![Profile banner image for dctezcan](https://s3-us-west-2.amazonaws.com/images.prod.theprose.com/user-47500-banner-1711712758814.png)
![Profile avatar image for dctezcan](https://s3-us-west-2.amazonaws.com/images.prod.theprose.com/user-47500-square-1711829749870.png)
Why We Love The Way We Do
I wrote a poem about why and how love becomes a verb. I have not used the word Love in the poem in the first few paras. But then I introduced it at the end, whilst trying to be subtle, and also letting people know why exactly Love is a verb. Hope this resonates!
There was a time in my beautiful Life when,
there was always something there to say,
and the way we looked into each other's eyes
lead to an altogether different surprise...
There was a time in my beautiful Life when,
All one had to do was look,
at the way we looked at each other,
when nothing was understood...
There was a time in my beautiful Life when,
You held on to my hand,
and the things we felt for each other
were magical things
that would turn your heart into Sand...
There was a time in my beautiful Life when,
God had a higher plan
for us to follow in our lives,
even when the disguised emotions
where not letting us do things Life-size
If Love is not an actionable thing,
look at the chemistry between us,
and God's every magical thing
that is part of Life's drama, and dance, and
it's a beautiful offering towards Him...
The Love in the world is a beautiful thing,
The Love in our hearts is an offering,
The Love that we give is about which we sing,
And the love of God is an actionable thing
Dead Colours
Colours
Breach the harrowing steel
That cages taciturn hearts,
Spilling loose
Droplets
Of prismatic frenzy
To stir up
Pastels of revival
Within concrete eaten castles,
Housed gaunt and grey,
Tenements gripped numb by bold shadow.
Colours
Spring to womb
The Tree Of Life.
To shade the drained city’s
Lonely and wandering
Feckless captives,
As the evaporating bastille
Hisses serpent steam
And takes its wisps of anchorless vapours
Down to hell’s belly.
The Blank
clutching the heart
you say it is
plain
as vodka day
that the hole
is big
and dark
flocked
gapping black
a mouth crimson
lining
burning lack,
a dying sound...
But no
I counter
no, no, looky here
slapping the paper,
an infant, metaphorically
the hole, as it were
strictly speaking
is off white,
a smoking gun
07.23.2024
The biggest hole in my life... challenge @dctezcan
Evensong
There is a whispering wood...
At a breakneck speed,
I am...
Weaving through stacks
Of trees, and tracking
An enigma that can
Not be seen...
...It's calling...
"Are you there?...O, can you hear?...
...For so long I felt your presence
From the back vaults
Of my eyes..."
Now on the hunt
I cannot seem
To upend or to capsize
The ponderous stone
That is
Your dwelling
In this hinterland
Of half-light...
Leave me with a chip or shred!...
Something I'll
Take home to bed...
Saturate me to the bone...
Heed my plea, so I can strive...
7/22/24
Bunny Villaire
The Hollow King Of Make Believe
The hollow king of make believe
Preaches slow burn proverbs
And existential puffery
To his hardwired flock,
Fleecing their shallow pockets
By sleight of bony hand,
His third eye heaven
A telescopic watchtower.
The black robed moth
With pooling mercury mouth,
Garments his lizard skin
As the flat lined saints
Come marching in,
A clustering ambush
Of coma addled buyers,
And the shag carpeted pews
Are an inferno of huddled friction.
The hollow king of make believe
Devours glitter gold souls,
Held hostage
By dint
Of blood rust hooks
Punching through jaws,
Both atrophied and awed.
The hollow king of make believe
Sells vacant ideologues
And barters hope
For currency,
In the stained glass carnival sanctuary
Of fantastical delirium.
When the mewling notes
Begin to sour and float
From Sister Agnes’s ramshackle organ,
The shyster ruffles through his Armani suit
For a swollen cigar,
Behind the satanic curtain.
God is not dead
But nor is the devil,
As the ugly sainthood of mammon
Stabs a worshipful eye
With wolverine smile
That sniffs out spoils
And levels worlds.
Salvation costs only a monthly donation.
Cancel anytime.
Lost in the Wild
Why did I agree to go?
The question taunts me with each uncertain step I take through waist-high weeds in a sprawling field. Thick woods lie ahead. The foreboding sea of conifers and evergreens stretches to the horizon. Gone is the azure firmament and noonday sun, replaced by dark skies and ominous black clouds.
I am alone somewhere in Michigan’s eastern Upper Peninsula.
My cellphone is dead.
And I am lost.
Why did I agree to go? Why did I let my friend convince me, a certified urban adult, into taking part in an orienteering meet for his Cub Scouts? I had never heard of orienteering. Mark, the troop leader, told me, “You’ll have fun. It’s a scavenger hunt, only you’re looking for topographical clues like depressions, elevations, that kind of thing.”
“Of course,” I lied to Mark when he asked if I knew how to read a topographical map and a compass.
At this moment, I’m sure those two things are sneering at me from inside the pocket of my cargo shorts, along with the list of topographical clues I was supposed to hunt for.
Now, I am tired and hungry and desperately hunting for a way out.
It seems like hours since I last saw one of Mark’s Cub Scouts. We all began the meet together, but one by one they vanished into the woods, each searching for different clues.
I trip over an old log. The bark skins my shins, but I arise, limping through the weeds and into the darkness of the woods.
Why did I agree to go? I had a chance to speak up when Mark told the kids and me at the outset: “If you get lost, follow your compass west and wait by the railroad tracks; someone will come by in a pickup.” But which way is west? Is north the black half of the compass needle or the silver half?
I break off twigs to get past dense trees and cut my hands on the sharp ends. I am bleeding as I finally leave the woods and enter another field of deep weeds. A green valley lies between two large hills.
The wind is picking up. A thunderclap jolts me. I hear creaking.
There is something in the left side of that gap amid the weeds and trees. It is not moving, but I approach with caution. I see it clearly now. An old screen door with torn metallic webbing is standing upright, flapping in the wind. A crash startles. The screen slams into a thick, moss-covered wooden door.
I reach out and touch the screen door. I stop it from flapping.
But I cannot bring myself to touch the dirty doorknob on the other door.
I peek behind and see a wall of dense trees and weeds. I let the screen slip out of my hand, leaving a bloody palm print.
“Is anyone here?” I summon a yell.
The only response is the creaking screen door flapping again in the wind.
Heavy rain begins to fall and a dazzling lightning bolt strikes the door with a monstrous crash.
When I come to, the screen door and its wooden companion are still there. But there is a deep black streak and smoke is rising. The wooden door seems to be ajar; brightness emanates from the crack. I approach cautiously, pull back the screen, and try to peer into the fissure. I cannot see a thing, other than light. So, I push the wooden door open.
I step inside and find myself in an open field under calm, blue skies. I can see the sun and feel the warmth on my skin. And directly ahead I see a thick yellow arrow resting on the weeds. A hallucination? I take a few steps in the direction the arrow is pointing in. I am no longer limping. My hands are not bleeding.
I see railroad tracks and break into a run. I fall on my knees on gravel and kiss the rail.
“Hey!”
It’s Mark’s voice! I look up and see a pickup truck heading toward me. It stops and Mark jumps out.
He grasps my right hand with both of his and says, “My buddy, we thought you were lost!”
I laugh and reply, “Me? Lost? You’re kidding, right?”