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Words Much Like Poetry
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12:54
From: Words Much Like Poetry
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i have struggled, father,
since the conclusion of your account,
and most times, when my eyes opened
upon dreadful way stations,
skin stretched tight over a belly rounded by new life,
hope seemed like forgotten lore,
a tale vaguely remembered from early years
spent in the company of eternal dreamers.
but hope is surprisingly resilient,
and has no predetermined finale,
believers will carry it with them
unto planes intangible to mortal flesh
and will be born and reborn upon this
the realm of our existence,
returned to those of us who have lost faith
by wielders of infinite possibility,
fragile vessels conceived of obliged procreation,
of dutiful continuance.
of father, do not doubt,
the long years have returned hope to me,
embodied in progeny much labored for—
son who is now as a sapling, limbs long and bare,
fresh,
daughter who is as the essence of simplicity and delight,
what glory—
and misery be damned!
take flight an go you to reaches beyond,
i will not suffer your tainted love
for even one sunrise more!
and father, i forgive you the long years,
i forgive your abandonment of me
while still i moved through the haze of youth,
know that you were as to me a mountain,
all that held me together while you were still alive.
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21:45
From: Words Much Like Poetry
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light flares and paper burns crisply,
leafy contents send acrid smoke trailing lazily skyward
and contentment swells starved lungs denied their usual fill,
long hours spent in demeaning wait,
in straight shoulder-back seated pose,
book of sonnets upon my lap,
mind screaming for release,
this world of seemingly needful empty hands
stretched out in greedy longing
so that lackluster days might continue on
through to life's end, does not suit me.
i do not belong amongst this lot,
i will not refrain from striving toward glory.
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15:42
From: Words Much Like Poetry
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need flows like swift staccato beats of a jazzy trumpet piece
through the vault like chambers of my mournful heart,
which in turn sings of its despair, in a quivering contralto,
notes sustained longer than their normal duration,
a fermata having been placed over each,
a song which tells of the lack of symmetry
my life has been in for far too long,
of the lack of a mode of proper arrangement
for the poor state of affairs my house is in,
telling of my desire for order.
fear of never accomplishing this task
grips me in relentless measures,
a composition to be played forte,
and which leaves one gasping and overwhelmed at the crescendo,
driving unmercifully home the fact that i am steward
to two of the next generation,
son and daughter of vivacious spirit,
and that they require a solid foundation to build upon.
but while fear is a masterfully written piece that resonates throughout,
determination flounders and is rarely heard or felt
beyond the threshold of my inner sanctum,
a place i frequently visit
and stand before my reflection in critical manner,
and though i bleat at myself sharp reviews, often scathing remarks,
i cannot seem to find the method necessary to acquire order.
what now shall i do,
what more can i do?
i must accept the path trodden well by others,
sacrifice must come again in great number
for rewards that are as grains of sand,
insignificant when they are but a few.
the time will come, however,
when determination is a powerful sound,
a concerto of unwavering movements,
a definitive fork that marks the place
where i can finally veer off course
and plot a route that is all my own.
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22:53
From: Words Much Like Poetry
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passion is no more than a bygone sentiment,
our ardor long extinguished itself,
and i've only vague impressions of being as a fiercely lit conflagration
within your arms.
i sift constantly through the ashes of that emotion,
in desperate search of an ember that might spark
and reignite the flame,
only to come away with nothing, fingers gray.
no, instead i have become as a black hole,
once the epitome of supernal magnificence
turned nova, then super,
o cataclysm, o crux,
o nervous breakdown, and insanity won,
becomes the epitome of nothingness,
an inky void which begins to draw from everything that surrounds it.
laughter, the elixir of ages,
drained.
memories, of what sweet, small splendor there was,
lost.
tears, the outcome of heartache,
siphoned dry.
nothing is spared the inexorable pull, the irresistible dark force,
not even the light.
