Hour 7 : Poem Inside Out

Once I lost in thoughts

With a bundle of blank pages

Hearing the cries of a horse

Who missed from its flock?

Soak in misery and timeless clock

Dark trees and haunting shadows

Perplexed mind moved in meadows

On the plains of bulky ice

It marked foot prints as dice

Roll on the vista of mind

On the table, a printed paper I find

 

Poem 7

A British Science Fiction For South America

Five electric eels
Swung out over the ecclesiastic highway
Driven now only for acoustics
Waiting choirs complained of unbefitting stones
And the dogmas of their ingrained brethrin
Irritate their alternate
And pass again,
At a speed of rules,
Five electric eels overtaking in sequence like
A juggling highway.
Obscene ducks were carefully
Redirected from sight.
The recordings were obdurate
People were divided between
The many and the few
But the many had been absorbed together
Into one mind, particularly linked
That all who lost signal screamed rabbid unbearable
Or in peaceful lockstep harmony
Such unhuman seductive harmony
Such immense immortal promise
Transisted
But the rot came like to the scotched
Banana plant
And now all must wear special jackets
And howl as what was supposed to leave
Struggle behind with new existence
Resiliently betrays the lot
That had been the plot of the few gone wrog
And now they consider with guilt
The chant
And use landscapes for flutes
Compositions of brittle perfection
Interlacing Norman castles
The Winchester cathedral now
An office space
For goblin clerks
And more mythologies
More than I can bear
For we intone reality
With fantasy
Summon and spell
Not from warbling mirage
But sleight of hand and throat
Fear and nonchalance
The piecemeal societal psychosis
Terrific, horrific effecting
Unpredictable yes
Send in the shrunken submarine
Cautious all ye
Who tinker here

Hope

The death of Hope is not the end.

Empires rise,

but they also fall.

A man must endure,

even when Hope dies.

 

The end of Hope will not be his end.

For there are things that burn brighter,

desires that cut deeper,

needs that gnaw at the bone and rend the sinew.

 

In those times of trial and suffering,

a man must endure.

 

Endure to the end.

Endure to the last.

Win or fail,

gain or loose,

live or die,

a man must endure.

 

For one day,

through the dark,

through the death,

Hope will burn bright again.

 

#6 Inside out

Looking from the inside out,
casts a spell of dark self-doubt…
I wear a cloak, a mage’s hat,
Say abracadabra and all of that.

But still the demons reappear.
I feel them lurking, drawing near…
I wave my wand, drink some potion.
Inside out is a revealing notion.

I hide my face, I wear my mask;
keeping inside in is a formidable task…
Don’t let them see, don’t let them know.
So much of me, I dare not show

So much that’s fragile and reticent,
I’m complicated and omnipotent…
There’s much, much more I can’t expose.
Let them wonder; they can all suppose.

Looking from the outside in,
blemished heart bleeds tainted sin…
Can you love me, think you truly can
Even being so damned inside out that I am?

My First Marathon

It was 1980 something and the gun shoots

runners off

one step two step

running with the stride like no other

it passes quickly the 10k mark

my mind is daft

my body chaffed and burnt

at 13 miles, I get a second wind

I am indulging in what I do

fatigue is not an option

20th mile I’m sore and wreaked

with my conscience, I endure

question myself and wonder why I am here

remember the miles, sweat and blisters

finally, I can see the crowds and finish

I cross the line and collapsed

a journey of endless proportions

in a few hours, I’m planning another

the addition has started

twenty-six miles 365 yards

that’s me sorted

my time here is done

 

Prompt 7

Except that stores are still open
and people still shop in them,
nothing looks
like the end of the line.

Aldi’s isn’t the Algonquin,
but it would prove –
to the alien beings waiting
their turn –
that
we were more
than consumers.

As the cashier
mechanically checks
out a dying race,
minutes
fold in
on themselves
and shrivel.

Queen walk

Some people don’t like the way that queens walk….I always wondered why the way I walk envoked so much discussion My hips do not protrude voluptuously nor does my behind sit apple picked perfect. Yet my crown does rest center squared delicately but purposely upon my head always being held to the heavens Back erect neck elongated stride nothing less than femininity itself steps that were never taught Grace and poise trickle deep within my being growing stronger with each generation evidence so clear as I Witness my princess’s arrival to her throne legs thick stronger than most built different inside and out what they do not Know is the physical does not direct my steps these limbs move unbenouncingly confidentiality by my ancestors

The Curious File of #39

She had, as we say in the industry, a flat affect. Relaying
a monumental series of traumas; from a stepfather
with indecent proclivities, to a stolen Dodge pickup,
the night she spent in the woods after her aunt forgot
to count children when she packed up the campsite,
to the cop who violated her with his baton two blocks
away from the homeless campus downtown; her eyelids
never twitched, her fingers steady as she patiently brushed
a stray hair from her forehead. I wrote that her voice
was warm and low, but rarely ventured from its singular
baritone note. Until she recounted the recent escapade
that resulted,for now, with her sitting stiffly in a chair,
approved by corporate for its ergonomic properties.
With the vigor of a newly converted Christian, she leaned
toward my desk, urgency pushing her breath out in quick gasps.

‘I had to leave that night, that’s why I took Nick’s car, I couldn’t stay another minute, I couldn’t bear it again, it hurts so much, every time they do it, and you get it, right? I mean how would you feel if worms were leaving the forest by the dozens and climbing through your window just so they could cut you open with their razor teeth and leave those nasty chips in your stomach. Look, here!’

She lifted her pink t-shirt; her torso was smooth, unscarred.
I mumbled empathetically, unable to commit but unwilling
to alienate myself as we were just getting acquainted.
As I scribbled furiously about dysphoria, delusions, hallucinations,
she pulled a ten-inch-thick folder from her bag, placed
it gingerly on my notepad, her large brown eyes begging me
to believe her.

Facebook therapists 7/24

Everyone has a cure
for everyone else’s suffering
and nobody cares
who they’re
minimalizing
Have you tried
this diet, or that one?
Have you tried to go for a run?
Have you tried anti-depressants?
No, not the one you’re on.
You spend too much time inside. Do you ever see the sun?
Take a nature walk.
Call someone to talk.
Meditate.
Do you eat too late?
Eat early, eat less.
Are you managing your stress?
Have you tried yoga?
You should adopt a cat!
Are you seeing a therapist?
Maybe you should quit.
Try some drugs. Oh, you do?
Maybe those drugs just aren’t for you.

Try a vitamin.
Move out of your house,
Get a new job,
It couldn’t get worse.

Stop worrying so much.
Or you’ll end up dead,
The cure to mental illness,
is in this Facebook thread.