way you never could have imagined, where emotions, and systems of sadness etc. overtake you in a very surprising manner.

I wasn't really sure how I would personally tackle this theme, as, while being very open to numerous interpretations, I thought it important to truly peel back the layers within and try to find such an instance to draw upon, as I believe everyone experiences this type of sensation many times throughout their lives, and I knew I had done just that, so the real project for me, was connecting to that moment.  I was having difficulty for a while, but then this memory was recalled that I felt fit the theme perfectly.  It was many years ago, when I went to church with my mother, who happened to have been serving as a Eucharistic Minister that mass, and in so doing, she had to arrive a good twenty minutes prior to the start of mass.  So I sat in the pews and would do like I'd done many times before, stare intently upon the magnificent stained glass artistry that were in full display on each of the church walls.  This particular time, instead of simply appreciating the artwork and taking in the scenes depicted there, I was overtaken by a sadness, one that I never truly did understand, yet, it wasn't the type of sadness that keeps you in bed for days on end, it was different and that's the best I can do to explain it here.   Well, that's the backstory, hope you enjoy.

After reading the piece, make sure you head on over to D'Verse, read Stu's excellent article, and then most certainly dive right in to all the pieces linked up to the site by all the amazingly talented poets that often participate in the D'verse poetic community.  And, as always, if the inspiration strikes you, by all means go ahead and compose your own piece, and then link it up to D'verse for all to share in your creation.  Cheers.

listen to ‘Of Piety and Penumbra (part I)’ on Audioboo

listen to ‘Of Piety and Penumbra (Part II)’ on Audioboo

The rhythmic patter dictates impetus

as eyes scan each brightly colored

platelet, donated for all to bear witness to its both, as I’ve since learned, piety and penumbra.

Vivid yellows partition scenes shared with

blues, reds and ancient greens, unlocking

sensations within you never knew

To truly understand the compass of depiction,

one must allow every representation to marinate

fully, collecting seasonings oftentimes misunderstood

The tales are those of healing, sacrifice and the purest

illustrations of love, pronounced to and for man.  Its methodical illuminations sparkle from apse to nave, the random

patterning of light’s voyage, in and through, should produce

A genuine sense of thanksgiving—an overwhelming awe steeped though, strongly, in uncontrollable feelings of guilt, for being, when so many others perish before their very appellations, ever truly get the opportunity to tickle the consciousness within

To get lost within such artistry, the mind can perturb the actualized experience—allowing deception to embrace the connotations, in what can only be contrived to be, nothing more than an entirety of observation, permutated by the rationalizing of pristine tenets of belief

Of all the many incarnations that have passed generationally, one would think the devout practitioner would have heard all the allegories, all the various possibilities of understanding, the fantastical meanings and messages—yet, tears stream through me, very much the same

In a way explanation will neither assist nor aide, calming the nerves of those ignorant to the internal processing beneath the eyes, therefore, allotting intuition to show how the spirit has taken hold of your earthbound frame—

Never considering, the salt flows mysteriously, for reasons I could never know—outside of perceiving, that somehow, someway, in shape and/or form, you, in such a realm of spiritual impact, have become the recipient, of what I’ve deemed to be, a conglomeration, of all that is wrong and right.  For what began chaste has grown soured, for what first piqued purity’s interest had also stoked melancholies unwavering flame, and in such moments, you cannot avert your glance from the painted windows masking the outer world askance—while the sermon stirs the air itself, and as the psalms then sing and thus possess the atmospheric verisimilitude—where even in such instances of innate tactility, you, and you alone, are living in a completely different state of being, saddened when elation should take hold your leash, leading you into an uplifting indoctrination of fullness and belief

But instead you remain, solely within the qualms of confine—where the world that enthralled you in, preserves your ignorance—as it creates an antithesis of living dream, an incongruity to replicate a balance amongst ballasts deep

Your tears collect in pools that do not dissolve with immediacy.  The then lost maze of disillusionment has since past, refraining from truly illuminating why in such grace you were presented with such a sad and mourning lapse—

It is here, that you return to the celebration’s living call—and by now being left alone, you understand why these portals of beauty, these windows to inner and outward poetry, could be referred to as ever being stained. 

