Addicted to Pain

The tattered sign read: VACANT.

A dirty light grasped at the diming rays of intention

And emptiness invited the vagrant

Thoughts of hope & despair to commiserate

 

Upon the loss of worldly enterprise;

Of wealth, of riches and of material possession

For instead, escaping into the flight of blank eyes

Feathered by dullness and veils of  inebriate.

 

 

 The  women in the room are not;

The men in the place can be either; or neither

 A flame that yearns to flee beyond all vanities.

For this sick and ill time leaves its stain and blot.

 

Look at the garish faces peering out the windowed frames-

Their bodies are based on abusing and failing

Of all norms and expectations lost to the endless nights

When reason and sanity take on oddly strange names.

 

Synecdoche

Bring me the waters that hath me drown

In the seas for all depths

Fly me through the heavens

I fall Out of...    the sky for all heights

 

Come sleep that so alludes me

For nothing...    shall hold me a wake.

Empty Chairs

Empty Chairs

The glimmers of light

filtered in

Through the wooden keepers  

Of the dark shade

While the room’s sense

Grew into lonely cast

And the sturdy chairs skewed

Themselves around the darken floor,

Where once flirty gaiety danced

With the quiet feelings of romance

That is..

Until the music stilled

Bringing the party affair

to end.

  

Laudina and Kurt

November's winds may strain;

The skies may bring rain...

Only on this day we wed

and in the moment we said:

We do - we vowed at sun set

That each new day be met

Joining each dusk unto a dawn

So that our song is an endless refrain.

Skin Deep

The tattoos –

Strange; dark art

to hide scars of necessity

 

The stripes applied

to keep true eyes awake

and pure ears listening

to the room

when the light

is switched to off

 

so that worms

can crawl

into the brain

 

screeching out to the demons

that the fears are real -

only skin deep.

 

 

 

 

 

Emily’s Room

Emily’s Room

 

 

The white garment of length

And feminine genteelness

Was an essence of eeriness

That poised across

The empty room

Then lingered at the paned window

With the pouring white light

The washed upon the casket floor

In cleansing meanings.

 

A white dress that told nothing

Of the secrets held within

Yet, expressed all

In confounding simplicity

Hidden within the opaque frames

Of lines and tense

That propose a solitary heart

To know a lonely presence

And to view its place outside the eye.

 

 

 

 

 

A Painting of Violence and Virtue

A gentle tension weighed,

in a sharp heaviness,

upon the sword’s blade

severing the ligatures

of domination;

Cutting cleanly

through the ligaments

of exclusion

as the titular reign

falls - beheaded;

the flowing blood

the color of poetic justice.

Stressing less the violence of reason

While heightening the key passions of virtue.



In Context of Alone

In Context of Alone

 

I alone

Sit by self

To find myself

Alone

In context-

 

To believe or not

To allow ego

Neither face

Or a name

Nor a reason

To be me

Or him

Or subtler mask

Of her-

 

Being a thing

Or a place

Or a time

Unparalleled in space-

 

To understand

To digress

To fluoresce

Into the solitary

Of standing alone-

 

Next to the starry night

Next to the wary fright

Next to the very edge-

 

Where the dark

Is a singular sense

Where the silence

Is company

Where the cadence

Of lone

Man

Pulses with infradian

Circles of poetry

And crossings

Of disarray-

 

Next to the fence

That shields

And exposes

Solitude-

 

As both natural

And abnormal

Position

Of being

Uniquely out

of context.

 

 

 

Gentle Breeze

 

 

Gentle Breeze

 

 

‘Tis  a clear fall day when the bright sun light

 

Exists without the heat of summer’s lumens

 

And a gentle northern cool breeze

 

Plays upon the aging sense of numens

 

Eulogizing the colors of autumn’s plight

 

While the blades of grasses quiver with ease

 

 

 

Doth this not define mother’s touch to please?

 

 

 

When the Madness Is Poetic

 

 

At the midnight hour

 

When the moon light’s shower

 

Sparks the dreaded cunnings from within the dark illness

 

Lenore’s visage is wrested away from the face of oddness

 

As Prince Prospero feigns a giddiness

 

While the pernicious host lingers to wait upon Fortunato

 

To torment him with his fatal amour to the casted Amontillado

 

Alas! a ghastly evil eye has entered the room in flaunt

 

Appearance of Monsieur Dupin’s and Usher’s time in cursed haunt

 

And devastation upon both innocence and evilness

 

As both live as one face within the poet’s madness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Homage to Edgar Allan Poe

Devouring at a Perfect Fifth

 

 

Her scent permeated the air with a heavy musk fragrance

She wore her feelings with fimbriated tension

Youth’s blessings had turned into rags of memories

And misfortune fit upon her frail shoulders as a heavy coat

With patches and re-sewing to repair failings

 

Her outer wears made of old silken scarves

Strung together and tied into knots to hide sensibilities-

The once radiantly bright  deep colors long forgotten

And now hues faded into a collage of grey-

Her slender feet as bare as the trees of winter

 

A thin and wiry figure belied her generous mind;

Her smooth and creamy skin cast with an alabaster color

Her physical beauty had once been invincible and infinite

Though now, more a frozen renaissance painting-

Beautiful but Inaccessible, unattainable and remote

 

She murmured in a husky voice, with a whispered manner-

Her throat tones hinted the timbre of a rich cello

As she breathed each sound out deliberately

And musically in perfect fifth intervals

Slowly; inexorably she mesmerized her prey

 

She devoured the flesh ever so carefully

Not too leave any fiber undigested

Her elongated tongue lapped clean each wound

Her tentacle proboscis absorbed the ruddiness

Thus, leaving nothing but the scent of her presence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trees of Transitions

Trees live

to explain the nature of falling:

capitulating to nature’s beacon-

succumbing to the colder days-

surrendering to the romance...

 

As change reveals its hidden spectrums

consisting of the warmth, that now is hastened away

from the sun’s summer face.   And in  irony, the cool of the green,

transitions into the warm colors of autumn: red, orange, amber, gold-

 

This, a brief window into spectacular panoramas - Leaving breath in nostalgic cease

 

Before comes the grey skies of November - That bring the soul to a point of purpose

and then, to a remission into the quietness of a long winter

 

While nature restores intention - And prepares for a transition that will bring a new beginning.

 

Distinctions of Tense

Is it fact

that this came to be

Matter not

if perceived right

 

Is it not

that yesterday entitles history

And that it is a realm

in the tense of past

 

If then a thought finds action now

Its consequence

will be the tense of future

 

And whether it is grotesqueness

or it is elegance

 

Its tense will be relegated to be held in critical judgment

After the fact

 

While the creative motions

Will regain an eternal new expression

Each and every moment

it finds presence In the intentional mind

where creative impulse is given fresh focus

 

And in distinction...

Is it fact that this came to be

Matter not if perceived right