workshop
Filling me up until my hands shake on the ends of these thin arms.
Wrap themselves around the body they belong to
in a slow coil like thievery
and untold stories full with sin.
The bones, they bend
so hand over shoulder
ghost white skin
lay on top and weave under;
these bones with a place for my forehead to rest,
these lips mutter prayers as they lean into nest.
I got up
out of bed
got dressed
fed the cats
and myself
turned on the tv
news and weather
looked outside
it was sunny
but cool on the windows
sat, smoked, thought
half a day gone
pointless but true
not all inspirationy
or exciting
but true nonetheless
my life this morning
in a piece for
your boredom relief tonight
a dull poem
for sure
but it took some of your time
away from
nothingness
creeping all over you
The stemmed glass slowly rotates
Held up to the sun
Its contents swirl in easy motion
Carmines plum and ruby
Subtle rainbows tease
My imagination already
Tantalized by too much wine.
How many times
Have momentous thoughts
Random as these
As blurred of focus
Been so confidently
Brought to life
While looking through a
Glass of half gone
Bordeaux
Too many
I'll wager
Too many
You are the scarecrow
that watches over the barren fields
That land
that feeds her children with thorns ;
a keeper of ducks
that never return home
You are the breath
that the old sun despises
She slaps you
With a tyrannical stare
of fate
You are the pica
that the terrestrial vulture
craves for
with a cunning tongue
at dawn
You are whom
antediluvian's bewitched face
dance to
with cheetah's feet
Late into the year,
the excitement of the new
has long faded.
The heat of the day
grows at the slightest
irritation.
Smiles are plastic
and last a little longer.
Idiosyncrasies play
like a broken record,
repeating ad nauseum
to your heightened tension.
Then fun begins to hurt
from the saturation of the heart
and the closet misanthrope begins
to play.
DO NOT DISTURB
It has become a quiet
world
not much spoken
little heard
and I forbear the day
with the silence terror brings,
I am a puppet on a broken string
an incongruous human machine.
I’ve lost control.
I’ve lost my hold
on pride and dignity
and it seems to me
I’ve lost myself
in my own insanity
Useless are the words
the Mind seeks
Painful are the words
the Soul speaks.
Never to be heard
are the whisperings
that silence brings.
A wistful still,
no wind,
no song of bird,
nothing stirs.
The world seems half asleep,
no weeping willows here,
just birches, firs and hornbeams
beaming at the spring to come,
each of them in their row,
where thrushes gather in the fall
to gorge on berries one and all.
It's evening, the time of rest,
when silently the night,
gathers in the light,
spreads an indigo instead.
thou dwellest with -in
ma heart
like dwellest
twas yesterday
and
thy love cometh
like a fountain
burstin all the way...
twill be a living life,
when twill be a game of friendship ...
hasn’t ever struck you
that we or twill be one poet...
like none as tomorrow comes
and
this day dieth
was that not anointed yet say
some shalt
some day
Shakespeare
and
Loved
lived like none else
on the ma earth
till dis day
so be it today
The words no longer held at bay
now escaping from our thoughts
to form upon our lips
to spill forth but
Still not ready to use the word "dying"
Use kinder words that skirt the unspeakable
Death now again approaches our door
It is not welcome, We are not ready
Does the bastard have to be so cruel
Strips one of his dignity, enters with pain and fear
and utter embarrassment
Forced to keep others out, knowing they will see
An overdose of pills,
of heartache
and a nap
on the shrink's arm chair.
There's too much
to focus on;
so little time
to think on it.
It's like
an Olympic dash,
but the track extends
to the far future.
And I hear it doesn't end.
When there are no storms
to draw one's fancy,
one looks within,
at the hurricane;
in the mirror
a gorgon stares back blankly.
This is not a masquerade,
this is life.
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