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)