Belief in a Time of Tyrannical Uprising

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Deadbeat. hero. superstar

celebrity. glimmer. fear

beads a luster all its own

remaining strong when strong

is but emotions faked thus far.

Skylines still react in varicosity

blues, red, purples-grey tint,

reframed the dominion of the

filamentary induced dead-set

dichotomy

In a vast expanse of what remains,

the stars rear their eternity and

rub our wounds with infectious

salves

While fecundity is still in this singe-scarred deck,

for such a card to place its lead, upon what wisdom

would one tread, in days where norms live long—where soil’s been

but a lonely place—one to solely sow remains left dead

Caveat emptor, everywhere—a fact reminded daily of—

whence amalgams blur the liens seared of/between, sheltered discordance and cacophonous distends—a time, not infrequent to view, the twitch-work toggling of a forefingers dysfunctional bond—split in symmetry

The Carcajous, dwindle as do all—left in diminished stature, living

through instinctive tracts alone—where uncountable has been the distance between what stands today and the lost state of retraction

as do the phylum’s dreadful laws of diminished return—cajoling the sensory into dream—left dwindled by verisimilitude and the undressed harnessing of questions idling

Flesh, is flesh, where despite the previous epochs of ill-sown in bigotry, the stains of time, has lost it’s bias, differentiating only between those with pulse and those in whom hope’s long since been redacted from—where spondees lilt in trails left in ruins, scourging fully about—in the unshackled fetters inherently implied, in the sinful constructs of man—exacerbating the still-born tragedies breathed into the these ever-wandering tribes—characterized fully by the ravenous hunger, mirrored only by the exsanguinated  shells they’ve become.

Deadbeat. For lack a better term

starlit still…are the hope-filled eyes of children,

our own and those we’ve been blessed to tend

hero…each day, somehow, our status is reaffirmed—

Never illustrating the sheer terror each second spawns,

ever only moving in trails that bridge each gap of safety, together in what we only hope to remain unbreakable links of a most frail chain…

In their gaze…you see their relief, belief…you witness the idolization they imprint upon, unto you…Stares you choke back the tear’s an unkind reality offers…yet, these children represent a future, one you believe cannot exist, but they believe—

And this is something you are not willing to watch become replaced—and in such, you push forward, hiding back pessimistic posturing, choking back the deluge of tears…somehow, this reason for being…becomes enough…to deceive yourself…(into the ever-outstretched arms of a faith…you can’t believe you ever chose to ignore…)

Central Waters

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A varied strain upon forgetful sins

where therapeutic measurements

may strangely dictate, a stance of

protracted ignorance when deep

bruising’s unearth— It is often

sage advice, to shatter all and any,

large to shard, splices of contradiction

that could undermine the shared experience

of the truthful tone—

Breaking this façade, where all time heals old wounds, in

mental mannerisms bound to suffering, is but a known agitation of

the scars of ones past, buried, interred well beyond what

even surface logic could detect, is but a diviner of internal

justice, foretelling the honesty that pervades this directionless

mass of indiscretion, known, to this point, as the last known remnants

of what was but a partially-lived, previous existence.

Vague perimeters are constructed,

shielding feral interference from indiscriminately rearing its unwelcomed range of questioning—the signals spike when patterns of

detrimental discourse are urged before a susceptible crowd….we ask not, what eventually becomes of such words….

You came to CENTRAL WATERS

to see what you could find

You came to CENTRAL WATERS

with deception burdening your mind

You came to CENTRAL WATERS

to see if still a light could shine

You came to CENTRAL WATERS

yet the lies have bound you blind

To discover what is delivering concurrent

is but a vestige of re-creation, a smiting taste

of the venom, in which forced us from our homes

Unknowingly this led us in search of new terrain,

offering many tears to shed, for the boundaries blurred before

yet, in spite of intent, you re-acclimate the buried strains

siring futures laced by burden; inciting…an advanced discourse of pain 

You came to CENTRAL WATERS

to find yourself a home

You came to CENTRAL WATERS

to evade those forces unopposed

You came to CENTRAL WATERS

for the promise of rebirth

You came to CENTRAL WATERS
for the lore spoken of in poem

Instead of finding freedom

you’ve spread the shackles of disdain

despite the promise spoken of in verse

your presence has once again, awoken forth this curse

They took you in, they cleansed your wounds and made

you, a stranger, one of their own—only to become a facsimile of the place you’ve tried run from

Where at first promise flourished amidst your grasp,

all seemed deistic to such the whetted glance—but

paradise, to an infectious scourge, is but a wealth for

this virus to explore—

You came to CENTRAL WATERS

thinking the past had been disowned

You came to CENTRAL WATERS

with only the best intentions planned

Yet, as is the case with purity,

it only takes but a singular encounter

to forever redefine its form

Yet, as is the case with poetry,

it harvests all emotion, as the tempest’s seeds be sown

where infliction redresses its viral chords

bludgeoning the innocent’s chaste accord

with an evil…an evil distinctly your own…

Another Tuesday is upon us, and the lovely Natasha is tending bar over at D'Verse for Open Link Night.  Make sure you stop on by and enjoy the amazing poetry that permeates the night.  

On a side note, been kind of out of it the past few days, really didn't get much of anything accomplished.  I did get a chance to read, Manic Daily's wonderful posting about the "Unexpected," she wrote for this past Saturday's Poetics though. 

