Seducing Evil No More
Perhaps at the days complete
This date with death shall not
prove to be deadbeat.
The outcome has proven quite concrete.
Tragedies that shades
itself behind deaths eyes
piercing to contaminate
like some blastomycete:
Ready to enter my blood to do some harm.
like some invading fungi who does not laugh
at the joke, but at the joker’s lack of antidotal charm.
As death is now my escort;
Invasion needs no persuasion.
I've awakened myself, to realize such a thought.
Finding my words nesting, in some confessions plot.
That is why I never sympathize with evil.
Abetted, by the fluid allure of death.
Follows me like fresh fish with a trail of flies.
In poetic terms, it’s easy to describe
the evil that is flowing, like sewage in a flood.
Around every corner, I have found,
The hatred from which I strive to hide.
Led me to find a peaceful place near the trees
Where peacefully, I now reside.
Sitting alone with one trusting friend, as
we admire the color of the trees in the quiet.
We meditate and sit in amber silence.
Without anticipation of the judgment of each other.
Dreams shed light to your beam,
but soon they get dimmed and faint
once you reach them without wisdom;
for reaching true dreams is not the end success,
yet progressing along dreams keeps you accomplished,
and happiness is striving to grasp the bliss
of which sharp process meaningless
without dreams access.
My golden dog,
two days after his death
I can still smell his fur
in my nose,
in my brain.
After frantic efforts,
we shared his last breath.
I watch the life leave
his eye.
His name was Cosmos and
I think there is a switch
on the spirally DNA
that's turned on more
for some than most.
Those that have it must beware
that it can take them
to their deaths.
Those that love them must be aware
that it can take them
to their death.
Cozzie's mother knew,
it is typical of the breed
to have the switch turned on.
She always held back a little perhaps
knowing where her genes
could take her.
I always sensed a certain sadness
as her doofus son bounced around
trying to please her,
please me,
please everyone!
Lick,licks, licks,
a thousand licks,
even for the cats he shared
a household with.
I think that his mother knew
where it would all end,
out on a walking trail
on a beautiful day,
doing what Cozzie love best,
pulling us all down the trail,
determined always to be first,
dutifully stopping at stop signs,
ready to take off
when given the "O.K".
There came a time in every walk,
that I didn't take seriously enough,
when he would say, "enough!",
and lay panting in the weeds,
embarrassed to be seen,
and we would wait,
until he was ready
to resume the lead,
apologetically wagging his tail,
for the momentary delay.
This was a normal day and
I trusted nature to set the boundaries
never suspecting that Cozzie's switch
was turned too high,
pushing him beyond endurance,
just to please.
The day came when his big body
collapsed in the weeds,
and he could not get up,
panting for his life,
and apologized to the end,
for his inability to please.
If only we could hold back those
with the Cozzie switch
and make them understand
that half a big heart
is enough.
Enthusiasm, a fickle friend,
Illumining the soul, or chasing an end.
A trumpet call to start the race,
Run with heart, or without a face.
Honoring the master’s call alarming,
Or setting the ego dog to barking.
A sailor’s wishing for the wind’s gifting,
Or a soul’s salve in the stars twinkling.
Enthusiasm entices in all its guises,
A forest of virtues as well as vices.
When Apollo's prowess gleamed,
Cupid's arrow deceived
A hero's budding heart,
Fate's victim,
Among the leaves.
Aspire to enthusiasm's enduring aims,
Our Halcyon spirit to exceed the waves.
Eroded,
undercut,
sagging for years beneath the weight
of a dead sycamore,
the bank gave way
when the lake was closed
and the dams opened up
during the winter overflow,
leaving the tree offshore,
hunkered down in the water,
half submerged,
its white branches groping the sky
like a blind spider waiting to prey.
The boat just happened to be there
(its outboard, suddenly crippled,
useless against the current),
swept like some hapless insect into a web,
fought for awhile then capsized
in the spider’s embrace,
dumping him unceremoniously into the drink,
dragging him under
half unconscious,
battered by the tree,
swept into the channel,
a red General Motors hat
bobbing ahead of him downriver
like a beacon buoy
before it sank from view
waterlogged.
Time passes slowly underwater.
After struggling in and out
of consciousness,
rising and sinking
for what seemed like hours,
snatching only ragged gasps of sky
to drag down with him,
water and despair overlapped him
one last time
and he decided to breathe
to get it over with;
Lucky for him
the boy from the trailer court
had stolen a boat to go joyriding
or it would’ve been.
Later,
shivering in his wet clothes
in the back of the boat
(so the boat was stolen?
Morality is relative
sometimes)
everything around him was
[(closer) (more remote)]
at the same time
and he noticed
(idly, smiling)
that his Timex
had taken a licking
and kept on ticking.
We are all born angels but gradually grow
into men;
A few of us, though, do angels remain,
And you, golden you, are the like of them:
You whom Paradise led me to
And back to Paradise leads me daily;
Whom Fortune fished from my dreams to
lay by my side...
If you wish me love, wish me you,
And if I should make you happy, make me
hubby!
Then for a day you’ll be my bride and forever
my pride.
