A Nursery of Insanity with Vanity Doors

A Nursery of Insanity with Vanity Doors

 

The insanity had four doors

Neither vanity was a way out.

 

As endless directions spun upon a compass point

With each circle degree a mere fury joint

 

Between the scars of a past bout

And the forecast of eyes seeing to anoint

 

A mother’s misdeeds and ghastly scores

While father was emptying his gut upon the floors.

 

The only escape from circle’s infinite route

Was to find growth by separation

From the betraying connection

To all true and false relation

 

That created or destroyed the mortal gap

And grasp of mind to its fear and anxiety

Spinning and tittering in a mad society

With pent fears straining to snap.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Ravages of Stillness

perhaps you found your way in

one night as an aftermath of ruin

or maybe through the savages of war

could it be that you entered during communion

along with the holy ghost...

 

perhaps you were you always there  - brewing

within dormant genes hiding; waiting

until the moment your poison began to pour

inflaming dissidents upon the points of union

as the immune armies go awry with twisting riposte

 

millions of lilliputian hooks, ties and ropes

fastened to every bone joint, muscle and tendon

pulled to stretch taunt against natural kinesis

the inflamed battles of attrition will become a pyrrhic war

won once the bugles of pain are at once – laid still

 

the eyes grow blank and darken into shade of hopes

the once athletic body spun; now locked into joints of mortise and tenon

a sculpture ravaged in silence; pondering the stillness

of the room that is without windows and a closed door

for strength fails the warrior’s will.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Evolving – Dissolving

His architectural pen sets

Our golden wedding wine goblets

 

Bobby’s baby foot imprints

Lizzie’s first mother’s day card with her hand prints

 

His old college sweaters

 All my secret love letters

 

The art room easel stand

Mother’s pearl strand

 

The library full of dad’s treasured books

My brother’s collection of pruning hooks

 

The kitchen red roaster clock

My old teenage diary with broken lock     

 

All of these will be sent apart

While my life sits with a weeping broken heart

 

Since time has chosen this fateful day

To take me away to some other stay.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mother's Candelabra

Mother’s Candelabra

 

Mother’s blue cathedral a pinnacle place

 

 

(with sacred candelabras of yellow)

To ruminate upon time’s pace

As the notes scale the cello

Playing melancholia’s case

 

 

 

 

 

  

Not Drowning

The swimmer was drawn to the shoreline

 

Because being a wanderer was in her soul

 

And the lapping sound against the sands

 

Metered in her mind like a poetic line

 

That reached in deep - like surgeon’s hands

 

Ripping out her heart to make a hole;

 

As a mark of the place she must avoid

 

For within her doubts she could be destroyed

 

As she swam out further and further out to the sea

 

To find the depths that would be the last thing she would see.

 

 

 

They gathered and said, “It was swimming – not drowning.”

And of course, she had always known it would be a crowning.

 

 

 

 

 



Companion

Awakened in middle of night

To feed at the wells of endurance

 As throe’s insistence is undeniable

 

Awaiting the sun’s radiance

To warm the stern coldness

In the twisted structures

 

Locked still by the soreness

The rascal sits at the morning table

While the hot tea and poisons of chemistry relieve

 

 

Distressing dreams and thoughts that disable

The urgings of strength and power

From finding their destiny and eminence

 

 

 The companion refuses to leave the hour

Nor abide to any prayer for grace

As its pain is the water of the black flower.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Being Inside the Outside

Being Inside the Outside

 

Whereas daylight’s grace might recognize

the trodden faces standing at the edge

along the uncertain path to perdition

the night’s cold embrace forbids any fiction

and rather punishing and unforgiving to foolish eyes

that dare walk out unto the darken outside

unprepared; hoping to find a hearth being inside

 the dwelling places that fate denies

or memory’s love lost  in lonely disguise.

No One Lives Here Anymore

No one lives here anymore.

Inside where darkness thrives

and the past will forever dwell

reflecting; grasping at static yore.

 

 

 

 

The present moment leaps forward

towards where the morning light strives

outside beyond the window’s tell

and change can be explored.

 

A State

A State

 

Vanity is to awareness

As banality is to kindness

Each a state of telling trait

 

 

 

 

 

 

Uncertain

An uncertain light calls - seeking

the beloved ships gone by on wayward cast

Repeating; vacillating; circling

the beacon’s ray cutting

At and past the vast last

edges of the screaking sound

where beats the loving heart

that keeps a warm and familiar hearth

the questions and doubts forgiven at the harbor’s round

where the open moment of now is found

 

though, the twinkling star light

beacons - maybe as uncertain as the night.