Best Flaking Poems
Pull out the easel
set the canvas
positioned long and slender clean slate.
Sketch the figures huddled and dark-bound hostage
to charcoal-cooled coals
etching in shadow images;
Faceless entities
slipping in and out the background
earth-toned sojourners accepting, alone, quiet, dying;
Still the images in silence
hard and disfigured
grotesque horrors in place;
Somber soul-drained eyes
skeletal socket holes
buried in the heart and mind;
Let tears fall down their cheeks
in wonder, awe, and
fear of what happens next.
Acrylic primers dilute the wash in the storyline
flaking and cracking
tearing each soul and truth away;
Polyptych blended burnish bleeds
quiet, soft exuding
whimpered cries, asking why;
Chiaroscuro collages of death from life
fading to diluent breaths
the heartbeat of an unholy silence;
Graded gouache monochrome scraper boards
releasing sfumatos of singularities
communal lives sacrificed
Varnish the final rendition
camouflage the realities,
the actuality of what it represents,
Time immemorial in genocidal atrocities
of Native Americans, Cambodians, Hawaiians,
Jews, Rwandans, Bosnia, Darfur,.
When does it stop?
The never-ending list
life is more precious than this
until change comes
Paint the Picture Black and Gray
pray
then act.
The bark peels back like old skin—
Mine, yours, the cinnamon scrolls
Of what we shed to live. August
Bleaches the world to bone, the bark’s faint spice
Rising in the noon glare,
Heat tasting of salt and sand. And still this Crape crowns
Itself with Myrtle fire. Still—
I cannot explain what breaks in me. Still I press my cheek
Against its flaking flesh, feel
The pulse beneath—magenta,
White, pink, the deep red
Of what I've never
Bled for anyone.
Each blossom a small fist
Opening with the muted pop
Of summer rain on dry earth. Each petal, tissue-thin
As the lies I've told myself
About enduring. The Eastern Shore sun
Has made this tree what survival
Looks like: stubborn—
Beautiful, built for the burning
Seasons that strip us
To what we are. Winter comes,
And I am learning
How to be naked—
These mottled limbs
My teachers, conductors' hands
Mid-gesture, never finished
With their fierce music
Of staying alive. Of reaching
Up through the killing
Cold, brittle air ringing
With the clink of frozen twigs toward something
Green promises I cannot fathom—yet still I know
Lives in the light returning.
Night's descent with heaven's catharsis
Of white cold's drug for the dark;
Even whirls of flaking bits loveliness—
Winter's fresh, ice only shower.
Of white cold's drug for the dark—
Just right for the meek moon's glow,
Winter's fresh, ice only shower
On sleeping hyacinths underground.
Just right for the meek moon's glow,
Even whirls of flaking bits loveliness
On sleeping hyacinths underground—
Night's descent with heaven's catharsis.
I found the bottle lying on a dune of wind-swept sand,
And I brushed the grains upon it with a weak and trembling hand,
I was crazy-mad for water, I was more than three days dry,
So I pulled the cork with sand fouled teeth and spat it at the sky.
What came out wasn't water, it tasted more like smoke,
So I thought myself the victim of some fools cruel joke.
Then standing there before me, like a Muslim houri dressed,
Was a damsel more than beautiful, who my flaking face caressed.
She said "you've given me my freedom from my prison of the ages.
So I offer wishes numbering three as payment of your wages."
I knew what I desired, I knew what to wish for first,
I said "give drink to all upon this world who now suffer thirst.
But give those thirsty, a love of fellow, more than words upon the lip.
So they offer the bottle to a brother, before they take a sip.
And give those brethren gratitude, to kneel before they swallow
And thank whatevever God they serve for allowing them to follow."
When this was said I realised, my wishes all were spent,
Which was what I knew I'd wanted, from my first intent.
She said "o man, I see you're one, whom God has truly blessed,
So take a drink of water, and lay thee down to rest.
I grant thee freedom from jealousy, from earthly want, from sin.
Accept these gifts as tribute from an Effete of the Green Djinn."
My reason for wishing as I did, to this day seems to flee me,
But nightly as I slumber well, I still dream of Genie.
Faint barks, evening, wind, and rain
I'm standing outside these gates again
staring at her long twisted cobbled grey
She'll be pleading and crying for me to stay
Teary-eyed,.. as I start to shake
You see, it's my witching mother
Changing eyes, I remember
Each day a day in mid-November
The whiskey called "screams," and her flaking skin
Unrepentant and filled to the neck with gin
she just sat there laughing at my nervous grin
Those vile remarks and the things she'd say
Throughout the evening of every day
"you must stay with me forever, petals
or I will bloody you with this iron kettle."