Past links to the Present Tense

listen to ‘Past Links to the Present Tense’ on Audioboo

listen to ‘Past Links to the Present Tense (Part II)’ on Audioboo

Matriculating through a few dressers filled with past reminders can be quite the job.  Where you encounter so much clutter it makes you wonder why you save everything. Probably has something to do with the fear of one day being audited, where 7 to 10 years of stuff needs to be procured at a moment's notice, but still the effort needs to be put in place to keep the cognizant clutter to the minimum, so I eagerly find myself breaking the bad news to many of these sheets, forms and whatnots, that when put together, I wonder if compiled, would it be an entire tree, a trunk, a limb for sure though and I say, almost cheeringly,

"it's off to the attic for many of you," as I thumb

through old receipts, invoices paid, medical stuff and more…

There are some items I still use from time to time, so they'll make the

cut, remaining until there's no more staving the inevitable, magazines, a bunch of "membership" cards that stores force you to carry around in order to get a discount-always bugged me, still does, just list the sale price as is, it's not like those who forget their card aren't simply going to get the discount by simply asking the person behind or in front of them in line…

Anyhow, to the point, this cleaning effort, was well underway, when I caught site of a folder that said work reports.  It was one of those things that make you say hmm, and not in the C & C Music Factory kind of way, but like these things never existed before, and just now, your espying them, for the very first time

Only to completely remember each of them, the moment you delve deep within…

This particular folder contained 6 end of year progress reviews from the company I worked for 2 companies ago.  The reports were all glowing, brought back a proud smile to a face that's been frozen for quite some time, cheeks still hurt as I write this now, that's what happens when you don't smile enough…but I veer off and

BACK to topic.  Not to brag, but I was awesome at that job. My entire time there I received impeccable reviews from everyone I dealt with, from employees to contractors to vendors to co-workers and even the officers took their notice.  By my third year, my hard work was recognized, Employee of the year for an entire fortune 500 company, that's something, still have the award, but it's behind winter jackets and the like, deeply tucked away into the back of a closet that could use much more space…

Anyhow…these reviews reminded me of how I'd worked my way up, from a lowly 18K a year lower leveled manager and then, making 50+ by the time I left.  It stirred a sense of regret as well.  I should've taken notice of the way pro athletes handle their affairs.  You see, after I got the award, I guess, or so I heard, there was some unofficial ranking system that made it's way around from company to company in that line of work, and It seems I was highly regarded around the circuit,  explaining the numerous calls I received from competitors looking for my services.  Flattering as those calls were to get, I stayed loyal when I should've cashed in early, perhaps things would be different today…but,

anyway..there was a particular note on three of these reviews saying I had exceptional strategy for handling multi-operational projects simultaneously, a fancy was to say I was pretty good at multi-tasking, but without punctuation it also said I had outstanding skills, far superseding the expectations for the position in regards to my ability in time management…

When I reflect, I wonder what went wrong…well, I know, but I like to pretend I forgot, albeit for a moment, those are some damned sweet moments, ignorance is blissful, it really is.

But I reflect, to how things were then, to how they are now, where I can't seem to organize anything anymore, consistently finding myself lacking the time to accomplish things when my docket's completely empty 90% of the time.  I remember how I was able to do what I was able to do back then, and it makes my head spin today, where making my bed, or taking a bath instead of a shower are world-beating accomplishments…sad to see how things go, once that first turn of the spiral flows…

downwards….yet

there still

remains

the potential for

a

change, to

where the spiral

can swirl

back a-

round once

again.

But that's the beauty of life, when something bad happens, and where it seems like nothing will ever work out again, there's still that ever-present possibility of things changing in an upward direction, no matter how impossible that may seem, the spiral does move in both directions, and one day, you may once again be moving with the positive motion instead of simply remembering how things were, and sadly connecting such events to how things are in the present tense.

For Poetics at D'Verse, where Brian Miller's hosting and prompts us to look back throughout history, picking either a character or event from our own, or from someone else's history.  I just love the theme and hope everyone heads on over to read what the rest of the poetic community composes for this week's Poetics.  

The Burden of an Oracle

listen to ‘The Burden of The Oracle (Part I)’ on Audioboo

listen to ‘The Burden of The Oracle (Part II)’ on Audioboo

The forecast’s often are birthed in unwanted severity—

The pictures that forever play upon the never-ending reel within my mind are images no man should ever bear—it is a depicted reality that you truly believe could not play out any worse

And yet it does open the door for future suffering—the exciting looks upon those who dare me cast deep into their pools, to fish out hope in a sea of undeserving possibility—only to watch all sentiment of reason for being to deflate instantaneously to my very words—somehow ousts the depravity of the vision’s themselves

I’m truly sorry, I really am

perhaps I could lie; perhaps such untruths would be both merciful and generous—I suppose packaging the ugly realities with pretty bows and exaggerations, could do a service—

