Best Escape Hatch Poems
Azure blue skies weep in rent glacial torrents,
iridescent earth sun trap poised to garner sympathy,
dark red cloud’s indignant float might yet rumble,
toxic deluge drenches mudbank plot as toilers whine,
thunderstruck I gaze at wild indigo sea mist on brine-fleck shore
Edge of seat terra firma species orange alert mere bluster,
grim altitude apocalypse for amber moon orb,
rampant shower pockmark with visual scar as trenchant plague,
vapour trail from lachrymose horizon now a shrunken haze,
alarm bell’s doleful peal across an impact cratered expanse once sumptuous mint green
Stream of gurgling silken brook upon reciprocal bright cadence,
otherworldly pine from volatile nebulae’s damp swathe,
vapid biome acreage a gaunt reflection though surreal,
despite magenta stardust twinkle whose infant phase corralled
by wayward drizzle
Hemisphere by half redolent of sombre devastation,
yet exotic visual haunt is that vaunted shadow zone,
sweet maple leaf ether bound refuge from monsoon rife,
pot of gold opal strewn paradise escape hatch,
from lesion blight topsoil or open sore empyrean
Purple leaf and bell pepper cascade swirling o'er panic stricken globe,
perfume clad hillock under hawk-eye squint,
denizens idyllic foster atmospheric canny urban vault,
they hobble gingerly on salmon pink stone bridge en route to harried terrain rescue
The world that a normal person, finds him or herself living from day to day, and that of a writer, who allows their creative side to pull them into the shadowed spaces of his or her mind¬. The side that is filled with mysteries, and drama that unfolds in millisecond bursts.
Artist capture visions in these inner journeys and put them to canvas.
Writers enter this illusionary world searching for a tale. He withdraws from the chamber only to scribe to paper his understanding of these sporadic visions.
In deep thought, he ponders, and molds words, and picks adjectives that best describes what this illusive world has flung at him. Sentence by sentence he works, and reworks the tale _then he re-enters this chamber again to do battle with his mind's eye, beating it to death day after day, night after night, until the his imagination has run dry.
Exhausted, he now realizes it is done, it is over, he can do no more.
But he questions himself, did he interpret it right ? Does it make sense? Is it the best it can be? He re-reads it time and time again.
Will the reader understand what he tried to say?
Will the readers clinch their fist in anger at the right moment?
Will they laugh or cry? Can their mind’s eye visualize what unfolded in his head?
So, what is left when his work is done? Dose he stack it in a closet on top of so many others, or does he deal with the other world; the one he hates? He is not a salesman. He is not comfortable with this part, and would rather return to the chamber where he finds comfort, and let others sell his works, but the more he returns, the more it seems these encounters are taking over his soul.
He’s now hearing voices, and whispers, barely audible, but they are there. He begins to fluctuate between sleep, fever, delirium and reality. Till one day the chamber closes the escape hatch behind him and he is trapped there forever.
No one will hear him, for his cries bounce off the walls of this dark chamber echoing on top of his previous cries.
He has found true hell. The hell that awaits a few writers who will allow themselves to find too much comfort listening to the whispers within.
Christmas, me in my red wagon
Slogging in tears, later you forget
Am I a full person?
Blown black pepper stings your eyes
You strike me, the ambivalence aches
Covered mouth laugh-sharing from now on
Reattached you escape childish dreams
I offer to banish parts of me
Warriors on the horizon, plump and ascending
You appear similar, soul less, smaller
I scurry, looking for your parts
I miss them
At your escape hatch I make room
I hide in your obscurity
Broken in all endeavors
Waiting in luxurious swamps
Emeshment preventing loneliness
I wanted to hurt you too
He lives between two worlds.
One that an average, or sane person, finds him or herself living day to day,
and that of a fictional writer, who allows his creative side to pull him into the dark spaces of his mind filled with fantasies and mysteries.
Artist capture these visions in these inner journeys and put them to canvas,
Writers enter this illusionary world searching for a tale their creative side bangs out in millisecond bursts. He withdraws from the creative chamber only to scribe to paper his understanding of these flashing insane hallucinations.
In deep thought, he ponders, and molds words, and picks adjectives that best describes what this illusive world has flung at him. Sentence by sentence he works, and reworks and once satisfied he re-enters this dark chamber again to do battle with his mind's eye, beating it to death day after day, night after night, until the his imagination has run dry.
Exhausted, he now knows it is done, it is over, he can do no more.
But, he now wonders, did he interpret it right ? Does it make sense? Is it the best it can be?
He re-reads it time and time again. Will the reader understand what he tried to say?
Will they clinch their fist in anger at the right moment? Will they laugh or cry? Can their mind’s eye visualize what unfolded in his head?
