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)

Sleepless

Sleepless

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)

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.

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 perfection...in 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.

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)

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)

All On Tape

All On Tape

It's there, if we dare to unwind it- sublime truths,
hidden motives, peeking through the frames
of memories we're afraid to claim as real.
Conspiracies whispering too softly to be understood,
silenced moans too awfully frightening to be believed.
Pretending normalcy . Hypocrisy spawns lunacy. Blame placed,
Damage done. Graves deep. The secret will keep.
Numb, deaf and dumb, and mostly blind,
we climb down, dashed, our sanity smashed into dust.

The facts will turn to mist with time, in twisted fashion.
Uncontrolled passions, squelched and crushed,
turned fables that refuse to rhyme and sing.
Ringing in time as the bay buoys steel,
revealing senseless sensibility and recycled honor.
Worries evolving -untouchable as screams
crushed by the lack of our own self esteem .
Senseless fears. Voluminous tears. Languishing theories.
History weeps, and fear creeps in.

Vapors choking our breath. Lies too thick to detect.
Washed clean with explanations of Infidel nations.
Politics, Activists and Lunatics, converging
with no sense emerging, as the fires smolder.
The upper echelon casts its spell. The myths dispell, we're
mesmerized... and desensitized. Force fed
to finally surmise- it's terror unleashed.
The tapes, the truth, will keep.

2010 Tag poem, edited , topic by Budsilver, written in Poetry Tag Group

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.

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 from:gallery.photo.net/photo/1170760-lg.jpg Topic Acknowledgement : Phillip Redking44@aol.com

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.

©Dreamsbyday

Plumb the Depths

Plumb The Depths

Reality breaks the depths of wishing
as all innocence waits in ignorance -
beginnings unraveling into unknowns
while tomorrows are snoring, unawares.. .
.
Inside some sacred souls there are answers
waiting upon the proper questions breath;
in those depths of quandaries and suspicions
barely a whisper can be certainty .
.
Upward gazing, while complaining neck pain
We are dual counterpoints of quest ,
drowning in a quagmire of understanding
unsuspecting, and totally out of our depth


unedited tag poem
copy right Dreamsbyday 2008

Shallow Graves

DreamsbyDay: Shallow Graves
DreamsbyDay: .
DreamsbyDay: Barely cold,
DreamsbyDay: we don new skins
DreamsbyDay: and venture into tomorrows
DreamsbyDay: with a vengence meant for death
DreamsbyDay: Yet we forget our days
DreamsbyDay: of breath and raindrops
DreamsbyDay: courting  new eternities
DreamsbyDay: resorting to odd prayers and incantations
DreamsbyDay: Dare we go
DreamsbyDay: where intellect leaves sense
DreamsbyDay: where faith and fantasy
DreamsbyDay: eclipse the stars we wish upon?
DreamsbyDay: Dreams die in shallow graves
DreamsbyDay: aching towards the surface
DreamsbyDay: a heartbeat away from our sighs
DreamsbyDay: a whisper ed play of words
DreamsbyDay: upon the breeze.
DreamsbyDay: These are the wishes
DreamsbyDay: left to roam when dust decays
DreamsbyDay: when apparitions counsel
DreamsbyDay: and sleeplessness  turns to insight
DreamsbyDay: .
DreamsbyDay: .
DreamsbyDay: .
DreamsbyDay: end

 

aoljpictureUpload, aoljpictureUpload_1

Life's Energies

   
    topic by GaerLlwyd 

 

 

  Following a path of sweet redemption
  through the broken gravel, thorns, and rocks
  begging for a bit of God's attention,
  wondering if omnipotence, forgot...
 
  Pushing through the pain of life's misery
  as if tomorrow, were a brand new day
  Strength and sinew  fighting would be weary
  obstinence the key to holding bay..

 

  Ask me if it hurts to be unrested...
  to be forever in the working mode..?
  What is life, if it is not soul tested?
  Is it just a race to growing old?
 .
  Life's energies are best spent in our deeds
  Life's ending without marks, is death, indeed..

 

 

 

 

 ©Dreamsbyday  / Denise~Marie

  Runner Up-Tag poet of the Week, April 06

  

Tags: omnipotence, god, life, death, soul, drudgery, pain, hard work, rewards, energy

Lacey Pink Stockings

Lacey Pink Stockings

All the clotheslines look the same to me.
Line after line billowing in the breeze
striped towels, blue jeans, cotton sheets,
strung in color order. Lights and darks
in perfect tight rows....

Weird that my mind is thinking about clothes...
How often do I sit and examine things as those?
A door bell chimes or a telephone tones ,
I'm suddenly thrown out of pensive mode..
… sorting , ‘sorta lost …

Ahh, but these lingering odd thoughts…
variations of memories wrought

by sunlit garments , wind caught…
Seems my line is no different, than others.

So ordinary.

Stark white flags, Egyptian cotton sheets, tease…
There’s more black here, than most, to catch the breeze..

Flapping to a windswept melody,

The pieces unaware of what they sing

Across the fence.

Why so much black ? Do I lack of color sense?
Perhaps a statement of morose pretense?
Never knew I was quite so dark. None the less...
There’s nothing frill , mostly working duds-
cleaned with simple suds .

A dab of spot remover, a little bleach...
All said and done, what does laundry teach ?

Is something bright so far outside my reach?
Some lively color, might be overdue…
Like lacey pink stockings…

©Denise~Marie aka Dreamsbyday

Tags: lacey, pink, stockings, depression, mundane, dark, colors, laundry, poetry, ordinary, black