And side by side with hearts, sweat, & tears
entwined
We’ll each day labour at the blessed wheel
By whose fateful spins our home shall be
steered
Towards destinies atop golden hills
That Heaven wills as our dwelling place.
"Cry Ugly"
My deepest private searing pain manifests as "Cry Ugly.”
Guttural moans race like a runaway train. The wail crescendos and peaks as a Banshee scream.
Tears race down my face… my nose leaks... snot and tears merge dripping off my chin reminding me of small intermittent waterfalls… I taste salt.
Vain furious attempts to wipe this viscous interloper off my face and out of my eyes... are an abject failure... smearing and smudging it on my cuffs and sleeves.
Insidiously, shame begins its invisible infiltration at the edges of my soul… like carbon monoxide… alarms sound…
My body wracked with sobs crash into gut-wrenching convulsions… segueing into dry heaves... my worst bodily insult to endure.
Dehydration sets in... it's hellish… my eyes are burning red... my tongue starts sticking to the roof of my mouth…
I'm vaguely aware of a bone weary fatigue, like a translucent feline apparition peering around the corner… waiting to pounce… I'm helplessly trapped in "The Twilight Zone."
Another crying jag begins... repeating the cycle... this time dehydrated…
No articulate speech is possible… silently and falsely telling myself I could care less… but I secretly do care.
My shame permeates, thus reinforcing a belief never to allow witnesses…
A tiny voice of hope cries "this is wrong"... I can't make out the words, I feel its faintest vibration… yet unsure of its meaning… I feel it's important...
Gut-wrenching sobs escalate into a silent scream…the Banshee seems to be silent… but it isn't. I'm the only one who hears and feels the scream tear at my throat.o
I can't move... my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth… now I am desperately trying to pry it loose… my voice lost…
I'm doomed waiting for hours and counting the endless seconds... utterly unaware when I subtly slipped into an exhausted lethargic stupor.
Looking back at my self-imposed shame, recognizing its insidious march through my body… gathering recruits, comparing it to carbon monoxide, capturing life sustaining hemoglobin and leaving traces so this poison can insidiously and subliminally metastasize as if it's cancer.
"Cry Ugly" is my private hell to travel alone… refusing to allow witnesses, telling myself lies that I'm protecting them from helpless observation… believing this is the only course available for me to get to its other side…
This is a self-imposed solitary journey… shameful... in truth needs to be shared… so I can survive…
Sherry Barton
July 2021
Jesus, itinerant peacenik,
Wandering socialist hipster,
Of whom 'tis said, he healed the sick,
Betrayed by a right-wing tipster.
WRITING
when other souls
are conceiving
in their dreams
my breath
gives birth
at midnight
my soul
only knows
to labour
to push
to birth
alone
~ Eshe Benson
Goodnight my dear
I'll dream of you
I know I will
I always do
A dream of you
Is nothing new
But I love them
Just like I do you
Uncertainty
"Uncertainty arrives as an enigmatic seed
An imposing oak or a persistent annoying weed"
4/30/17
West Palm Beach
Florida
“A Christmas Gift”
By: P. G. Borgia
For JP
1
An evening of peace, city streets still,
Snowflakes settle upon your windowsill.
Snuggled in your rocker, pleased to see
A day’s work of love, trimming your tree.
2
Fragrance of pine and lights pulsing bright,
Shining stars lighting a joyful night,
Red stockings hung with hidden treasure,
Toys piled high for a child’s pleasure.
3
Raising your glass to warm, glowing embers:
“Here’s to Santa—he always remembers.”
Your work complete, you begin to doze,
Grinning at the thought, teary eyes gently close.
4
With silence deep and wavering thoughts
Of times in your life happiness brought,
You hear again that soft solemn voice—
Quiet emotion—dry cheeks now moist.
5
You stir with unease, deep in a maze,
Though mercy is brief in slumber’s daze.
You drift into dreams of yesterday’s glee,
Seeking—a child’s voice, sadness-free.
6
Less than a wink, awakened by a tug,
Your child excited, giving you a hug:
“Look, look! Santa was here;
Presents and toys everywhere.”
7
“Can we open them now? Can we please?”
“If I get one more hug,” you playfully tease.
Another big hug — a sweet bribe for sure —
Moving hand-in-hand to gifts on the floor.
8
With a smiling peek at your child’s wide eyes,
Each present opened, another surprise.
Praising your Creator for what you are seeing,
A sense of warmth envelopes your being.
9
Gift wrap and ribbons scattered everywhere,
You quietly return to your rocking chair.
Your child stops playing, gazing up at you:
“Did Santa bring you a Christmas gift too?”
10
Drawing a smile with gleaming pride,
Your little angel moves to your side.
Searching your thoughts, as your lips quiver —
Moments of silence, memories flutter.
11
“Once upon a time, not so far away,
Santa brought presents on his reindeer sleigh.
One special gift was a stocking of cheer,
When gently I peeked, my eyes did tear.”
12
“For inside there you were, my beautiful babe,
A silent night of joy, pure love we gave.
And now, in my arms my gift softly sleeps,
Dreaming a child’s dream, in stillness deep.”