So, what is left for this creative writer who has finished his work. Dose he stack it in a closet on top of so many others, or does he deal with the other world; the one he hates. The world of the common public that accepts their monochromatic existence.
He is not a salesman. He is not comfortable with this part, and would rather return to the chamber, and let others sell his works, but the more he returns, the more it seems these encounters are taking over his life. He’s now hearing voices, whispers, barely audible, but they are there. He begins to fluctuate between sleep, fever, delirium and reality. Till one day the chamber closes its escape hatch behind him and he is trapped there forever.
No one will hear him, for his cries bounce off the walls of this dark chamber echoing on top of his previous cries. He has found true hell. The hell that awaits all mystery writers who will allow themselves to find too much comfort with the voices within.
A misty morning in Donegal.
My sheep are scattered over bog.
Must wipe the sand man from sleepy eyes.
Put on the kettle when I rise.
Rex is already outside half door.
He senses mist may rise some more.
No delay on this most Irish day.
Drink my cup and let's be away.
The little windey road ahead
leads to bridge then gap in hedge.
Where they escaped once before.
Those silly sheep now over Barnesmore.
At brow of hill I see Lough Eske.
The view always takes my breath.
Away Rex, lets get started.
At the escape hatch through which they parted.
Staff in hand I guide them in
Whistle to Rex what a good dog he's been.
This time ensure gap is closed.
Home in time to enjoy repose.
Don't open the escape hatch until he is far away.
Look out the elongated glass opening right above me.
Only then I can offer proper advice to each soldier.
I read a secret advanced directive I hoped I wouldn't open.
Sometimes it seems everything goes up like a puff of smoke.
Ok laugh at me, in minutes I hope everything changes.
I can't understand why I have all this on my aching shoulders.
It seems our last effort's so enormously futile!
Evan had opened the escape hatch on my order.
Helplessly I watched a bomb enter the open hatch.
A terrible end, my advice caused a disastrous explosion!
No one left, our bodies are nothing except puffs of dust.
All gone, every person in our coffin of death, evaporated.
Con/Vow contest
Feb 14th 2013
Everyone has an excuse for what they can't do.
Don't be like the others looking for an escape hatch.
If you have a dream, you have a reason to believe.
Dark roads are ahead so you can’t
Look to dodge the trials up ahead.
Don't Stop now your almost there,
Don't quit now your time is almost here.
Push forth with what you have left
Then refuel and go for the rest.
If you have dream chase it,
If you need help go get it,
But whatever you choose don't waste it.
Life is short and before you know it,
You'll be looking back wishing
That you took more chances.
Take the chance and don't waste it.
Don't Stop now you’re almost there,
Don't quit now your time is almost here.
Push forth with what you have left
Then refuel and go for the rest.
Spiral carved spheres on long green stems
brimming with redness
Fiery egos afloat in spring air
Layered petal enclosures, soft cups,
paper thin,
Leaves tapered upward in brisk solidarity
Beneath the sun, unapologetic and fierce
Rebel flowers, masters of attention
Bulbs cradled in mottled ground
To set the spring in motion,
when sight is subdued by a stage of blooms
escape hatch from burdens worldly
from whatever drags us into bleakness
Unblemished red tulips, clumped together,
a shrine
the ruddiness of momentary
that moves your soul
when you are silent
(A Blank Verse Sonnet)
The moon creeps through the barnyard's busy night
where ducks chase bugs on top of pond's still face
and turtles wait in murky bottom's sludge
for tasty treats to float across their view.
A pair of mallards glide behind their young.
From shadows they emerge with watchful eye
while ducklings play in reckless, cheerful joy
and turtles watch as webbed feet paddle by
but ducks in statue stance evade their doom.
As turtle swims behind to snag a foot,
a large dark shape appears to thwart her aim.
The Goddess of the moon-lit summer sky
sends clouds to move beneath the moon's bright rays
and hides the swimmers in the ripple's ruff.
The everyman’s watering hole
A refuge-cold or balmy, what’s the difference?
Leaves change, politicians run, and politicians lose
Styles, erratic like the wind
Friendly faces amongst the crowd
Turnstile movement except for the old guy at the end
Yea, he and Methuselah go way back
A stalwart-no matter the circumstance
Drink for joy….drink to hide misery, it’s all the same
Paid on the proverbial tab of the Universal Escape Hatch
It’s all a house of mirrors about to go up in smoke right?
Run from those who say differently
Opinions-strong like the gin
Voices grow louder with each guzzle
Tuning in and letting out…
Peeling paint and creaky hinge
Cheapest beer this side of town
Darts whizzing by
Called corner pocket
Dimly lit and dingy to boot
Neon flickers as tired hands clean
Closing time, one more round
Just another Friday in a hometown dive in anywhere U.S.A.
