Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Dreams By Day

Dreams By Day

In restless nights I wander nightmares’ edge
while wishing weariness would wage it's will.
Each morning hears me make another pledge
to dispatch heartaches where they've hurt their fill.

Half wakened through the day, I trudge on through
until my hands won't hold a task in grasp.
I'd blink back tired thoughts, exhaustion grew…
I'd gasp for rest, like reaching for an asp!

The day dreams come, and smooth the pain aside.
The gaze of mesmerizing wishes fall.
I take my tiredness and push full stride
past all the sleepless nights I can recall .

Ah but those dreams by day are such respite
from all the nightmares mundane to my nights!

Written in a Poetry Tag Group room 2009. Unedited.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

A Series of Boxes

A Series of Boxes

Bits and pieces, a whole lifetime, jumbled
in a series of boxes, aptly labeled.
Safe in compartments: decisions, choices;
echoes of heart, and familiar, odd voices.
Discarded moments, some cast easily
others more tender stuff of memories,
tougher to relinquish offhandedly.
Cardboard and me, share commonality:
Strong but easy to fold, done precisely.
Crumpled lately, my strengths evading me,
trapped by a talented origamist;
folds upon folds, altered my existence.
Holding capacity wholly transformed
'til all contents overflowed, unrestrained.

Divided, not conquered, embraceable bits
of a life and a love, and it's consequences
now simplifications - trapped in extremes;
justification: an ends to a means.
Staggering stacks bursting tight at the seams,
locked away links to a past now outgrown.
One last box waiting- marked simply: unknown.

©Denise-Marie Fisher 12.15.09

Edited from an improvisational poem done in Poetry Tag Group Photo Topic Acknowledgement : Phillip

Monday, February 16, 2009

Apology Not Accepted

Apology Not Accepted

Words unleashed in perfect measures,
often lovely, often treasures ;
now off the cuff , candidly wrought-
raw reactions to careless thought.

Hold tight the hand and touch the cheek,
removing pain, admitting weak
willed lack and sorrowful attack.
Once uttered, words do not come back.

Blood spills as tiny fissures leak
from content we were loathed to speak.
An essence wasted on the rash
whose tongue is loose and bound to lash.

Apology, accepted -not!
You chose the words, you wrote the plot
that leaves you in this rapport's end-
a noxious one, I thought, a friend.