Best Resulting Poems
Can you count the times you’ve crossed me
And divide it by the times you disrespected me
Then multiply that by the times you hurt me
And come up with a figure?
Relatively speaking it’s a simple equation
Resulting in a drastic re-calculation of the outcome.
Can you give me the square root of the problem
That started this whole conundrum in the first place
And tally up the results and give me a statistical
Analysis comparing the amount of times you
Left me wondering why I’m on this earth
Or if I’m not worthy of trust?
I’m sure the answer would be skewed resulting
In the necessity to rethink the control group.
I believe the right course of action would be to
Figure out the base and height of the love triangle
You thought I wouldn’t notice, and in case you didn’t know
It, I’m pretty good at trigonometry.
Cause for me, who came into this problem with
Total devotion and a faithful trust, this doesn’t
Add up.
There is a proverbial hypocrisy to
'See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil'
when sinister perversions,
lurk behind closed doors,
contained inside four walls.
What is a sin and what is not,
is in the eye of perception,
but within the pretense
of immorality and deception,
so much is lost in silence
yet it is the tormented who suffer,
when innocence is aborted.
Tongues are timid with trepidation,
afraid of the resulting violence.
Daily thoughts contorted,
they walk among us -
abused, broken, forgotten, misguided.
Like elevators moving up and down,
until you push the wrong buttons -
then all passengers are refused.
In silent sins, evil shame grins,
at those with bandaged hearts,
slowly ageing into stone,
as sadistic oppression wins.
Faces that I have seen,
strangers in their own homes,
struggling to belong in society,
a rejected and dejected priority.
We all seek flourishing green pastures,
a place some have never been.
Some try to run away further than before,
but each trap leads to another trapdoor.
There is an art to suffering,
in darkness you can't see hope -
too much is lost in secret silent sins.
Mizaru open your eyes.
Kikazaru, open your ears.
Iwazaru, open your mouth.
The Silent One
30 October 2020
Based on a quote from Watership Down:
"He fought because he actually felt safer fighting than running."
His experience in fighting battles
had been friendly games of Monopoly
Rolling dice across a colorful board
after shaking, to hear them rattle.
Those were serious acts of aggression
and hotels were POWs, taken in possession
Weapons were a top hat, thimble or boot
Men built houses, not blew them up
Winner, the one accumulating the most loot
Snake eyes moved him two spaces forward,
instead of sniper eyes on roofs of Park Place
resulting in blood dripping from a man's face
He wished he was only playing a game
But shots were fired from somewhere near
Bullets seeking men to kill and maim
War is fought with emotions of courage and fear
It was time to clear his squadron out
That kind of move is what wars are about
With rifle ready he led the charge
Run through a mine field, though weary and tired
He heard a man cry out, "I've been hit, Sarge!"
Without a free space they could'nt stop to rest
No Short Line Railroad upon which to ride
No fox holes dug, in which to hide
Amid shots fired, he passed down the word, "GO!"
only stopping to collect dog tags of his dead men
This time the battle was fought and won
From a shrapnel wound his blood took flow
It was never bravery that he lacked
It was being interred with a bullet in his back.
When asked why he hadn't turned to run,
knowing his platoon was badly overpowered,
He sighed and replied, "I'm not a coward,
So I rolled the dice and landed on Chance.
The top card said Be brave and attack!
So we fought until we took our property back."
In my portrait of life the
palette began in pigments
of blue, red and yellow,
but with each stroke,
my horizons slowly dissolved into
mustard, muddy brown
and burnt orange.
Not everything you portray
upon a canvas is mutually accepted,
so my soul remained subjective
and my heart abstract.
As I collect dust upon my shoulders,
I wish I was a painting never painted.
Visibility has turned into a veil,
resulting in stubborn invisibility,
so everything is an illusion
lingering in a black hole absorbing
the conspicuous.
I know I will regret not expressing one day
but bitter roots remain rooted deep into the earth.
I don't want to hide
but protect what breeds inside.
I'm afraid someone may look deeper
into this façade where time forgets the truth.
My hands resemble a box of nothingness,
as hues fade from indigo into charcoal,
with pastels infusing with the darkness.
My heart is an ocean
beneath a motionless surface.
Not everyone can view the world
like Van Gogh's eyes,
where the longer you stare
the more you become aware.
In blind visions a 'driftwood' mind wanders
between mental blankness and
the angst of actuality,
all that survives is blackness.
If fate was fair
then we would all view and be viewed
in soft pastels of peach,
sapphire and lilac.
The harder I attempt to find myself,
I lose more than I thought I would gain.
At the end upon the edge
in the last exhale all that is left
will be the silence after an echo.
“I let go. Lost in oblivion. Dark and silent and complete. I found freedom. Losing all hope was freedom.”
Chuck Palahniuk
Is there such a metaphor as an avalanche of time?
Each second can be cold, but never freezes,
but we all know a landslide once triggered,
can bury fragile foundations into oblivion.
Sometimes life is scripted into a pantomime of pretend.
Darkness crawls at dawn.