When time flies, feelings of euphoria,
spur jaw-dropping habitus within,
vision of nirvana on groundswell earth,
chirping bird amber tone on hedgerow,
cacophony that piercing aural backdrop,
riotry of wild bewitching warble,
golden fronted leaf, black nape oriole,
northern red bishop,
snapshot or sedation, honey dribbled spatula,
that ladles satin eardrums,
as momentary plot unveils its kernel,
fleeting countdown to ecstatic charm,
mesmerising tailspin gust bract swirl,
of diamond stud color burst variety,
time lag is an instinct riven leap,
lustrous spark escape hatch mere sprint,
who could be immune to such splendour,
embellishment or antic flourish,
folly swept aside in brisk stanza,
hyperbole on jewel rim chariot,
passenger in situ juggling spheres,
morning dew mist clad bank enchantment,
divinity in spiral foam waterfall trance,
speckled moon’s transient blind soar,
amid hall of mirror dream cloud etching,
bonfire of imagining without rein,
infant echo chamber left me thunderstruck,
lightning flash recall as I shudder,
with ardent inkling of toddler stopwatch era,
parental caper, boisterous shriek,
blue stain paddle boat capsized,
guffaws at the peak of silver rush,
backscatter on a prior and current bloom,
like a reckless swimmer’s wild swipe,
at a grazed iron metal lifebuoy,
whose toss and turn gyration high jinx,
another symbol for the heaven in one’s palm,
that vanishes as soon as it clocks in.
All-seeing eye peers into space,
ether or escape hatch from the chase.
Blue sky peachy-keen hypnotic envelope,
image ridden flight a mind game telescope.
Fantasy abounds where sunshine always reigns,
blissful muses dash through fast lanes.
Fools gold rainbow haven just another wishing well,
signpost to utopia some distant dark art hell.
Angelic cloud silken float zenith,
ornamental star-gazer’s supernatural tenet.
Date posted ; 25th March 2022
Uncle soldier Sammie
is too flashback far Saigon
The bad memory withdrawals
are too ganja gun smoke strong
So he pumps up the blame volume,
saying who’s dirty napalm wrong
He’s got a shaky second and third finger condition,
a LSD (long standing delusion) induced affliction
So spaced out on
psychedelic visions of
democracy victory
It triggers poppy field decisions,
harvesting killing yields of foreigner derision
And the mushroom drum sounds,
from the Band of Brothers’ drone bong,
bangs out “Dogs of War”
Howling in the collateral fallout air, forevermore
Heavy medal addiction is a death blow score
Uncle soldier Sammie is a military basket case
in denial retreat
Accused of tour-of-duty dereliction
Suffering dishonorably from a
PSTD defeat affliction
The mine-trippy, Private Dyan head space
has EVAC landed in a heroin casket place
Platoon power puff disgraced
has a pompous, overdose face
A light brigade of reinforcements
witness the guilt heavy medal addiction
As calvary-came-too-late, doctored ambitions
belay any battlefield truthful admission
Uncle soldier Sammie has horrible dreams
of wounded pride Rambos’
giving way to hasty withdrawals
Shrapnel images betrayed by rancor rice bowl jowls
Armistice impossible,
cache cartel condoned
Crack-ed peace pipe got IED blown
More Flanders field flowers
blowing crimson petals
to destinations unknown
Triage tears dampens the runway moans,
and the mental escape hatch
has shut safely on it’s crystal meth own
Uncle soldier Sammie
self-medicates
the missing limb pain that has grown
over the daze and years for so long
Always seeing ghastly apparitions of Cambodia —
fearful flashbacks, so far sigh gone
And the hallucinatory ghosts of Vietnam
don’t give a bog-of-war damn
08-20-21
Lost and confused nowhere to run
starting a new life here its begun,
going no were lost in the mind
empty completely black
not unconfined,
trying to make sense of the pieces
as i go day by day the images keep increasing,
trying to let go and start from scratch
but it feels like i'm fighting my demons
i need an escape hatch,
reminiscing of the trauma
nightmares that creep
keep me awake at night
as i fall fast asleep,
watching my eyes as i gaze at the mirror
i cant seem to think its not much clearer
facing the truth of all reality
knowing he's gone deep in mortality
recovering takes time
and i'm almost their
only think positive
i hope you take care
thank you for reading
a little of my life
i'm stronger then ever
thanks to my wife.
to my twin and I
By Monica Fontanez copyright
WINTER CRASH
escape hatch open —
slipping and sliding away
from semi’s drunk punch
2/9/2018