Best Fistfuls Poems
There is never an ending
to the spending
a world of paper
and plastic to collect
and horde
clothes
and cars
and homes
and jewelry
and fine wine
and paintings
stocks and bonds
vacations
and expectations
entire vocations
devoted to
disguising the numbers
the Caribbean masquerade
to volumes of recorded
purchases and voices
of invoices
making
discreet
choices
all
to extend
the accumulation
of dates
and names
places and faces
communications
and connections
at breakneck
speed
must fill the need
must fill the need
a shouting browbeating
broadband
handing over
fistfuls of cash
to make sure
make certain
only the best
the finest
the rarest
of air is not available
for
the underwater martyrs
the silent box dwellers
the empty bottle collectors
the wheelchair drifters
the SRO limbo sellers
the workers at
the bottom
of the
fast
food
chain
and the indigent gamblers
who line the halls
to knock on doors
of government departments
crippled by reckless
and corrupt state
administrations
choking the dwindling
sources
and resources
that have
nothing to do
but
count the days
and ways
to disappoint
disarm dismay
dispute the reputations
and applications
held in sweaty palms
eager
to begin living
to end the doubt
to end the not having
the counting of pennies
the slow heroin erosion
the unbroken hollowness
the whiskey-soaked
ravages of vacant histories
better-forgotten memories
of cold emergency rooms
to end being
in a world
apart
a world
of resentment
of fear and hate and anger
of dark empty streets
empty recriminations
empty promises
made to themselves
by themselves
harming themselves
or
arming themselves
to rob to steal
to maim
to take whatever they can
for as long as they can
to approximate
the wonder and magic
of having what you need
when you need it or want it
to not have to beg
to not have to humiliate
or be humiliated
to not have to watch
the ease of others
who have a casual
contempt for misfortune
and respect for nothing
but their own wealth
of deception
to breeze through
tall golden doors
to an unbroken string
of shiny bright todays
and tomorrows
to not have to
lunge for hope
and
never grasp it
in all ways
and forever
just out of
reach
It was a simple night,
she suppressed her own mindset
plunging self-shackled feet into their thoughts,
their eyes,
their thought processes, hoping to retain
some semblance of solace in the familiar cold.
-Reality is an infectious disease-
What she allowed herself to notice,
swimming reluctantly through the back of her mind
made her breath ice, searing
winter-stains on the autumn-edge of her lip.
Love shook the decent little girl
scraping by her parent’s esteem and
dreaming in the dark reaches of her existence
of a liberty that wouldn’t leave her screaming
on her knees for God to banish all the monsters
from her closet, and the putrescence
of the memories that colored the back of her eyelids.
Love took her by the hollow of her bruised chin
and melted her into an above
where stars lingered like fistfuls of berries in
explosions of stratosphere, almost tangling with her hair.
She felt the world and all her dreams
slip quietly through her fingers,
so she held his that-much tighter
and left the ocean-echoes in the shell of herself
behind.
-she won’t care if they ever wake up-
Kill me if you will, Tear me apart,
Rip open the cords,
That hold closed my heart.
Grab my love by fistfuls,
Take away its air,
Drown me in the river,
If you must then it is fair.
Stab me, twist the knife please,
Choke me, make me bleed.
You can hurt me,
You can scare me,
But I can't go away.
She broke your heart,
Ripped you apart,
But I love you anyway.
And all the memories,
Of dancing in the dark,
Hold me enraptured in my dreams.
I will live in the past,
It's my reward - its my punishment,
For leaving you with these feelings.
For not being enough,
For loving you,
This is what I deserve.
But as long as I can help you,
As long as I can help you heal,
Im in for the long haul,
Even if you cant feel.
Rejected
Defected
A hopeless case
Lost, drifting
Vanished without a trace
Sorrowing, woeful
Mired in despair
Anguished
Frustrated
Tearing out fistfuls of her hair
Lonely, yearning
Trapped in solitude
Hoping for a pitying hand
To raise her up and help her stand
Desperate, on edge
Whirling this way and that
Frantic, caged
Like a hissing wild cat
Untamed, undisciplined
An unbroken horse
No kindness, no softness
Her spirit so unyielding and coarse
Is there any hope for her now?
