Shards of Mankind Broken

Nostalgia burns a fever

In the caustic river’s eye

Tidal boundaries shatter, flooding shores,

forcing debris to swim, well before it's learnt to drift

Ill-equipped thoughts addle. Matted wings resign to weight.  

Flailing, it all feels like flailing….  

The crows nest dangles. It's broken pole slivers.

Remnants linger upon distressful seas.

Venial thoughts are left to stew. Eventually weariness ripens.

The polished and hewn wilts alike.

Overwrought. Ambushed. Daylight is truncated. Evening falls to Stygian design….to those daring enough to dream.

Danger paints a dragnet from your plaster. Hunger feeds the gluttonous rill. Currents, replete with paroxysms, commiserate.

Tragedies offer casualties alone.  In such moments, mankind as a unity is shattered.  All we have is grief and mourning. 

And a river born from sorrow.

Addendum:

If you believe the vortices will calm their vehement swirl, I pray the shoreline shackle heel to sand.

If you believe absolution will quickly cast it's net, I fear that catch shall never breathe again beyond it's gnarled mesh.

If you fear that time will not heal such lacerations, I pray support is ever by your side.

Forlorn, Forgotten

listen to ‘Forlorn Forgotten’ on Audioboo

The heart is in the hand,

the ladles in spoon

dripping,

begging, for

anything more

than a simplified version of hope

Fault belies the figment

of solitary contention

Fact betrays with its magnetic lustfulness

the pheromone’s however, grow

lost when companioned by distrust’s harvest

Failure sires grief

A grief begetting autonomy, one

of sorrowful denouncement, where

streams of guilt forever pervade those

crescendos that your secrets keep—

Blissful repression, questing amongst

the pungent pittance of gnostic glaze,

purveying the articulations buried deep,

into A place, further than that of sleep

Archaeology of the symptoms and the broken

accord, traversing diamonds not quite, fully self-absorbed—

abandoned by the vast rapids flow, with but one paddle and

A stream so cruel

Built within every longing moment, there, betwixt the

now and those faded memories when time still favored

the moments yet to come, while still

existing was a sense of where

Stop on over to D'Verse, where every Tuesday we have the greatest Poetry Celebration on the planet.  Yep, Open Link Night opens at 3pm and runs throughout the night.  With so many talented poets showing up each and every week, you just have to head on over and see what's being shared at the pub, always a great time.

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 Carving

a ferret with a lightning stick

rectangles-Circles-Triangles-Square

roots of anxiety, diminutives of despair—

traced back down the vein of time—

back to when hours mattered about as much

as days—when a paycheck was procured, simply by

extending ones hand and doing chores.

a jack-o-lantern plump and thick

with a green crooked stem, where a

bit of browns come to be, right at the

base, of course it was bald of hair—

inches away the black mark stays—

it wouldn’t have though, if the incision

properly followed the circles path—simple

instructions, an easy task to make—well

carving a pumpkin  should not be difficult

anyway.

the anxiousness creeps the chin, I hoped

you wouldn’t see, but I think you did.  I have

a problem, well more than a few, yet the only

one I’m referring to right here and now, has

to do with patience, which unfortunately, I’ve

either been blessed with none or had never

taken the time to slow down.

the reflection mirroring out through the backside

face of the knife, carves me hollow every time—as

the image of my very own, sharps back to me—it should go with out saying, but I’ll speak of it anyway—the entire process was greatly irritating.  Minutes, seconds, hours—not entirely true, but felt like days elapsed when only moments had—silver shining in those shaking hands, barely piercing the orange—then when you did, it was up and out, up and out.

the black line was intact—that damn black line was intact.

you lacked the strength to drive through—but tenacity—that I’ll very well provide to you.  You made no gripes, bitch you did not, all the while pushing through the, what I can only imagine as intense frustration—of the strength you once held in possession, the being nowhere, never found—the time it was taking you, the struggling, the determination—me, looking over your shoulder—you, knowing how I am—but not a word was spoken, not a single one—but time, time was miserable, it couldn’t wait. 

you asked me to fetch you a drink of water.  You claimed some invisible ailment, to which you placed the carving knife atop the lacquered wood.  You sat down, hand stretched out.  The faucet ran so fast—but as I thought at the time, perhaps it was just contextual speed in comparison to—I lost track for a moment and overfill—the water did spell out—over and upon my top of hand, trickling quickly in its spill—faucet to water, water to hand, hand to sliding down arm, wetting the inside sleeve—all went unseen—wiped off the wetness—handed you the glass—when you noticed the spot of seepage too—I realized, then and there—a split moment of thought, an excuse—to mask perspiration—failed though, it just appeared—in this, the thinnest air I’ve lately breathed.

as you sipped your glass—as each gulp washed away—the pressure—the tension—built up inside—I picked up the knife—by it’s handle—I pierced the flesh, I pierced in deep—never separating hand from blade-blade from black mark—once entered, there it stayed.

This is when you said, “ I was…”—to which I— simply nodded—saying, “I know—yes, I know.”

  

Forlorn and Facing Reconfiguration

I withdrew my efforts months before months before

I am blank canvas, abandoned like the empty mine—still 

possessing gold; seemingly, knowledge only I care to know

dust settles and design forms an abstractive patterning—yet, all assurances I can now provide are but trivial, unintentional; only residue, coincidentally shed upon, what once was the bark of pine

I rescinded perseverance, long before long seemed forever far

I am the rusted chain; I am the captive’s scar—so antiquated, a reminder of a past so effortlessly shunned away

dampness stirs alive the cloth—a cloth cares not for futures, of consequence or repercussion; it only does what you ask it to, be that wiping fresh a dirtied slate or offering moisture to an arid face.

I disassembled my entirety, part before piece before part and piece

I am mechanical; calculative—dividing out the old and worn, a sum of parts infused as new, fully aware, some slivers can never be removed.