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19:01
From: Words Much Like Poetry
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i've often been told that my eyes speak volumes
and all the thoughts and emotions that wander, at times aimlessly,
through the dimly lit corridors of my spirit self
are written plainly within for those with the ability to translate them
from whatever ancient language is spoken by the soul.
i fear those sensitives, those empaths who are privy
to that which i, by no willing intention, telegraph.
i've a monstrous part of me that sleeps in the deepest recesses
of the den that is my heart,
a snarling, rabid beast,
epic in proportion,
that creeps forward from its iniquitous home
when my baser and more wrathful passions burn brightest,
and it is no small task to keep caged within me
this vengeful incarnation, this worshiper of malevolence.
at day's end, i lay upon the lonely stretch of my bed
sweat soaked, heaving, teeth clenched against the banshee like screams
that fill my chords to the brim,
and my eyes, o curtain less panes of tempered glass that they are,
are shut,
i dare not risk that by some mischance
a sensitive might look upon them.
no, to peer into my eyes,
in the nighttime hours when the struggle within me is at its fiercest,
is to lose that which has perpetuated humanity,
faith would be lost to the sensitive,
for no reader of the nature of man,
could hold onto hope once the malignant spawn that festers inside of me
was revealed to them,
and they would fall un-hesitantly into the bleak waters
of the river despair.
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18:17
From: Words Much Like Poetry
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i think on intimates,
friends who are well remembered in study,
and wistful longings begin to nag at my spirit,
they displace the usual lines etched upon my face,
amounting it to a solemn landscape of woe
for the solitude we wear close to our hearts,
solitude that much resembles cavaliers chain mail and suit of armor
in the way it weighs upon the form
and sinks us deep into the quagmire loneliness.
i think on the way my intimates and i,
on those ever rarer occasions of desperation
for that which is much needed but singularly found,
stretch out to one another
arms that tremble from the exhaustion of carrying our individual hindrances
and touch fingers, in reassuring manner,
across the erstwhile distance of our parallel lives.
i think on the events that shaped us
and that which drives us even now,
the seeds of our aspirations which we have sown
and seek to make fruitful,
tending them in the way of gardeners as they begin to grow,
nurturing them as they begin to bloom.
in each tender bud,
i see the prospective for greatness
that lies with the realization of our goals
and i weep for the endless universe of possibilities that was secured us
by those willing to trade blessed life for equality and freedom.
now, we can be as the empires and the conquerors,
the poets and the playwrights,
the sculptors and the painters,
the inventors and the explorers,
we can be as ill-forgotten as they,
a mighty root in our tree of known kindred
and not merely a withering branch.
but i wonder still if i have the right of it,
or if perhaps i seek nothing more than a method of explaining away
my demented longing for the immortality which comes of great feats
and lasts us through the ages,
kept alive by those descended of us,
by those who speak of us until time immemorial.
Dedicated firstly to my cousin and secondly to all those who have taken hold of places in my heart and refuse to let go.
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15:36
From: Words Much Like Poetry
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ponderings of a virulent nature
flit with the delicacy of butterfly wings
through that which is the seat of my thoughts.
this exasperation is aimed at none other than myself.
because, once again, i have allowed myself to come in for a share
of a rapacious interlude, which has left me somewhat sated,
and disrupted for a spell
the perpetual season of my anger.
and, with the conclusion of our rarely practiced distraction,
there is now, within you, a sense of righteous dominance,
an assumption that i have yielded to your brand of careless love
and that guilt has no residence in the streets of your conscience.
but guilt ought have a comfortable shelter,an extravagant domicile even,in the vicinity of your soul,for the era of my pique,a frigid, unending winter of calculable years,was begun by the first strike you laid,in smarting fashion,upon the softly rounded curve of my cheek.o curse the inanity of my sense of judgement,curse my misguided faith in the bonding of the human form,i knew, i knew!
at the commencement of the affair,i knew that there was to you a savageness,your temper flashes made of your eyesa moisture bereft plainwhereupon a wildfire spreads and blazes intensely.but i thought, too, that you were civil enoughto reign in your violent tendencies,thought that within you there was to be founda measure of esteem for those who are fairer,those who are often weaker in the sense of the physical.i reasoned that since woman, as i, gave birth to youendured for you the terrible onslaught of labor,reasoned that since woman, as i, tended you to her breastwasted herself to sustain you...
a tear coasts a salty path down my originally insulted,and continually offended, cheek.i pull closer about me the sackcloth and ashesmy sheets and bedspread have become,they mourn with me the extent of my naivete,for though the glacial fury has descendedand restarted whatever timepiece tracks the course of my enduring ire,i tell myself that the hour of lamentation is done,three a.m. has become four, time to sleep.the babes will wake and they will need me,or whatever pathetic creature it is that wakes,angry and drawn, from the nightly lamentto a woeful existence
that is more than in her power to change.
