Debris

My view is clearly obstructed by the
muck in this room, by the
suck of this gloom, where there’s
no place for space, and this
pace serves no race worth running,
except away from…
Beats hit the drum some, but
I’ve lost count of how any of this counts,
when every price paid only amounts
to a discounted effort… a lost sum of
sweaty tears stinging heart’s thumb,
‘cause I’m still flipping through the pages,
in spite of the cuts
Everything is moving only where it stands
Stampeding footprints – same old dance
Story keeps telling, but never advances
Chances pinned by circumstances, and
no one’s making progress… The air –
stale with the stench of regress
Distress after distress… they keep coming
to confess their bitter sob
Don’t you know I am not your god?
Imposed façade against my will
Imposed supply against my bill
Demand falls on all deaf ears, while
knowing eyes watch me pay the price,
grinning as I dig deeper and deeper,
sowing promise for the handless reapers
These fingernails taste the grit,
lose grip in this bottomless pit, where
life slowly fades into the walls of
everyone else’s falls, and
I am left to wallow in a haze of
trepidation that isn’t even mine.
Those sins – not mine to bear
These faults – not mine to wear
This world – not my belly’s fare, and
starvations leave me cross,
swimming in a blur that feels like lost
But I know who I am,
and the streams still flow against the
break of the dams
Orientation of self won’t be drafted to damned
Spy this warrior of life as if the
intel is real, but the
shade of the armor doesn’t match the reveal
Wrapped in a skin to show a
fight that you think you know, but
blow after blow refines the kingdom within
Whose view will your darkness stain when
the vein is severed, the drawbridge closed,
and this breath of tenderness transposes into
a cool breeze that carries all your debris
far away from my sights.

Sifting

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Sifting…
these granules of everything
shifting, then falling and sitting
beneath the holes in my theories.
My heart – sumo lifting,
too unsure to be weary,
simply committed to the tasks.
Here comes the ask,
“How vast can the plays run
with no end game?”
Breath-to-breath, a middle name,
claiming its position at the
center of no gain – the forerunner
of this insane relay.
I keep running to lose.
Still… sifting,
as fuses choose to flare up and
melt closed my vents, circumventing
the logistics carefully structured
for defense and escape.
Each moment only gets one take.
Yet, déjà vu holds a permanent stake
in all my planes of existence… a
non-discriminate pretense catching
all the stuff that should just keep moving.
This sifting…
rearranges order and priority on a
flat line, like a king without authority,
delineating his final wishes to a
deaf mime – no means to receive or deliver,
only to animate a royal waste of time.
Nobody’s hearing this echo, but me.
These tiny grains shimmy, then freeze.
This free-flowing motion takes a knee…
as I sift vigorously.
The shake out leaves me perplexed,
somehow yielding no more and no less
than what I arrived with – sufficient portions
to compose the next breath
of a life I am not willing to die for…
but in spite of.
Sifting…
to break these holds that
put brakes on my whole; that
stifle love’s everything and
placates my soul’s lowest denominator.
Below the line hosts only a
fragmented respirator for living.
There is no giving of life, no
fullness in divide, no satisfaction in this
biding of whys that leave convictions empty.
Nothing breaks down –simply– anymore.
This overflowing vessel of hollow
loses its core amidst the broken parts,
suffers its more within this complex art
of sifting… and sifting… and sifting.

 

Photo Credit: solidswiki.com

Canvas

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Here, these thoughts splash…

Where words drip from numb lips,
whispering heart’s throb through bristled tips,
not smooth enough to brush it to life.

Meanwhile… colors hit hard,

chipping delicate sheets with their biting shards –
rocky edges unsoothed by shallow dips in the rinse.

Intense…

just a pretense display, as the showroom bulges
with the prints being laid.

Soon to be played is will’s posing,
always supposing its sway can repaint history
in softer shades.

But it can’t.

Truth shows vivid today,

with no way to whisk away uncleansed stains,
weeping their pains through filthy veins,
gripping tight to their brushes.

Too many pages left unturned, ‘til
burned into forever are the layers of poor design,
left stacked upon the scale of hardening time,
setting ebb and flow into a state of refusal –

where everything beautiful comes to die.