There's a sour stench in the air,
ascending from an aromatherapy of agony and ache.
She's crying again. Her demons smiling.
This is no melodrama,
as crimson discolours the whites of her eyes,
with dripping mascara staining sore dark circles -
as 3am fears are released through a flood of tears.
Her spirit is a malady of misery,
lusting for an end from this state of deadly delirium.
In each tear there is a sign,
an unveiled message lost in silent flows -
as anxiety's asphyxiation grows.
Time has become her nemesis.
Turning her intellect into foolish bitterness.
It's a dilemma creating false hopes,
resulting in broken dreams and forgotten promises.
Destiny keeps playing games with her spirit,
whilst fate falters like premature butterflies.
Only her heart knows the truth of her heart -
She hides behind a veil of personal poison.
In the molestation of her mind,
she kisses the silence in between each echo,
yet the sands of time bring her no respite.
People keep throwing stones,
bruising her every time,
she has no desire to live as a victim
of broken pieces from her past,
but wounds keep resurfacing.
Tired from drinking venomous embers of elixir,
which pierce like shards of sorrow,
penetrating an eternal hole in her soul,
she cries for healing and understanding.
But In a world full of dark skies and rain,
her sanity slowly fades,
like a paper bag of emotions,
floating in a muddy puddle within a concrete pot hole.
Intoxicated by kismet's chalice of impatience,
she has learned fate has no mercy,
it offers no remedy to soothe her sorrows,
nor heal her horrors.
her life is a metaphor known as an avalanche of time.
The confusion resulting from a kiss
Has left me with anything but bliss
If it’s confusing, it’s not from God
Because He doesn’t leave you odd
The feelings I feel are not real love
They should be there from above
But I know that it is only a lust
Because it isn’t built on real trust
Though I care deeply for this man
There is something special in his hand
He has a piece of my heart with him
But I’m not sure it’s not just his whim
I want to be closer to him first off
There is not a reason to scoff
I yearn for a relationship of hearts
That goes over the uttermost charts
He may be filled with resentment
Because I didn’t give him contentment
But I want to get to know him better
Maybe have him read some of my letter
It’s a love story that is built on attraction
Sometimes I feel like I’m filled with distraction
Does he really feel love for my heart?
Or is this such a great place to start?
I want to show him that I care deeply
Maybe that I could possibly be his sweetie
But I’m so unsure of how to make it work
My honest duties I refuse to shirk
I’m leaving it in the hands of my Jesus
The only One alive who truly frees us
From worry, fear and a reluctance to love
With joy, boldness and kindness from above
Snow globe: a frigid, spherical womb,
dream-dusted in darkest December,
mothering the snow-smothered life within.
Shake and shatter the plastic confine,
break the incubator's glass coffin.
Stare into the resulting blizzard:
snowdrifts of memories mounding and settling.
The winged god Zephyrus, handsome and graceful
gently flapped his wings, gliding across the meadows.
His eyes fell on naked youths splashing at play
in the sparkling water of a deep wide pool, sheltered
by willow trees, where fragrant flowers bloomed.
He slowed his flight and looked with lust and admiration.
On the green grass he espied a tender youth;
athletic and beautiful was this young Spartan prince,
scantily dressed, playing his flute with nimble touch.
Zephyrus’ heart fluttered and leapt; he could not help
falling deeply in love with beautiful Hyacinth.
Little did he know that he was already being
courted by Apollo! Out of sight he lay in wait
then made his move and sought him out at sunset.
He approached him and with golden words he tried
to tempt his heart, but all in vain. Though impressed,
Hyacinth remained firm and faithful to Apollo.
That night, Zephyrus many restless hours spent
alone, ignoring Chloris’s sexual charms.
Entangled thoughts engulfed his frenzied mind,
jealousy clawed at his heart, tore deep within.
Dawn arrived, and bleary eyed he hastened forth
towards the hills, in search of calm respite.
Alas, it was not meant to be; envy reared its head
with poisoned fangs that sent him reeling mad.
Emotions changed from red to green, and in despair
he flew high up, aimlessly circling in the sky.
Then all at once, upon a verdant field below,
he caught sight of Hyacinth and Apollo
playfully engaged in discus throwing.
The green-eyed monster lunged and with swift intent
Zephyrus blew a gust of wind that swerved the discus
from its route and it hit Hyacinth on the head
resulting in instant death. Jealousy prevailed.
Furious yet heartbroken, Apollo held Hyacinth
tightly in his arms, blood dripping from his temple;
and with one last act of love he changed that blood
into a most beautiful flower called Hyacinth.
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Contest: Epic Only
Sponsor: Skat A
Placed 3rd
When gazing Beta Persei,
a star with many ghoulish names,
be wary of a winking eye
with fluctuating flames,
evincing evil aims.
Ancient mariners would watch with dread
and chant their prayers out loud,
when that “Eye in Medusa’s Severed Head”
was held by Perseus, proud,
high o’er the heathen crowd.
Sailors' hairs would stand and straighten
when that shady eye would shimmer.