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15:12
From: Words Much Like Poetry
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this courtship of ours is tenuous
a frail reassertion, at best,
of my capability to feel emotions
i've long thought of a realm from which i'd been exiled,
and time and distance,
ocean and earth,
the passage of a multitude of years,
and the ever widening yawn of wisdom,
drawn from growth and experience,
are not things we can effortlessly overcome,
all have a way of making hard of heart
even the most genuine of optimists.
mother earth, as obstacle,
raises mountain and rolling hill,
sister ocean, with bluest smile,
beckons one to sink to her deep,
mistress time, unalterable course plotted,
makes of us misanthropes, whose ill intents,
are borne toward the roseate,
so done by the dawning of realization within us,
of her resolution to never return us to what was,
the dawning that never shall we return to simpler days,
also, that withered woman wisdom,
who gains us patiently her teachings,
reminds us with merciless fondness,
that one can no more dwell in ignorance of the ways of mortal mankind,
ignorant of our inconstancy and faithlessness,
than one can dwell in endless night,
for withered woman wisdom
is as the lustrous sun
in the way she brings to us the light of truth
and in doing so nourishes our souls.
so tempt not fate, sweetness mine,
for she, too, needs be overcome,
and fate, unlike time, is irresolute,
she does not stand firm,
as most folk believe,
upon the widely held theory predestination.
no, sweetness, i implore you,
do not cast carelessly aside
this most improbable of chances we have been given
to at last rid ourselves
of that malaise of the spirit
known well as heartache.
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18:36
From: Words Much Like Poetry
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i cannot remember when last
i was as that which is capricious
and plays upon life's gentle wind,
far too long have i been weighted down
by that which seems my constant and faithful companion.
misery, how good you have been to me,
never have you failed me,
never have you abandoned me.
even during moments
which should stand radiant in my mind,
you were there.
the day i wed,
whispered you to me lovingly
of the woes love would bring.
the birth of son,
the birth of daughter,
through those moments of glorious pain
and exhausting relief,
whispered you to me,
hand stroking with soft pulls
my sweat soaked hair,
of the hardships that i would face,
poverty stricken as i was.
misery, o misery
how you cherish me.
so well have you kept your heavy shadow
cast upon me,
offering me your malcontent,
nurturing my ever present fears
for future unknown.
and misery, sweet misery,
how i cherish you as much as you cherish me.
embraced you wholeheartedly have i,
allowed you to make of me
the desolate creature that i am,
permitted you to lay waste my precious dreams,
listened to you, as in adoring croon
you told me how naught would come of me,
how i needn't even try
for all my efforts
would fall miserably short of success.
o misery, dear misery,
do not dare leave me.
you are all that i know,
without you i would be happy,
and what is happiness but a blissfully ignorant state
where dwell fools and children.
no misery, you are well deserved,
wretched was i in my youth,
frivolous and abundantly shallow,
i called you to me.
and in your answer i found that which i sought,
that which i required,
that which would allow me to accept the shambles
i had made of my life.
in your sad song, o misery,
sweet misery, dear misery,
my misery,
i found apathy,
and it is this gift and only this gift
which devotes me so cruelly to you.
