Friday, August 5, 2011

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.


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

Friday, July 15, 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


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

Sunday, May 22, 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.

Friday, May 20, 2011



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.

Saturday, April 30, 2011

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)



Your breathing soothes me

as I listen in the dark

pretending to sleep

soft shadows taunting

stray bits of beaming moonlight

as sunrise threatens

weary eyed wonder

as glints of sunlight tickle

your sleeping eyelids

I breath in deeply

remembering when dreaming

was a simpler task.

(napowrimo #29/30 4.29.11)

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Absolute Silence of My Soul

Absolute Silence Of My Soul

Nothing you say makes any sense to me.
The language is familiar, and the tone
nonabrasive, yet somehow...words escape.
My hearing is fine, as far as I know.

My cognitive skills are normal...and yet
sentences seem to slide smoothly past me,
butterfly breezes on a perfect day.
Something is wrong....or, perhaps, maybe not...

In the house around the corner, the man
plays AC DC while doing yard work.
Acid rock and heavy metal a l l d a y,
which I dislike, and so.... I tune it out.

It's a survival skill...ignoring pain.

I wonder if those screaming lyrics are
embedded, somewhere deep inside my brain
awaiting a poor unsuspecting soul,
who should unluckily aggravate me...

I'd heard Mozart has a certain effect,
on sleeping patterns, creativity,
heart rates, and studying ability,
An innate musical sensitivity.

God only knows -you speak- I'm in a trance.

If I listened to your actual words
I'd likely be out of my mind, by now.
I suppose, I actually don't hear you .
My personal defenses are well honed...

Your inane chatter, never mattered.
Who can say where insanity begins..?
I drowned out your din, your world of disorder,
hoping it wouldn't seep in...too deeply.

I'm struggling past your noise, attempting to
hear the absolute silence of my soul.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Silver Thorn Of Bloody Rose

Silver Thorn of Bloody Rose

Tiny trickles, a giggle, that never laughs,
bleeding, that never lasts long enough to hurt .
Your face, soft angles and evil perfection,
smiled as you plunged deep the blade, tailor made to
control the level of pain, as you opened veins...

You begged, licked the wounds, odd titillation at first,
'til your thirst was more than I was prepared to bleed.
Nothing impeded your insidious search for
the perfect bloom, rosy pink skin arched for hours;
You were delicious the dark.

Glistening skin embracing misty air, entrapment
parading as care, drenched in those sultry shadows.
The surreal scent of yesterdays roses, as
love decomposes. Your bloody footprints trampling
scattered petals- left crushed upon the garden path.

Saturday, April 9, 2011

Posthumously Yours

Posthumously Yours

Dust knows not color, religion, or sex,
dust conceals lies, obscures truth, redirects.
In blinding storms it ravishes and chokes.
It springs new life, then, ruthlessly revokes.

We sweep it out the door to hide our screams.
It's face's form the shattering of dreams.
Dust settles, changing muddy springtime rain.
it festers wounds, captures youth, embraces pain.

Words of my days are scattered in the breeze...
whispers lost to winds, sighs amidst the trees.
Settling on the sills of souls windows, posed;
shuttered by sheer stubbornness, latches closed.

Now- these words are otherworldly...
now the feelings seem your own?
Now- the shadows veil your blame,
Now- you give deceit a home?
Now the dust defies your shame...
now you hear lost soul's refrains?

Ignored before, why would you heed me now ?
Afraid I'd break your trust, or disavow
some sad responsibility I bore...
when ill was never done to you before ?

Did you believe I dealt in dread deceit?
Were you concerned your secrets be complete?
Need reassurance I'd be without gain?
or...was I just object of your disdain?

Here now, as dust, my raspy voice enthralls.
You bend to hear, each tearful word that falls.
Death equalizes words once held inside
and utters what my living breath denied.

You listen now, my ghostly voice sounds clear-
I don't provoke attack, invoke your fear.
Words streaming now from some ethereal plane...
So curious- since my words ring out, the same.

(rewrite of PTG improv 8.17.03)

Thursday, April 7, 2011

In Shallow Graves

In Shallow Graves

Barely cold,
we don new skins and venture into tomorrows
with a vengeance meant for death.
Yet we forget our days of breath and raindrops
and court new eternities
resorting to odd prayers and incantations
like the fodder of old tragedies.

Dare we go
where intellect leaves sense?
Where faith and fantasy eclipse the stars we wish upon?
Dreams die in shallow graves aching towards the surface
a heartbeat away from our sighs.
Each whispered play of words, achingly
drifts upon the breezes, aimlessly.

Who’s to know
where orphans go when left to wander?
Roaming where the dust decays;
blood and soul bereft, and left
with only apparitions counsel?
Drifting until their nuance as a muse,
is finally inhaled as inspiration...

Days unfold.
I try to hold the present hostage to my hopes.
To breathe in deeply from the
breezes passing through, remembering these
animas may choose to touch my soul, someday.
I scratch the earth. I plant the seeds
encouraging their reveries.

4.7.11 (rewritten PTG improv poem)