“To you, to us, and to those we've loved—
forever in our hearts.
A BLESSED MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL.”
© 2011 P. G. Borgia © rev 2024
Part One.
A silent yawn, the moon awakes.
Compels its patron planet's shape.
As oceans shift by its command
And with its might recasts the land.
Below the lunar rings of mist,
A strip of cloud, a stolen kiss.
The harvest yields a poet's line
on hay-rides of forgotten rhyme.
Part Two.
While far beneath the grain we reap,
Magnetic powers guard our sleep;
But in this source protecting Earth,
It warps the minds of some at birth
A missing foresight of control,
Malignant thoughts that urge, cajole.
Your moonlit steps they wait to hear;
A twisted grin, as you grow near.
Iambic Tetrameter / Cateletic.
Rhyme / AA-BB
Gene Bourne
02-02-14
.
The sun awakes from a night of slumber
Rays cascade down I start to wonder
Birds take off traversing an upward flight
Gliding them into a newfound light
The waves of the ocean start to applaud
The sun looks down, a wink and a nod
A sea of people embrace the warmth it makes
A spectrum of colors bounces off the lake
The trees reach up to shake its hand
Voices from nature cavalcade across the land
Accept equality, admit to science
That you always believed -
Why wouldn’t love be free?
San Franciscans and summer lovers
Flocked here seeking illusion.
They saw pretty colors, but no truth.
I extended my hand, warmly
You grasped it, looking onward
To clover crowns and daisy chains.
There is no understanding of
The light in shaded eyes, or
Coy words slipped from tight lips.
Summers always end, she said.
We sighed, nodding off to dream,
Once more before the apocalypse.
-ARCantu, 05/25/2023
Zero.
I imagine you watched,
With awe and wonder
At the image on the screen,
My movements
In black and white,
As the sonographer moved the wand,
Up and down
The belly of my mother,
Showing you
Mystery and excitement,
The next chapter
Of your lives.
One.
You gave me ice cream
When you
Definitely
Were
Not
Supposed
To,
And I think a bond formed.
Mischief by mouthfuls,
We were already unstoppable.
Two, Three, Four.
Toddler time,
Together,
My earliest memories
Envelope your face,
Warmth and fatherhood,
I’m safe and loved.
Five.
I start kindergarten.
Nervous,
But you drive me to school,
Tell me that you’ll be waiting
And I know
You’ve never broken a promise.
Six, Seven, Eight, Nine.
We all know how these years went.
There were lighter years,
That’s for sure.
But I didn’t block everything out from
These darker times,
For there was still some good,
Treehouse,
Zipline,
Archery.
Fun in an era that I was
Not
Allowed
To be a child in.
You see,
You were there,
And you make things brighter,
And you made it easier to carry.
Ten.
I started to ask you if I
Could work with you,
You agreed,
And I happily
Washed the dishes
In the back of house,
Your restaurant,
Your domain,
I watched you work.
For the first time
In my life,
I began to notice,
The truest
Form of the life you
Put together for us,
Step by step,
Tray by tray,
Bill by bill.
Eleven, Twelve.
I came out to Mom,
I worried,
You were my best friend,
I feared
For a potentially changed opinion
Of me,
Your child,
Should you have known,
The truth.
But I told you anyways,
And to my surprise,
You smiled,
Told me
For at least the thousandth time
Your love for me
And made dinner,
Always providing
Not just the bare essentials,
But adoration and unconditionality.
Thirteen.
You found a note
I wrote
To you and Mom,
About the bullying.
I begged for you to
Keep it a secret,
And you did,
My confidant,
But you let me cry,
And listened,
Always listening,
Always.
Listening.
Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen.
Daddy,
It feels like
It will never end,
This darkness inside me is festering,
It’s getting stronger,
Deeper,
Larger,
And I don’t know how to stop it.
But something inside me knows,
That I can tell you about it.
I don’t have the words,
I don’t have the drawings,
Hell,
I don’t have anything,
But you understood,
You understand.
Suicide and bleeding,
And it gets worse,
Before it gets better,
If it gets better,
The signs
Aren’t showing yet.
But you were there,
And you held my hand
In the hospital beds,
And slept in the hospital chairs,
After work,
Watched with tired eyes,
As I sunk deeper,
And your love never wavered.
Nineteen.
The thing about numbered list poems,
For sequential ages,
Is that you can realistically,
Only write to your current age.
So Dad,
I’ll tell you now.
I don’t know where I’m going yet,
I don’t know what our future holds,
I sure as hell don’t know what mine does.
But since birth,
You’ve been here.
You’ve been here and it’s never been fake.
You’ve been here and it’s never been fake and it’s always been love.
But the darkness isn’t gone,
I don’t know that it ever will be.
I wanted to make this a perfect poem for you,
A saccharine sweet one,
Because you are so deserving of perfection from your children,
But Dad,
I’m scared,
And I’m sorry,
And I’m learning,
And I’m teaching,
And I’m
Finally,
Finally,
Figuring out,
Because of you,
That I don’t have to face it all alone.
Happy Father’s Day,
I love you more than anything.
Love,
Oliver