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19:25
From: Words Much Like Poetry
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the weather sings a sour note,
a lazy drizzle, true,
but thunder rolls like luminous ire in the distance
and my heart wishes that it would become a downpour,hard, pelting drops of renewalthat would flood the world and cleanse it.
but that is mere hope.no storm can possibly wash clean the stained earth,
millennia upon millennia full of bloodshed
have left a lurid smear on its surface.
we are wretched creatures, are we not, we humans,discontent with what has been blessed us,always in search of more.the search begins at birth, the onset of wondrous life,and ends with death, coda, conclusion of the movement life,
while immortal soul takes a deep breath
and prepares to finish what remains of the composition.
and what stunning release that next, final movement would be,
a relief from the unending conflict we mortal men
seem intent upon.
we conflict with other nations, we find conflict within our own,
we are conflicted with ourselves,
and neither do we distinguish right from wrong,
moral obligation is now nothing more than a chore
we no longer task ourselves with.
i despise the advancement of my years
and would gladly return to days of childhood ignorance
where the earth was, to me, a thing of beauty,
fertile soil and graceful mountain,
teal water ocean and azure sky,
and not a thing to be pitied, fin.
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20:06
From: Words Much Like Poetry
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the midnight hour has passed
and across miles of earth, who is mother,
and ocean, who is her kindred,
your well modulated voice
asks quietly of me,
"what is it that you long for?"
face burning brightly, a star gone nova,
i want to say, "i long to make of my body a haven,
where you might nestle inside of me
and take your respite."
instead, i utter words of prudent nature.
"forgive me, dear one,
but the complexity of my emotions,
which lurk beneath a seemingly wizened veneer,
became, as days and weeks and years elapsed,
difficult to put sensibly into words.
and, as well, there was the fear that time—
disastrous mistress that she is,
who forges her way ever forward,
shoulders rigid, head aloft,
deaf ear turned to my every desperate plea that she halt—
had grown us too far apart
for even the most ambitious of bridges to span.
and that fear kept feelings mine
from lacking proper definition,
kept them as particles of dust
lambent upon destiny's continually changing breeze."
"oh, sweetness," you return,
"time is no longer, to us, a wretched whore.
now, her headlong flight,
through long, soft hours of night,
and bright, incandescent days,
is a thing to be rejoiced.
knowing or unknowingly,
she speeds us toward that fervently sought after moment
when you will once more become
solid warmth and tender love.
"and, too, that which you cannot now—
in the turbulence of your cynicism,
where hopes and wishes are concerned—say,
will be enticed to spill honeyed from your lips
by the fine tremors that course along
the limbs i will wrap tightly,
in an unending circuit of strength,
about your needful form."
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19:31
From: Words Much Like Poetry
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why must there come always
the sour with the sweets?
nothing good of late has been blessed me
which does not leave behind a bitter aftertaste,
one that settles on the tongue,
clings also to the back of the throat
and nigh chokes me at times with its foulness.
i am not fool enough to believe
that life is as the fairy tales
that sang us to sleep
when we were naught more than children.
happily ever afters that we in turn
pass on to our progeny,
hoping, all the while,
that they remain forever as babes,
never learning the tart flavor of despair,
never knowing how gladly joy is chased by sorrow.
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6:41
From: Words Much Like Poetry
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there was once a time,
when i moved through the world
like a sleeper whose mind was filled with constant dreams,
fairy tale lands, happy endings,
and a sun that never set.
then, came the awakening,
like that of ice water upon skin that burns hot with fever,
and my eyes flew open and have since never shut.
the constant dreams came to an end
and, instead of the bright, shining light of my make belief world,
there’s darkness about my soul,
a dark misery caused by love,
or is rather the harsh consequence of love.
o why, dear love,
did this rude awakening have to come about so soon?
o why, dear love, have you gone?
the stench of my misery overwhelms my senses,
and the walls reverberate with the emptiness,
echoing loudly my loneliness.
all that is left is the pain, such pain, such pain!
it floods the chambers of my heart
and constricts my lungs ‘til i can hardly breathe,
and the fear.
i fear i am inept at that thing called love.
and, so fearing, i embrace the dark misery,
the despair;
yet, even as i do so,
i feel hope stirring as time inexorably moves forward
and the promise of new love
brightens the distant horizon.
