People always leave and rarely turn around,
Missing all the melodies that we never found.
Chasing words that never seem to come,
Things left unsaid, only leave the tongue numb.
Holding on to memories that agonizingly fade,
Wondering if this soundtrack could ever be replayed.
Haunted by the silence, the years of suppression,
Our promises of forever somehow lost in translations.
With tears escaping from watercolour eyes,
You can only lament the severed ties,
Because people always leave, no matter what you do,
Forever walking away before the heart is through.
Please, spare yourself the effort of proving your love to me -
I promise it will never reach me,
though I wish with all my soul it could.
No matter how vast or profound your devotion,
I am a fortress that cannot be breached;
I am utterly incapable of receiving, believing, or feeling it.
I myself love so deeply - so agonizingly deeply -
and I ache to feel that same warmth returned.
But do not waste your breath on reassurances.
Do not try to convince me.
I am condemned to never, ever know it.
A tattooed cross hung agonizingly there
Dangling lazily from her apple tree
Pleading with me to save her soul
For she is lost in lust.
She urged me to carry on
To quickly get the act done.
Her empty bag she sought to fill
Any delay, her day's income still.
I recalled that verse: flee from sexual immorality...
Sensing my hesitation, she drew me in
Into a touch, a caress of ice and flame
Drowning me deeper into her game.
I gave in to this night’s queen of the damned
With a heart as cold as desolate land.
That night in her embrace, all my innocence died
For she is the devil, in a whore’s disguise.
TURNING OFF THE GHOST
what’s up with the ghost
who boringly stares
through two holes in a sheet
he watches
her every mistake
slow and agonizingly
she gobbles up a pie
her fork stabbing it
we don’t know
if it’s savory or sweet
it goes on and on
like a crazed murderer
then she spews
thankfully running first
from floor
to toilet seat
and still, very still
the proverbial ghost
in his long white sheet
silently watches
the best part
is when he slowly slowly
strolls to the window
and across the way
spies another “sheet”
they lift up a cloth paw
to acknowledge one another
this movie was listed as horror
i turned it off
it was a horror
i turned on “Good Times.”
I’m still that little girl hiding in a box trying to rest
with my dirty stuffed doggy toy, tattered blanket
and ragged clothing dejected in these streets.
I’m still that little girl they judged and harmed
imposing their falsehoods and prejudice so I
stay forever imposed in the finality of a box.
I’m still that little girl who is agonizingly shy, sad
and so very lost while their main goal is to confine
me to a box so my gentle heart is never seen.
I’m still that little girl persecuted to the point
of no return. Every time I’m barely out of
my box their sinfulness shoves me back inside.
I’m still that little girl forced into a box of
wrongful ideations so I cease to be anything
but their erroneous misconceptions of who I am.
I’m still holding on resolutely to my sincerest hope
that my faith will rise me up out of this painful box
to show the evil ones that I am truly a Child of God.
Sleepless, the body becomes
a mind map strung out on a bed,
color coded in degrees of pain.
Each movement sends an update,
a glowing patch of deepening red
or a lava line of heat solidifying
into a poker branding plunge
with a white hot X.
Staying still is only a temporary
reprieve, a lull for nerves to reset
and crank up for the next assault.
Inhabited space pressurizes
to send throbs pounding
on the walls of each weary cell
accompanied by waves
of relentless ache.
Thoughts clamber upwards
looking for a way out
but fall back into a dark
gravity, consumed by
that agonizingly slow countdown
when the next dose of oblivion
can be dribbled out of a pill
which, with any luck,
should get you through
until morning creeps across
your bed
with another installment.
The water wears a halo of mist
made gold by first light.
Two swans write their waking
on the soft glaze of a morning
as if tracing psalms
to anoint the coming day.
They bow their heads gracefully.
Clumsily, I bow mine.
I can almost feel each word
being transcribed across
the tightened surfaces of my mind.
I come to listen,
to hear something sacred
being said in a language
I cannot decipher.
It is agonizingly beautiful.
Why am I so afraid ?
None of those old fears came true.
It’s not that I’ve been evading danger.
No. I’m not that heroic.
All the wormholes that I thought were going to take me away…
Were in my head.
And now I am living in the true reality.
Which is agonizingly quiet some days.
So that I must remind myself not to fill the air with those old voices.
But to instead listen to the new voices that are benign.
I’ll take a second to hear my friend say something nice to me.
I’ll take a deep breath and smile.
Which gives me a moment of peace.
Before a new fear arises.
The roads leading away
circle the distances
and seem to go nowhere.
They seed the horizon
with promises, disorganising
the senses and reason
until there is only a hole,
a dark cave into
the interior.