To whom can she turn?
Who would want this rebel child...?
Who can lure her in from the wilds?
Perhaps there is nothing left for this witch
But the muzzle of a gun,
Pressed to her cheek,
The squeeze of a trigger
So obliging and meek
And the crack of the bullet
Splintering her skull
The closing eyes
The graceful fall
And then...
The bloody bittersweet end of it all
When I imagined what it would
be like to be a writer,
I saw myself hunched over a
typewriter with bourbon on the
rocks sweating a ring onto my desk.
I could smell the ink on my fingers
and feel the burn of alcohol in my gut
and hear the keys clapping, a standing ovation
for the poor sad boy who wrote wings onto
his back and flew away from the red mud county.
But it's quiet here.
I sit alone at my desk and I reach into my guts
and I grab fistfuls of blood and viscera
and the keys don't move
I choke up the rage my father left in me
and the keys don't move
I cut out the fear my mother so lovingly placed
and the keys don't move
I drag out every black eye, bloody nose, and split lip I ever earned, every fight I lost, every single argument I had, every sunset I was a brother beneath, every truck cab I ever fell in love in and
THE KEYS DO NOT MOVE
An expansive view of tumbling sand and lasting memories
make seagulls swoop in broad paintbrush strokes
over brothers bonded by baseball and a broken home.
Within a sandcastle, two boys taste salt on their tongues,
a savory blend of pinky promises, dolphin sightings
and an acute ache for adventure.
Innocence crashes between truths untold and manhood. Whether a plethora
of clouds settle in their sight or brown eyes squint in midday sunlight,
their bare feet roam through foamy waters.
Down the beach, over conch shells and starfish, freedom thrills.
With curiosity and cartwheels, spry minds and lanky limbs,
youth salvages its adventurous spirit.
Four hands assemble a paper sailboat, not seaworthy, of course,
but fine for fistfuls of fantasy with a deck wide enough to hold their dreams.
Sandcastles and sailboats, cartwheels crashing in waves, daydreams falling
asleep under charmed stars, wide eyes seeking sand crabs -
these moments salvage each boy’s adventurous spirit in swept
paintbrush strokes and shadows of silver-lined clouds in the sand.
We categorize innocence, oceans, promises, adventure, dreams of boys
and paper sailboats. We try to soak up an expansive sea.
I hung a painting on my wall and tried to unalphabetize it all.
Life is messy and beautiful. Without the taste of salt on my tongue,
I could only live vicariously through the art.
Rhonda J Saunders, written 11/15/15
for Eve's Oil Painting's 1-2-3 Contest
Inspired by painting #1
This is me raping the red of an apple,
the breathy sweetness of the flesh underneath,
a slab of clean, radiant cold filling my mouth.
I can feel it under my teeth,
your skin,
like the calm of an apple.
This is the tip-toe edge of a knife
slipping through the base of my skull,
and the blooming sickness of blood
curling up in my throat, as cold
and as calm as metal,
a tide against my tongue,
the breaking of waves against gritted teeth.
An untamed, hot wind like wanting.
I am red like the sun
snapping the softness of the shadows, the
patience of the moon and her lazy circles,
dripping white perfume and
jazz –silver and cold onto the hungry earth.
I am mournful, desperation,
fingers pressed on parted lips
and hollow strings –the soft, clear scent of wood,
the cool reality of it unfolded beneath my palm,
lithe as skin.
This is me waiting for you
because empty has overtaken
my marrow, scooped out fistfuls of organs
and flung them across the stars.
I have nothing, so I set it on fire,
and it burns
and it burns to nothing.
And this is me reducing myself to ashes,
wrapping my arms around my chest to
count the beats,
wishing they wouldn’t skip
so
fast.
notes spilling into
the white spaces where the shape of you
waits empty.
This is me conducting music in the rain,
your name beating at the windshield,
sliding silky down my thighs.
This is me flooding across the floor,
the heaviness of the inhale before syllables –
an ocean staining my reason –
You: beautiful, intangible, surreal
as I reach for the
bright spots of the moon,
the unbroken crimson of an apple,
the wet indigo of the sky.