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6:39
From: Words Much Like Poetry
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scars, which were once naked, festering wounds,
unseen to the eye,
are now the visible, blatant declaration
of my cynicism towards that fickle,
less than savory woman that is venus,
goddess of love.
and terrible temptress that she is,
she dangles the hope of new love before me.
in response, i run,
chased by my madness,
which nips at my heels like a deranged dog that
salivates and foams at the mouth,
and whose eyes are glazed with the delight of the chase.
i run.
forever running as a wind of venus’s making
whips and stings and rips open those grotesque welts
of barely healed heart,
so that they bleed afresh at unguarded moments
and refuse to remain those faded reminders of pain
so aptly named scars.
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6:37
From: Words Much Like Poetry
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was it only last night that i was so young,
in knowledge and in action?
now i lay here, far older than i was yesterday,
soiled and unclean
with a filth that will never wash off my soul.
no longer an innocent,
now, i am among the damned,
and i long for the sunflowers of my youth.
my youth is liberally perfumed with the scent,
a sweet intoxicant
that made me dim of wit
and convinced me of an invincibility i did not own.
all too soon, the world,
with all its rounded dimensions,
crashed down upon me,
devastating me with one mighty,
unforgivable stroke,
and stealing from me my youth.
was it only last night that i was so young?
that i felt so wonderful in my ignorance,
in my innocence.
oh, sweet sunflowers of my youth,
i crave the carefree air that you lent me,
but i no longer breathe as those who have not sinned do,
and with gills grown out of necessity i continue to live,
though i drown in the misery my wisdom has wreaked upon me.
and for what?
a love that blinded me against reason?
a love that i had already scorned?
redemption is beyond me.
were it offered,
i would probably refuse it.
wretches such as i do not deserve paradise,
and it is the scent of light blue and not sunflowers
that will wreathe around me as i descend into the pit hell.
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6:22
From: Words Much Like Poetry
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as a girl, i made choices that have affected me
as a woman.
i lost my innocence to a one i did not love,
i drifted on an oar less boat down a fermented and distilled river,
i squandered, on demeaning tasks, the intelligence that set me apart,
and took part in two miracles
that have placed upon my shoulders
a burden i was not prepared for.
now, shelved dreams beg to be dusted.
but the bed i made, with its rumpled, tousled sheets,
seems to stretch on forever.
i cannot throw my feet over the edge and stand,
my limbs have grown weak from misuse,
i've lain on this bed too long,
and dusk threatens in the distance,
an eternal night, an end to all things,
or at least, an end to me.
i long for the rose bed,
that answer to my prayers, the accomplishment of my goals
and the return of my pride,
the angels i was bequeathed deserve nothing less,
i cannot wrong them as i was wronged.
life's lessons have taught me well;
else, were for naught
and fool that i am, if i do not learn,
should stay where i lay.
but, for the rose bed, i'll do almost anything.
i'll twist and turn, scrape and claw,
bloody my nails if i must to gain the edge.
stand,
rise,
never fall.
never, never again, fall.
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23:43
From: Words Much Like Poetry
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perhaps it is the inclement weather
that has brought on this
gloomy, bitter,
tragic mood; or,
perhaps it is the nostalgic jaunt i took
in the form of a letter i received years ago―
a light missive from friend old,
telling of usual things
that seem forever denied me―
(perused as the rain paints a watery tapestry upon the wall and floor)
that has brought these disturbing emotions
burning to the surface.
i believe myself sane,
although my soul screams
and thoughts of self-imposed death
swirl gracelessly beneath the seemingly still waters of my conciousness,
and at times i cannot be sure
whether or not i could be so bold as to take my own life.
but i must wonder―
what lies over the edge of the steep cliff
i find myself so precariously, so constantly,
balanced upon?
is it madness, or
her?
i would prefer madness to her;
she who i never want to be again―
that wounded, pathetic child whose anger ruined her life.
but i can feel her
raging against her cage,
tearing at the bonds
maturity created―
managing to slip them a notch
with every nerve racking shot she takes.