Effigies stare out of the dark
cloaked in symbols that can
only be deciphered by the soul.
This is the language
of the visionary, gifted seer
of the modern. For this traveler
in the shadowlands
of the psyche, there is either
transcendence or death,
mattering little if counted
as one more in history's legion
of the forgotten,
or a dazzling occupant
of another realm.
His words haunt,
coming agonizingly close
to revelation, enchanting
the soul with the stolen
melodies of the sublime
before falling silent
as homeless angels
must do, a casualty
of flesh and blood.
Wedding wines - rather champagne shines
and bubbly breakout of blushing bride.
Groom with giant heart, gracious, grateful - grips
her hand with his handsome wholeness. Helps
his lovely lady into limousine, longing for her lips.
Laps leaping, longing, leaving the crowd’s “so long!”
Cans chiming cheers. Crowd chuckles at car’s rear.
“Honeymoon here we come!” Coreen casts a shameless
glance at Glen. His green anticipation, Gable-debonair.
Goosebumps and gorgeous view - grand peaks
of her bosom buddies, brimming with lace and brouhaha.
His eyes - riveting, reveling, robust, ruddy and willing.
~
Throbbing thirst, thistles ‘neath terrycloth, while he waits.
Anticipation hurts - artfully, agonizingly. Her appearance
in nascent negligée, nearly naughty, nearly a no-no,
but not, for they’ve tied the knot and into a knot they go.
Get’m tiger! Tongues tangoed, trip to Timbuktu, tipsy
and top-see and no toodaloo - a forever frou-frou.
Silk surrender, sliding, suspend her, satisfaction in space.
Stirring, sipping, inhabiting each other, sensational and sweet.
9/2/2022
Anniversary Contest
Sponsor: Sara Kendrick
of the Freudian brothers I must say
I prefer intercourse
wild agonizingly hot sex
lovers dangling on the edge of bed
intellectual stimulation at ********’ beckoning
a ride into near oblivious bliss
crescendo climax culmination recovery
but at the end of what is called life
the moribund cannot chose
and smell of physical loving may turn distant
all I ask is for a peaceful good bye
a last holding of hands
the promise of memories
last recall of pheromones
and letting go
nothingness is highly underrated
Rumbling earth offers it's own baseline
Bones of the underworld crackle thunderously
Concussive forces driving Gaia's ecstasy.
The man watches as her eyes crackle menacingly
Mortal flirtations lusting for battle
Stone and Crystal, immense and fragile.
Booming, resonating, radiating, alive,
Conjured rumblings otherworldly
Each threaten alternately
To burst his chest
Or to implode it.
With each pulse, each soul-searing challenge of her gaze,
Every aching breath
Yet he remains, agonizingly still
And there is nought but to wait for her to move first.
It is a reaper's die cast in darkness
Uncalculated gamble of unwitting fortune
So he must wait.
Her almar might yet give a wary soul rest
Hiraeth, and hope.
Or unmercifully rend him hapless.
So lingers his being, languishing in exquisite agony
Hoping desperately, and rumbling as eldritch runes 'neath horrors unknown.
Mates at loggerheads to blow the intensity
a spirited fight from determined hearts quite quarrelsome
there’s always a plan, a track to follow
dying minutes give both sides reasons to fluster
one is exalted, the other temporarily doomed
trounced is the confidence, the most affected victim
the battle was destined the other way de jure
painful is the sight of them licking the candy
losing, definitely comes with no absolute criterion
one volcanic tussle that came agonizingly so close
denting the shape of an already telling testimonial
celebrations of the other, creating a clear septum
in the spirit of sportsmanship, respected is the contest
back to the drawing board the low spirits deliberate
to win gold when the next whistle is blown.
you release my quill from dried out surrender
spell from a fountain of compassion and hope
poet tree in motion when blanks fill my space
book end of beginnings you balance my words
weave reason and feelings into joined script
calligraph meaning kindness caring and love
when my ink seems spent you release the flow
skin onto skin like a full moon and a spoon
canvas and tapestry with passion and trust
once I was empty mere parchment and void
agonizingly close to oblivion of mute emotion
smudged charcoal from a cartridge of nothing
scribbles turned into librettos of craving
engraved my lost note pads with crayons
coloured my shadows with indigo dreams
without you my worlds held no promise
was shredded by life’s cynical silence
now the pencil swirls once ever more
28 th May 2020
lazy, long afternoon
preening sphinx-like
catches a stray scent
aha! dinner!...
stealth-creep
agonizingly slow,
'til, target in sight
she springs...
afterward, sated
lightly licks
the corners
of her whiskers
curls back into
her no-hammock
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