A cold, pregnant emptiness curving,
the breathlessness of the sea
misted white over my fingertips.
Johnny was a lover of God's country
who roamed cherished land because he was free.
A skilled outdoorsman with backcountry charms,
he donned a burlap sack with holes for arms.
To wear rugged shoes was quite a blessing,
for barefoot he'd trek, soles without dressing.
He donned a useful pot upon his head,
books have depicted, historians said.
He was kind and gentle to all God's life,
though he was childless and had no wife.
He escaped wild beasts, slept under stars,
and had tales to tell along with scars.
As an optimist with fistfuls of seed,
he ceased moments to meet a future need.
Crisp and delicious, he loved apples' taste,
pocketing precious seed to sow in haste.
Imaging orchards graceful and wild,
he planted new life with faith of a child.
With settlers he'd barter for basic needs
blessing them with the product of his seeds.
From Pennsylvania to Iowa's ground,
Johnny's living legacy can be found.
1/20/2021
My guitar strings in the moonlight should be something beautiful,
but the cold liquid white just makes everything harsher.
–not soft like snow, but deceptively fine –
Light is discordant
like my clumsy fingers that keep
mutilating the restless heavens with their attempts at mourning.
Why won’t they move right,
Don’t they realize how much depends on perfection?
I’m right here; I mutter to the stars and pray they spread it out over you
Like the night they hold up while atlas dreams.
But I’m not there. I’m not even anywhere –
I can’t put a finger on me.
I’m not real. I whisper over the translucent shell of my existence
and drench myself in intangible alabaster…
and I’m not real because I need your voice
to tell me I’m not invisible,
to stop me from falling up like a red balloon.
I don’t want to be the scar in the sky anymore.
I’m looking at patterns of patterns of the beyond
and no matter how many constellations I calculate in my head
the lines here, here, and here, easy as you please
I shiver because I know it makes no sense.
Not like we did.
I’m walking on edges of that metallic element of pale
and grasping red-rimmed fistfuls of atmosphere
but they’re never close enough, the stars–
and that’s why they’re there. That’s what I’ll tell my children.
They’re just the paint-brush splattered whim of
some malevolent deity –
Maybe we all are. I write it down, “paint-splatter of flesh”
tracing finger-prints through indignant sprigs of lawn.
But I might as well be writing on the bathroom mirror
because the words still won’t come out right.
And now everything’s backwards –
and you can’t fall up
and you can’t explain god
and you can’t fix light, even if it looks broken
and you can’t reflect sound, even if you angle it just so.
I can’t live like this.
Let free-fall guide your vertigo
As adrenalin rushes into waterfalls
Eyes and skin tight like water up the nose
Bubbles bursting with lightning strikes then
Soggy silence in turquoise splendour
Watery eyes fade quiet lights and adrenal fatigue
Sinking depths into cooler blues, as bubbles float on silky notes
Downward spirals into salty dreams of broken coral then
Springboard from the sandy bottom
Scuttling to the top chasing lazy bubbles
Choking on the light grabbing fistfuls of madness
Bursting lungs with rusty air as
Blood pounds loud through skin and salt
Whilst pulled from the brink of eternity
To dripping smiles and screaming tears
Yet upright again, you head to the edge
Step free from your guide...
When you are there,
In the mist
That salty barrier that swallows our kisses
I can only see half of your dreams
Those smiles are certainly,
memories I know I should be making
As quick as I can
Before you go.
But like a spider, I weave only so fast…
Only so fast before I know,
That I have gathered all that I need,
All I need before you go
Back into the distant grey tides
When I am here,
With nothing but sand to hold my weight of worries.
Fistfuls of worry and love.
