Tangled Web

Tangled Web

Oh what a tortured road we tread
when first we realize we’ve been lead
like cattle to a dried out well
with nothing but despair to tell.

Ah but the wonder of the lies
that lead us to this treacherous guise
convincing us we’re bright and strong
when everywhere the signs, are wrong.

Lo and behold the skies turn cold
the sun shrinks back, the world turns old.
Our souls search for the sanctity
of accustomed prosperity.

Limbs entrapped as we squirm and writhe…
only the treacherous survive.

8.4.2011

Look Hard before You Speak

Look Hard before You Speak


In the quiet of his workroom,
he half smiles
a certain satisfied grin.

Wiping the table carefully,
he notices
a scratch in the clean surface.

As a boy, his Grandfather had
mentored him
‘measure twice, and cut, only once’

Reaching for some polishing oil
he mumbles
“a job worth doing…well done…”

A voice disrupts his focus,
he fumbles
dropping his cloth and muttering.

He absorbs the tone, then the words.
He breathes in,
wipes his hands and flips off the light.

Best not to let her wait upon him,
he's aware
that argument would just waste words.



©Denise-Marie Fisher 8.4.2011

A River of Stones

A River of Stones

Bright promise beamed in adolescent eyes
in days before responsibility;
so many ways to understand a world,
that somehow, evaded current design.

Each tomorrow was a promise in three
syllables, a prayer upon saint’s lips.
No sun could harm our skin or alter plans
made under the eaves of an apple tree.

But dreams devolved into wishes wasted
before we ever realized, they’d died.
Bitterness was handed to our children,
before the cherished fruit was ever tasted.

Now withered dreams, that wail with hurts and moans
through scorching skies, push through rivers of stones.

© 7.15.2011 (tag prompt,title)

Rainbow Trail

Rainbow
Trail

Intellect and artifact combine,
a divine derelict; memories
mysteries, comedies, tragedies,
cramped with crowded sensibility.
Psychedelic interpretations
of deluded well intentioned plans
clandestine imps pouncing with odd grins.

Such are the waking dreams of my nights-

taking control of realities,

breaking all the dimensional plains

into indiscernible frights.

Ramblings of psychotic familiars

race to mind as jumbled confessions.

All my transgressions merge in their eyes.

Yet, wakening arrives, and I rise.
Their eyes remain in utopia.
Each labored word and breath ignorant
of the dystopia within them.
Hands groping at brilliant rainbow trails
deceived eyes perceive as elegance;
visions further veering them to hell.

©Denise-Marie Fisher 6.2011

I'll take mine black

I'll take mine black

Bloody oceans
blackened skies
visions of this
earth’s demise

a prophecy
a hoax, a joke?
a mirror trick
complete with smoke?

Repent to live
ignore- and die!
Salvation looms-
don’t question why.

The terror comes
on hooves, on wings
the texts foretold
so many things.

so let it end
this world of pain!
a chance anew
to start again!

clean up the mess
wash out the old
let sea boats launch
as oceans fold.

tomorrow comes
if it should choose,
the sun might rise,
if it’s amused.

my coffee brews
if time goes on.
it’s set to go
if we’re not gone.

rituals die
should the world end
and so will I
but until then...

it's first things first
for every being
so if we’re here?...
sugar, no cream.

Deviation

Deviation

The road to hell , it's said, is paved in gold;
in good intentions meant to satisfy
our need to feel we've standards to uphold,
our need to own rewards before we die. . .

If heaven is salvation, then is hell
the sinners destination of appeal?
If goodness for it's sake, is hard to sell-
entitled hypocrites can't know what's real. . .

True deviation from the path is all
a portrait of the mind that plans the trip.
Insanity is it's own best recall.
Feigned justice is a judges chance to slip. . .


Who ever makes the judgment stands to burn;
subjective truth is heavens lot to spurn.

©Denise~Marie Fisher/ Dreamsbyday April 2009
This poem was written in an online poetry room, improvisation-ally.
Punctuation has been added.

Your Inner Child - Portrait of a Spurned Lover

Your Inner Child - Portrait of a Spurned Lover

Tears fall from you easily
Your voice falters as if
you are too weak to speak
carefully feigned timidity.

Fragile spoiled child, unaware he is grown.

You ceremoniously
point out your every deed,
expecting gratitude
doled out immediately.

Instant gratification required.

You offer your affection
like a shiny weapon-
polished, but un-sharpened
and for your sole protection.

Constantly seeking central attention.

You repeat your “offering”
bellowing out loudly
howls turning suddenly
to shrill insistent screams...

No conception of reason or limits.

You finger my transgressions;
ball your hands to a fist
beg apologies kiss-
negotiate concession.

Mothering men is not my perversion.

Seems I am too rude and crude
and totally heartless
ignoring advances
that fluctuate with your mood.

My insensitivity serves me well.

(napowrimo #28/30 4.28.11)