I also read through many of the poems linked up, and have to say, I just didn't have it in me to reply, to do much of anything really, but out of the twenty or thirty poems I personally was able to read, outstanding is the word that consistently came to mind.   It was a great theme, and I actually spent a good deal of time pondering it, to which, sparked an idea for a short story.  For those with the time and care to read, I did post it over at my wordpress site.

Life in a Turkish Prison

Bow scratches turn of phrase

etchings in the sounds that bare

forgiveness in a misguided mar

Hollow point, shells of heart

delineated barracks in a song

less known than the emotions it follows

Ravenous, maestros of delectability

evening scars protrude, as seams often encounter

an atlas unseen, where if one would’ve

gleamed, the circled sect would indicate the x inside

Swish about the sunken sediment

refurbishing its place in the swirls

in a game, of cat and mouse, moments

before the tilt back ends the misery from which

its momma swells/in the language she’s feigned ignorance for

A Turkish prison is not known as your epitome of grace

Life in the bowels of deceit can easily mistake a smile

From what is nothing but a variation of the frown

Introvert Solitaire

Claudia's tending all night long over at the D'Verse Poets Pub, where for Meeting the Bar tonight, she's opening the mike to any and all who would like to share their thoughts and reflections about the Beautiful Solitude.


This is a very interesting theme for me personally.  Growing up I was the epitome of what is defined as a social butterfly.  I had to always be on the go.  Even when I was at home, alone, I was on the phone, moving from one person to the next.  It seemed as if I had no choice but to keep myself connected.

Then, and I can't really pinpoint where or when it occurred, but things just grew to such a level of exhaustion, I found the slightest interactions would drain me of all I had.  Vitality would return but only after a nice period of relaxation, where a mindlessness took hold of me and take me to points unseen, sort of freezing me, in a state of nothingness, unaware of everything around, and yet, completely forgiving me for having ignored the introvert within.

Somehow, a shift had taken place, moving from extroversion to introversion, and I had no idea how it happened.  All I can say, is that alone time is something I cherish more than anything.  Whether it's spent watching television, reading a book, listening to music, writing or simply blanking out and staring deep into the walls, allowing the mind to completely take recess, or, where my imagination takes the opportunity to work through ideas the conscious mind had brought up earlier in the day.  This last notion, has a somewhat similar effect as when you think about something before going to sleep at night, allowing your unconscious mind, the opportunity in its dream-states, to sort it out, and oftentimes, finding that when you awoke the next morning, a possible answer to your question had been provided.

I could go on for a while discussing this odd paradigm shift, but truth be told, I have really no explanation for the shift.  I've mentioned this already, but repeat it only because of how baffling it is, and how important the notion is to me.

I could also go on and on about how that old self, while knowing it did exist, and many of the memories from such times are clearly available as they had occurred, I find myself, after reliving one of these moments, to be exhausted.  Yet, even thought I can remember some of the times when I was an extrovert, I have to admit, they feel like fiction, in almost every aspect, except, again, I cannot deny their one-time existence, because I know they did exist.

I think there's a place for being both an extrovert and an introvert, in fact i think we all hold each of these in us somehow, with one being more dominant, that's all.

So, all this backstory behind me know, I thought I would write a description of one of the things I find I do quite often.  I sit still facing an empty wall and allow myself to drift away, or more likely, I am found laying in bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling, permitting my mind to go wherever it chose to.  In such activities, I believe I find a sense of solitude, perhaps not the kind one gets when out and about in nature or in prayer, yet, it is a type of solitude nevertheless:

INTROVERT SOLITAIRE

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Introvert Solitaire

Standing in solitude

Is like a blissful sea, where the

Ragged weights

Atop the chest—

Limbs shake free

Each their now

Blackened leaves

To where you stop

Close the door

Behind and sigh…

Moving to the bed

Fully clothed as was,

Breathing in holistic

Rhythms…waiting for

The waves of paralysis

To lift their untimely

Shores…Focusing,

Intently upon the

Individualized minutia

Of the long crack that

Runs alongside the ceiling…

And in that crack, grow

Succumbed…transported

To the world of the imagined…

Where peace is simple, easy

And well-granted to any and

All who seek it out.  The stories

Are deeper, yet without prerequisites

Do its characters speak…instead

The only talk when spoken to, where

You realize, there is so much untapped

Potential in gesturing…where one could,

If so desired, effectively communicate

Detailed instructions, simply from the

Effective use of head movements…finally…

As the crack begins

                  To close

The   space         seems        to      separate

                           Allowing     the    air

It’s    chance       at      a       brand-new choice

Inhalation  of vitality    once  anew         grasped

         Where        it       will    stay

Open          and   free            until  some

         Unknowing          soul

Events to invent a reasoning         for harboring their expectations

         Upon my port…in a storm of unease

That prematurely stifles creativity….

Never do I wish I was the one I was before…that person Is a stranger, I know, no longer, anymore…he barely shows in memory…in fact…despite the knowing of the factuality…. he feels like a figment of a made up wish fulfillment fantasy…yet it’s more like a nightmare

And I have to pause

Into solitude

Crystals and all

Never claiming

A fortress was behind me

Securing me deeply, but

Out, as super,

Will I one day crawl,

Is the question of it all,

Isn’t it?