You ought to know…
I love you, even when you go…
Even more so when you go…
(Thy lovely lasses unwittingly
unstintingly unexpectedly
taught me selflessness)
Every Holiday time each year,
a rocketing increase asper
doling out Uriah Heap ping
largesse imposed upon each
citizen banker (coerced, forced,
induced to buy baubles,
bibelot, curios, et cetera striving
to outspend a competing
shopper, which faux grand
handedness, and crass exhibition
generating mega sales (as Tale
of Two Cities, or more)
earns management stripes viz
embracing the Christmas spirit
(via blithely deftly, frenziedly,
et cetera) per avidly boasting,
coarsely displaying, eagerly
flaunting, et cetera prices paid
for the latest curiosity, doodad,
gewgaws (whereby un
avoidable advertisements), flood
mass communication airways,
causeways, driveways, et cetera
to plug reduced priceline sans
gaud dee, knickknacks, gimcracks,
encompass companies blitzkrieg
for those, who disparage being
labeled Scrooge plunk down
every red cent, and empty
their pockets, purses, wallets
to snag the title of topnotch spender
no matter no need exists to snatch
every last kickshaw, novelty ornamental
tchotchkes, (which modus operandi,
(visited upon the populace, a tidal wave
vis a vis figurative manifestation,
laceration, inundation, whereby tenet,
maxim, credo, et cetera broadcast
to general public amply expending
fistfuls of dollars fulfilling
Great Expectations
(for family, friends, relatives)
buy giving liberally,
One night as we pulled into the complex
Over the bumpy Colonial Arms exit,
Taj was sitting out on the brick stoop
With a single light blinking over his serious face
His mouth encased in a smoky cloud
And a single flame at the end of his cigarette
Tapping into an empty
Heineken bottle
I opened the door, and my slender leg
Lengthened on slick black heel
As I made my way to him
Knowing that the night should be over
Knowing that I had no plans to end it
A couple of blinks and words later,
I’m pressed to the bathroom wall
And I’m losing it all
Clothes, my red lipstick, my sanity
“Screw it” already sealed my destiny
And though some would say
“You’re there for the ride”
I’d so no, I’m just trying to survive
I’m scrambling for a light in dark places
The night’s not over, but I’d prefer to be
An alcoholic fool to find it
And before long, Taj knows what I’ve done
And he calls and mocks my pride
curses my god, insults my father
And I try to hold it together
My red chest in fistfuls of my shaking hands
My vulnerable bitten lips
Unable to sob through the shock
Of my stupid heart, and the way
I acted on all my misgivings
This isn’t living
But it’s a fact I’ll forget when I go
And screw it up again
With a friend, with a stranger, with a man
with his fingers crossed behind his back
I have to laugh
When this morning, a year from then
I find myself collapsed and chapped
Sobbing into an already tear stained floor
A fool has nothing to lose but his life
And tonight, there’s not much between me
And the knife
That would take me there
And as blood drips to the end of my golden hair
Maybe I will find home
And maybe my dream will let me murder the man
Who stole it from me
Screw it.
All the good in me unlaced I pull what I own across the floor,
books devoured to the spine, impressions the knees of my jeans
have made of kneeling, my ghosts of ghosts, the saint who is namesake.
I lay it out. A turtle can lay one hundred
thirty-seven eggs in the hollows of trash-filled beaches
and pray her young into the foam
and I know how she judges her almost-gone
with the shell’s first clean fracture, and how much she holds
when she owns nothing and watches it race away.
I line it up for you, lay it down, armfuls, fistfuls,
incalculable catalogues of rinsed fingerprints
released, as they are back-breaking, as this convex shell
is enough, as the body becomes the loudest resonating
home where I deadlock roomfuls of possessions,
where my valuables belong so unbearably to me
that they are not mine. And because I want to float
I lay them down, the swatches of fabric, the memories of places
I swore I had owned so wholly I felt them through to the relics,
laid down, the hopes I hold for the ones I’d kill to own
who swim between combs of aimless currents,
of whom I am no owner, of what I am no mother
I lay them out for you. And as the sea holds
each embryo to the memory of one
original shell, I am unforgivably enamored
with the ownership of all.
Form:
how desperate
the disparate
the they that are
seperate
and hypocrite
whose bassett eyes
have weary arms
and longest hours nocturnal
are gardeners of distraction
without traction
how wary
are those weary
whose clock hands
dig and bury
with blistered palms
with seeping eyes and open arms
brandish brimstone in fistfuls
trod God and shout skyward
how sad for a mite to incite
refuse to be
might with insight
how sad to be man
with no compass