There's a sort of karmic undertow
to the consequences of cleverly maneuvered lies
mummified in secrets.
it was a terribly sad thing to paralyze the artist
before his masterpiece was even
Perhaps in the absence of creative minds,
the ego may take its last seat at the dinner table,
with its own shallow, inbred hunger.
What a Magical Pizazz to his Rhapsody!
It was my usual late night walk with the moon
(I find him a bit more comforting than he who pilots the afternoon).
A little weary chatter between two old friends.
I share with him
my adventures to places he could never be,
and in return,
he serenades the secrets of the universal seas.
I have to nudge him some nights though,
of everything he has to treasure.
How an earthly life holds no sentient pleasure.
He winks to me -
a euphoric eclipse that awakens my spirit!
Gifting upon me
a reflective glimpse inside that cosmic hole.
Oh, how I yearn!
How I grow impatient!
What a joyful hymn, my friend.
I hope we come to pass each other once again.
Dewdrops and Daffodils and Ducklings All Play
In the absence of the mockingbird,
I am feckless in the pleasure
of a sweet songbird’s prayer.
Tone deaf to a world
that cannot hear the emotion of the only breath I take anyway.
Not even the raven,
with her sad, solemn caws that scratch at the mind like a feral bobcat,
could stir even a word
to break from between my chapped lips.
Dry and brittle and decaying like a misplaced mirage.
I could be the baby dove of a woodwind gadget.
And if I could,
I would imagine it to be majestic and grand,
but vintage in its charm and flesh –
sailing under the opposite of my wing that carries my heart’s little fiddle.
So simple is this time,
here and now,
yet, I’ve never so desperately needed my own self
more than in this moment
that I am drowning in presently.
Just spare me from the commands of that cardinal
who sneers at me from upon his fancy branches!
Do not let him peck at my naked toes!
For when he is spiritless
in his mockery of an agitation
onto the ugly and destitute,
(the ones unlike him),
an energized, triangular bombing-pattern details itself,
into an unopened storyline
of an adventure that awaits beyond this time.
The mockery that echoes
has dumbfounded me
as I misguided myself into a daffy paranoid state yet again once more.
I will not fear my ascendence -
it is, of course, a fanciful dream sung out for me
that will only be awakened for eternity
in the aviary of the skies above me.
Let the morning light take me.
I Put My Funeral Dress on Today
Pausing for only a moment to smell that sweet
that sings from the tulips.
How merrily they dance
under the early noon’s bright mist!
Capturing each raindrop so delicately
inside their silky flesh walls,
as if each were a tear
from a grieving angel looking down.
I do believe emotions and memories
fade with the passing hands of time’s illusion,
perhaps leaving imprints as we travel.
But I would rather personally desire to know
that there is a finale to this one disastrous life that clings to me now -
that there could be hope
for a new beginning for me
with a lesson less painful to learn.
An Impurity of Life
And laying like a forgotten moth ball bag,
(inside that dark and musty corner closet),
I am the hiccup of the Creator –
something that interrupted the beauty,
of what his eyes held for humanity.
A hypocrisy to outwardly destroy me,
so mangled in name and fashioned an outcast.
I am the shameful marks upon his chalkboard –
So, what have of me then, sir?
What am I if not of you?
If not like them?
Wherever do I belong?
I am not something solid.
The liveliness of my babes never breathes at me
as pretty or adoring as yours
not ever again
not ever like before
I am not as wanted beside them
as you may be by yours
there’s a deafening ache buried deep
in this splintered and scarred
heart of mine.
listen to it ping
how the emptiness erupts
against the decaying walls of a now hollow home
abandoned once again
though this time
in the harshest of ways
I could never have imagined
that this was the fate
I had fought so hard to survive for
One Burlap Sack Can Make All the Difference
I wrapped my face in a burlap sack
and tied tight with some crafter’s twine.
A snippet here
and just a little right there –
Ha! The slits for my eyes are just the perfect size!
(I do not want to take the attention away from the pretty vintage bag).
But I do not think I’ll cut away
even the slightest of threads to give way for my mouth.
It’s roasting in here
and my lips are chapped.
Short, quick breaths will have to do.
I may just be a tad proud of my work here.
But the real question is,
am I finally acceptable,
and not so detestable,
that I may blend in just enough now on the same streets as others?
An Unspoken Fantasy Alive with the Kiss of a Song
Oh, and how my ears have caught the foreboding sound
of that enchanting siren’s song!
What a mousetrap
to the tangled thoughts I try to be of sound mind with,
but how she wrecks the safety of my attic space.
I cannot be the force of a stonewall
against the prideful, seducing tones that drip from her lips.
I am weakened to a greedy man.
Fisting my hands and clenching my teeth,
I curl into myself on this cold, damp road,
heaving every morsel of self-control I have.
But a wild, instinctual scream escapes from my chapped mouth,
and, oh, how I have betrayed myself!
Forgive me, Lord,
temptation has befallen me
and I cannot recite the scripture to break the witchy spell.