I want to flip this over, but
it all just sticks… this
stench and ick… this
composting shtick… this
perpetual state of sick that
bleeds its broad strokes across my canvas,
where subtle existence loses its favor to
raping hues of unforgiveness, along with
envy’s splatter, and pride’s full clatter, ‘til
not a single inch of white space remains.

Tomorrow, I will paint under the sun…

and pray it rains.

 

Photo Credit: CherylPascual.com

Rouge & Lipstick

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As if the elevation of her cheekbones
wasn’t enough to catch the eye
As if the prim and whimsy clash on her tongue
didn’t pause the passersby
As if the swish of a brush could command any more
than the supple glistening of those jowls
As if the curve and swipe of a vibrant hue might
draw in deeper the captive scowl
As if the blush of her grin didn’t move the clouds
and cause all storms to seize
As if the float of her hymn didn’t quiver the bones
and lower the saints to their knees
Still, never a day could spend its time without
succumbing to the witnessing
The adornment of Heaven’s earthbound kiss
… but a veil upon splendor’s being

~ In memory of Grandmother ~

Photo Credit: Rouge And Lipstick Still Life painting by Phyllis Tarlow

POET

POET

Promise to catch me
in the crease of your words,
where craft coyly cradles the
mysteries of your heart.
I want to fall
into your every breath
and feel the undercurrents of their purpose.
Your engravings etched upon the universe
drip their dust into my soul.
I become more whole with every verse.
To breathe more deeply within
the fortitude of your wisdom;
to release more fully into the
folly of your wit; to
submit more willingly amidst
the throes of your fury; to lose
more completely the very root
of my senses
to the enchantment of life
expressed through your spirit –
I reject reprieve from even your torment;
as your woes are sweeter still than the
honey-dipped tongue of any other.
To be wrapped in the wave of rhythm
which crosses your lips…
is to know heaven on earth…
is to give in to a constant rebirth
of a love that can only be felt
in the emboldened conveyance
of your world into mine.

Image credit: John Stammer’s Top 10 Love Poems

Mistress

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Dressed up in yesteryear’s clothes,
commencing the “walk of shame”
where passersby know no names –
only someone’s leaving from
where she shouldn’t have been
Walking proud like nothing’s happened,
red eyes reveal streaks of dissatisfaction
‘cause mornings came sooner than expected,
betraying the beauty of kindred dawns.
Resuming appearances undetected, still,
knots swell on the inside, holding tight
to a longing for dreams come true.
Dreams… born of heart’s adventure,
divine anticipation, and womanly speculation,
with hope left uncensored underneath its
cynical skin. Dreams… of being in…
when all the resolute moments define
a lifetime of falling out.
All that’s left is sore.
Sore sights, sore ears, sore lips, sore tears,
sore promises in arrears found a sore core.
Sensibilities say “no more”… and, yet,
there’s always tomorrow.
Suns rise in different shades, but never
fail to shine their rays on reality’s dimming.
And so, possibility keeps brimming
within the soul… believing universal scheming
will one day roll love’s mistress
out of its fleeting bed and into its eternal home.

Image credit: http://windkittyhana.deviantart.com/favourites/

The Twist

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Innocence lost in a dubious tryst
Bricks stacked high between lies in the midst
Heartbreak shatters morality’s quest,
as love left tattered abandons the nest
Wide eyes narrow and vengeance spreads broad
The act becomes real, and truth – the façade
Prayers lace lips like a crackhead’s rod,
perpetrating belief in any known God
No one can escape the heat of the wrath,
but bearer burns most in her own aftermath
Rigid, dons the right, with frail on the left;
both sleeves carrying destruction’s best
Life seems long when it’s lived so hard,
counting countless moments without regard
Pages turned over right before they’re shred
Prayers for eternity for the already dead
The mind of a child, the voice of a shrew,
the taste of a bitterness impossible to chew,
the roar of a lion, the back of an ox,
the slide of a serpent, the face of a fox;
chameleon shades seldom seen by another
The best known cover – the mask of a mother

Image credit: John Stammer’s Top 10 Love Poems