I cannot push myself through these damn gates
The fear of the,.. known I suppose
those wretched toenails all overgrown
feet that stink of death
Old graveyard graves crooked amber teeth
My dear mother, it's quite clear I resent you so
Why do I still love you, you wicked old crow?
A blank canvas
That is me
The unmade bed
The formaldehyde
I can have it all
A pure white frame
That is me
The dissected shark
How I suffer for my art
Only just begun
The paint pallet
Untouched, until
I paint my eyes
Below the brow
A shade for an occasion
I could follow any path
Too young to fret where it leads
Against a wall, I start to sleep
Aged and flaking
That will be me
The oak tree evaporated
Set in stone, a fountain
The zest for life drying
A frame stained by hands
That will be me
The aging process
Stained in silent protest
Nearing the end
The paint flaked
Touched, until
I paint the wrinkles
Now no one wants me
A shade of white for an apparition
I regret each path
Too old to complain, a vault for a tomb
The aging process from canvas, from womb
(It was 1860 when the English poet Robert Browning
stumbled upon an interesting artefact as he walked
through the city of Florence. It was a file of documents
from an old Italian criminal trial, and he would turn
this material into his masterpiece, "The Ring and the
Book".)
The Old Square Yellow Book
It was the kind of day they call a "stallion"
in Florence, with white sun, surpassing strong.
And it was noon. (In June, to be precise.)
The Englishman came strolling aimlessly
(or was it?) through Piazza San Lorenzo.
And, just as now, a market crammed the square
and foamed around the statue's marble plinth.
Here, plaster busts, there, flaking picture-frames,
and Garibaldi portraits (way back then,
in eighteen-sixty, they were giving birth:
Italian nationhood was in the air).
The tall "inglese", drawn towards the stall
which offered prints and books, picked something up.
He shouted "shop", and put one lira down.
The book was his. He managed to ignore
the girls, a-squabbling over tasseled shawls,
those burly porters, drenching head and neck
in Giovanni's fountain, braying mules,
cacophony and chaos all around,
to read his book. His blood knew, right away.
At last, he'd found the raw material
from which he'd quarry one great masterpiece.
One foot propped on the railing, near the step
which leads down to the fountain by the church,
he read, engrossed. Then, with a sudden laugh,
he threw it in the air, and caught it, safe.
What was it? Well, a book - but more than that.
It was the record of some long-dead trial,
some murder case of many years before,
with statements, pleadings, longhand notes. In this
authentic tangle lay a human tale
of fierce emotion, rich psychology,
if he could tease it out. So off he set,
re-reading as he walked, feeling his way,
along the narrow Giglio, then the broad
Panzani. Via Tornabuoni next,
so long and straight, down to the river.
He passed the Strozzi Palace, crossed the bridge
they call the Trinita. When he reached home,
the cool Felice, there was not a doubt.
His whole life's labour lay there, in his hands.
~
Layers upon layers,
flaking residue...
scraping at the inner walls of my heart,
priming the ruins of my disassembled dreams while
masking off all hope of bleeding out or bleeding on
“Dare I bleed in the color of missing you?”
Scratches filled in with crayon,
vacant hues...
only on or outside of the lines of love
Woeful stick figures dancing to a lonely song,
played by the empty roller lashed to my hand
“Would you dare touch my hand prints....smear them?”
Minutes take hours to pass, but who cares,
Que Sera Sera...
the old Zenith finds Doris Day happy,
nice someone can be
stirring a smile within a gallon of semi-(g)loss
“Why are the sale brands always barren tones?”
I cringe at the thought of another moment in this position,
base boards...
bent over and touching up,
flat lining without an edge,
waiting for your voice, your tinted smile...waiting your approval
“Like watching paint dry...”
This Is a Tanka written by Eileen Manassain and reimagined by me by
adding every other verse in order to create Lyrics we could put to music.
please visit Eileen recent page and enjoy This poem in it's original Form.
I want to Thank Eileen for the privilege of working with her on these poems
Nothing seems to last
The present now the past
flowers weep faded petals
Like flaking paint or rusty metal
A faint scent lingers
Upon the barren tips of fingers
once blooming in bright color
Now appear quite smothered
My poems have lost their appeal
No longer things seem real
emotions wither
And darkness comes hither
Wilted words whirl in the wind
Until they blow my way again
bereft of beauty
Void of duty
I strive to remain rooted
In a world so polluted
hoping for droplets of love
Droplets from above
Weak audible creaks from a faded pub sign
Preludes a visual crash, combed by critical eyes
Though the structure was sound
The worn brackets were faint
Flaking words curled and dropped
With the tired peeling paint.