Seeing the future churns the stomach weaker, as each image

takes you into another’s soul—where forced you are, to watch, to understand, how an individual’s fate unfolds—you are left then, being only able to report the consequence and never able to change

the facet’s or the facts. I am powerless in all regards, yet, to some,

I’m lauded as if I’m some type of God—

Mankind so very wishes to understand each premonition that hovers deftly above their vessel, but what they do not care to understand, is the utter strain it is bearing witness to such horrible events, which, I must, in most instances, unfortunately report as one would the evening news—where death and devastation are all too common the thematic realities, future’s seen, that I wish I’d never dream

Yet, there then are those extremely rare and special cases, the kinds that are covered in lilies and rainbows, who’s wonderfully formed innocence, prance around a garden of delight, entirely open and receptive to all the flavors purity offers—and I see them waving their hellos with the happiest of smiles and even when the end is what the vision’s suggest, there is not regret painted upon such sights, there are no wrenching moments of tormenting scowls to cause streaming floods of agonizing reality—there are but calm and peaceful moments of acceptance, of those souls fully prepared to take their invitation to join the feast the maker’s justly presented in their honor—it’s these scenes, these scents of purity cast from within the painted lights, that rekindled what potential I’d seemingly mistaken for penance, igniting within me, a reason to believe once more, an understanding of why I see

It is from a desire not to know, for I know, above any other, how dangerous such learning can offer those unprepared to understand—it takes a rare breed to take acceptance by her hand and walk peacefully, without regret ever shading the pathway, into a bathing light so in-tune and aligned with destiny, a destiny where you must simply believe in your guide as being your ultimate defense, your safe-keeper in whatever might come next—you must give yourself over to her completely, allow faith to outrank any sense your mortal life had previously instructed you to grasp

It is, partially out of fear, partially out of a commitment to let events play out their natural course, to believe fully that destiny is not as predetermined as my life’s work would otherwise dictate and suggest…and of course, there are many more reasons for such an opinion, reasons beyond the scope of oneself—it is in part, for such reasons and more, that I have removed all mirrors and other like-minded reflective devices from my immediacy, for to know ones fate is unnatural, to see into one’s very own eyes and peer deeply upon the soul is a vision I fret to know, a sight I care never to see, until, of course, the finality has thrust it’s sword firmly within me…to which I can only pray to have the strength of being, to extend my hand, with every ounce of determination that remains available to me then and there, and accept what shall be, and leave this battlefield accepting that what’s been, and what shall be, as a choice I’ve played a role in relating, one that can truly offer more than any premonition could ever explain away

 Head on over to D'Verse for Open Link Night and accept the fact that there's some truly amazing poets at play, who offer themselves completely in their poetry, which they've so generously shared for everyone's benefit.  Enjoy all the work that's been linked up and while you're there, link a poem of your own, for other's to enjoy.  Cheers...

Jarring Doorjambs

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Ajar, the entry ways

elicit—spur the aching beds

of confessions seen within

The jagged frenzy spawned from staggered rhythms—pattern astringed fables of fates depraved—where the singular act of concealment—hide all our disjointed nightmares and vacancies—in a place reserved for and then burrowed deep within the individuality found apportioned by steps of dance—vagrantly strolling—through   windswept corridors and disheveled halls—

where lost landings rise—and then fall,

unto vantage points sustained in the tunes crafted from the

notes the shivering abandons there and then—

Appalling squalors build—by the bannisters of

Deconstruction, its every essence

filtrates throughout each the unspoken commonalities—

where untethered chains assist the binding spells

procured

Garrisons and sentries

mark the gated sequencing—as

clotted entities plead their mournful songs

unfit for proper speech—and without an inkling of reprieve,

they bleed out in drips that seep, suffocating slow—and all of this finds its reasoning built squarely upon the foundations of echoes cast long before—where through the means of unknown strands, causalities appear, cuff linking you, out and because of the strange heredity that somehow pulses through your frayed and feeble artistry—and this all came to be pronounced, out of your very own predilection toward loyalty and all the renderings one such world view could suggest—where condensation bubbles from

deep within the internally prohibitive valves—locked, forever

upon the distinct flavorings forged by the self-reverential hands of  nepotistic pontification

Brackets are built, succinctly to stop-gap

the harrowing appeals of misaligned and

decentralizing forces—and are brokered solely to quell the flaring

distempers, too oftentimes layered in and by prideful construction—

Calamity, gagged by kerosene soaked tattered cloth—

stuffed deep into the gaping wound ever only offering

festering appeal

Fade for me my darkened dreamscape—as

no longer am I able to collect your escalating

fares—

         What once piqued the disgruntled interests of

a wayward child, has since grown apostrophized in it’s ever

soiling stirs that blend contaminating sediments into

thickening waves, where the necromancy of gelidness broods

afoul—leaving the composition unrecognizable—allotting only scars remain in view—sorted indiscriminately within loosely sealed mason jars that settle too near the shelving’s ledge