"stop!" i cry, guilt nearly overwhelming,
"you're suffocating me."
i don't want to keep her there;
i know she's hurting―
her pain is my pain,
her grief and memory also my own.
but i can't allow her to wreck my life
as she wrecked hers―
the broken remains still lie against
the rocks of rebellion―
i, haven't the luxury.
in my care, are two babes
and responsibility bends my form,
much the way the weight of the world
bends atlas's.
i approach her,
seeking to reason with her,
gain her understanding.
she stills her attempts, and looks at me almost...
compassionately,
then says,
"i'll never cease my struggles;
you will never cease to resist me.
and, one day, you will join me here,
when another comes to take your place."
i tremble, then move away,
comprehending her words.
the crux that birthed me from her
was motherhood;
and, though i shall never cease to be a mother,
there will come a time, lord willing,
when i'll move beyond my misery,
as i moved beyond my anger,
and a new self will be born.
and, when that occurs,
i, shall also be bound in chains
whose links are formed
of my experiences.
i return to her,
smile and say,
to my former self,
"i look forward to that day."
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0:53
From: Words Much Like Poetry
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the pots are black, again;
you...
cooked.
i smelled the burn halfway,
when i mentioned it you smirked,
then alleged,
"that's the reason why my food
tastes better than yours."
i shrugged, inwardly sighed,
three a.m. would find me tossing from hunger.
we sit to eat.
i pick, you devour,
our wingless cherubs turn away their faces
from the spoons that i aim at their rosy mouths.
you ask me,
"what's wrong?"
i answer,
"nothing."
we argue, you walk out.
i do not want you to return.
i am blinded by anger―
you can't admit to your mistakes―
and saddened because
i can't admit that i don't love you.
perhaps, i loved you once.
perhaps, i was merely enthralled.
you were striking―
your eyes like sunfired amber―
and continue to be so
through happy times and not so happy ones.
i, on the other hand,
have been made ugly by my misery.
i want you to go.
but, even if you do so,
there will remain within these walls
remainders of you,
echoes of your presence in your children―
the particular round of their faces,
hawklike noses,
eyebrows which slash dramatically over
eyes as brilliant as yours.
if this is the end of us,
i won't try intimacy again,
it requires too much;
i have nothing left to give.
fragments are all that exist
of the once whole heart that i possessed.
each piece belongs to a one i cared for;
the largest belong to my children
and to a man―
not you―
i cannot help but still love.
i want my heart back.
whole, but for the two pieces
my earthbound miracles claim.
only them and me,
a little trilogy of misery.
but, i am shackled to poverty.
it weighs my steps,
makes of me a wretch
and keeps the profession,
"i hate you!"
sealed behind my withered lips.
the locks turn,
playing like strains of a haunting piece
in the depths of my soul.
mouth tight, eyes averted,
i welcome you back.
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0:45
From: Words Much Like Poetry
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It's the end of another year and I feel less than satisfied. I thought I'd be further along in the accomplishment of my goals. About the only thing that I've done in the last several years that I feel have any worth are having children and the publication of my poem. I remember being fifteen and thinking that by the time I'd reached the age of 25 I would be a college grad with a good job and a published author with at least two books to my credit. Two noteworthy books.
No such luck and the things I was determined to do are becoming more like wishful thinking. Everytime I think I'm on the right path with my goals, I'm thrown a curve and it takes me months, years at times to recover. I'm frustrated, I'm very nearly depressed. If not for my children... Don't get me wrong, I fully understand that nothing lasts forever and that regardless of how much I wish it would, time doesn't stand still. For the worse, or for the better, things change.
My resolution for next year: I won't let the small disappointments keep me from my endeavors.
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0:12
From: Words Much Like Poetry
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night clear, gaze skyward,
i lay upon my back.
grass, crushed beneath me,
scents of the earth drift over my form,
comforting in this time of turmoil.
my thoughts turn to you,
of the way you are,
bright star in the distant heavens,
beyond my reach.
trembling fingers touch aching lips,
which long for candied kisses,
desperately missed.
deep tones, a man's voice,
and the laughter of children, joyful,
floats on the gentle wind.
i shut misty eyes, sighing tremulously
as realization coruscates through me:
i cannot stop feeling,
love, lust, guilt,
i know not which,
but feel i do!
were amnesia a drug sold on darkened corners,
i would beg, likely turn tricks for it,
blissful lack of remembrance,
wicked craving it has become,
as contentedness
remains frustratingly elusive.
Read the complete article at Words Much Like Poetry
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