Sexy Love
Some say that love is when our rivers join on cotton sheets in mounting passion
when you and I share days and nights with Venus’ delta freely flowing
advance our bodies candlelit caress desires fit and fitting in all the latest fashion
when mingling waters splash the rocks and roll on tidal beaches growing
position musky gushes’ swelling delights’ passages in carefree physical obsession
when springs let loose in coasting caves change blushes into glowing
and we fulfil crescendo’s rhythmic interludes but do mistake loving for possession
Hard truths await when rivers dry turn flaccid stagnant trickle’s scorch our beds
when climate change in our hearts and mating souls abandoned lie exposed
our union built on quick sand crumbling walls fancy contortions immaturely spread
when flaking righteousness only amounts to shallow promises disposed
reveals the hidden secret of why rainy storm clouds erode the lover’s mindless head
when then and how and where the thirsty moonless plights are loathed
that reckoning deserves some thought when all else has been done and said
Sometimes our rivers flow below the earthy needs and wants flown in the wind
when fire’s pleasures kindled spirits need to join beyond sexual application
and thus all sensual heartfelt feelings have to be twined and twinned
when kindness compassion consideration might super-cede awesome copulation
the biggest phallus shapely **** augmented egos and shapely waistlines trimmed
when thinking conversations holding each firmly outweighs the grandest fornication
and then the river riders circle to sheet and intercourse in true love never dimmed
09th October 2016
Blood is thicker than water (farewell)
Burdened and scarred by DNA
Passed on to us without our say yet
Blood is thicker than water you say?
Characteristically speaking at least
Yes this much is true
Blood coagulates, dries up at such a rate
Impermanent - given certain conditions -
As flaking paint on the family portrait
Carries unknown diseases causing delicate hearts
Quite literally to break
Water the poor relation oh so giving
Life force indeed of all things living
Cleanses, refreshes, vitality brings
Enriches life prompting hale hearts
Passionately to sing
Crimson blood dripping oozing
Pure water flowing clear and soothing
I know now which is my choosing
Blood is thicker than water they say
This I will dispute
Till my last drop has bled away
I hope that God won’t turn His back
I hope the Lord leaves just a crack
Where I may slip within His heart
To beg him for a silver cart.
Please…no gilded chariot of old
With creaky wheels of flaking gold
That split and peel along the way
Then hurriedly fly, to run astray.
Grant to me please mithril spokes
So rancid air’s not trapped nor choked
By thoughtless words of those whose trade
Is flipping hearts to darkened spades.
I beseech and beg for happy thoughts
To share with others who’re distraught
A boutonnière to better cope
A broach for pockets. filled with hope.
I am not all happiness.
I am not as bitter as your smile
and I have no lips to make me sense -
to curve around my name and give
me more depth than the air,
than the dust I rise from
like the moon, night after night
chasing sunlight across the sky.
I am the antediluvian scrap of flesh
in the corner of my grandfather's eye.
When he laughs, I feel myself folding
with him into my own skin,
into the held-breath slip of sky
I inhabit, into this
airless gap of eternity
where we live solemn together,
my body like an accordion and
his skin crinkling with all
the mirth of his years seasoned
with every war he encountered
and the salt that scarred welts
into his corneas
time and time again.
He touches my face, and I purple with the bruises
the sun inflicted on the flaking-parchment
knowledge of his skin.
We are love.
We are birthday-cake candles
half blown out before
the wish has time to develop.
We are hand-in-hand soldiers
and accidental splotches of red,
blood on lovers' lips.
We are a pattern woven through history,
sporadic and relentless
and beautific in inevitability.
And so we smile for each other,
secretive and mournful and gloriously
wise,
and we laugh at words that
have yet to materialize.
**For my Grandpa Clyde... your stories always made me sad and happy at the same time. I
longed for adventure like yours, and I ached for the pain you had to go through, and I loved
and love you very much. I hope you never feel lonely again.
There was something odd about this stranger
She called herself a holistic healer
But truly there was nothing “holy” about her
“Bring me an eye of a young newt,” she said
“Two toads that haven’t recently been fed
Be sure to include a Vampire Bat’s head”
“But I just have a problem sleeping in bed;
Shouldn’t I drink chamomile tea instead?”
The scowl she offered filled me with great dread
“You asked for my help; do you really want it?
You risk seeing your name in an obit.”
She scared me to action, I must admit
It took some work, but when I returned
Over to her all her requests I turned
Thinking a cure I must surely have earned
“Ah,” she said wickedly, “thank you, my dear.”
She handed me chamomile tea in good cheer
So I asked why she’d made requests so *****
“Stick around, you’ve more problems than you know
I have to treat that scaly patch that grows
From the top of your head down to your toes”
Ran out, I did, pledged never to come back
Saw in a mirror skin flaking and black
Vowed to find a doctor who’s not a quack!
The newt, toads and bat caused this reaction
Now I needed a full skin extraction
Paid a real doc big bucks for satisfaction
*Written in honor of Deborah Guzzi's The Road to Wellville contest