The Hebrews shouted “Rosh ha Satan!”
when “The Head of Satan” grew grimmer
as "The Demon's Eye" got dimmer.
Dubbed “Ras al Ghul” in Arabic,
or “Algol” in the West,
“The Ghoul's Eye” plays a demon's trick,
resulting in unrest,
and much astro-interest:
Riding high in Autumn skies,
guiding galleon ships,
then fading before fearful eyes
by mean of an eclipse
of stars in an ellipse.
Then three days hence this trick repeats
with pre-ordained precision --
dark demon light again depletes
when it winks with wild derision,
which begs a bad decision.
Oh Ras al-Ghul! Oh Ras al Ghul!
So near and yet so far --
do not take me for a fool
that fears "The Demon Star,"
“The Devil’s Demon Star.”
Yet many who think it mirth, or myth,
will double down with doubts,
when that wily eye would wink forthwith
they’ll watch their whereabouts.
Better watch your whereabouts!
For those Gorgon snakes give you the shakes,
and chill you to the bone.
And one wrong look is all it takes
to turn you into stone,
eternally alone.
Submitted June 27, 2020
It would cloud the sun forever
in one instant the sea would dry
shift the axis of the earth
as a weak crystal
all of this would happen!
resulting in death
cover me with its funereal crepe
but you could never shut me
from the flame of your love...
Last night I dreamed
we were standing in cold grey weather
under the proudest stars
no escape from the ocean breeze
we looked beyond
as the pale moon put on a white cloth...
~ ~ ~ ~
I left my little bucolic home to spend a day in town,
A few hours of mere dalliance and shopping for a gown.
A mansion with demesne and a sale sign, caught my eye.
Such epiphany of grandeur I was unable to pass by.
I had ephemeral time to use, I would indulge my senses
With efflorescence from the gardens, always hidden by the fences.
The harbingers of Spring were there, the red robin and his cousins.
In propinquity they gathered and they numbered by the dozens.
The fresh air was redolent with the special scents of May
And the petrichor resulting from a sudden rain that day.
Erstwhile my man was waiting, and I knew free time was flying.
That serendipity happening had kept me from my dress buying.
My story is quite simple
My husband and I had been faithfully
Correctly using birth control for almost 13 years
We’d forgotten it only once
Resulting in the birth of our second child in 2005
However, in spite of proper use
Birth control failed again in 2015
After learning I was pregnant for the 3rd time
My husband and I sat down to discuss our options
What a new child would mean for our family
Money was tight, our marriage was struggling, and at nearly 40
I didn’t feel that I could handle another pregnancy and childbirth
At the end of our discussion
My husband said,
“We’ve never considered this before, but do you want this child?”
I replied simply, “No.”
He said he didn’t either, but that he’d support any decision I made.
At the end of our discussion
Even though it was his child
He recognized that the decision was ultimately mine
Living in Nevada, we didn’t have to deal with unreasonable restrictions
There were no protesters to meet us at the clinic
The only obstacle we faced
No providers in the area took my insurance
We had to pay the $500 out of pocket
I made the appointment for that Thursday
So that I wouldn’t miss any work
Less than a week after discovering I was pregnant
At the clinic
I received a trans-l ultrasound to verify how far along I was: 4 weeks.
The blastocyst was about the size of a sesame seed
Exactly what it looked like
At such an early stage
A medical abortion was my only option
I took the first pill at the clinic
Was told most women don’t start bleeding heavily
Until after taking the second pill the next day
I’m not most women
Started bleeding heavily enough
I had to leave work early Friday
The pain didn’t start until after I took the second pill
It hurt, but was no worse than cramps amplified by food poisoning
I was glad for the pain medication the doctor had prescribed me
Then, it was over
I bled for about 3 weeks and then everything returned to normal.
I admit some initial doubt that we were making the correct decision
Was willing to accept that doubt
After about a year, that doubt has disappeared
During the process
I didn’t feel alone because my husband was right there with me
A meteor came falling to Earth, as Dragon was flying, so very, very, close by.
His curiosity, must of got the best of him, as he ended up on board, in the sky.
Some say it was simply an accident, after all, we all know, how well he flies!
Whatever occured, the meteor was redirected, saving our town, before our eyes.
Though, no doubt, it was only redirected, due to Dragon’s, fearfully hanging on.
Many do swear, they heard him crying, for Mama and, yes, Grandpa Troll, anon.
This wasn’t good, for the people of Nodding-off-Ham, where peace is so sublime.
Yep, these shy, and retreating folk; were in trouble for yet, again, another time.
Remember, the Sheriff of CrazyLand lives there, Dragon’s most ardent foe.
Why there, you ask? To be far from Dragon’s type of craziness, we all know.
Yep! You got it! The meteor’s flight was, for the Sheriff, not so very sublime.
It Hit the Sheriff’s home, head on, leaving a crater, where he once, did reside.
Dragon was thrown and bounced a few times, resulting in an big earthquake…
Took out most of the town! But don’t worry or cry! All was well after a remake.
For everyone from Mayhem Falls: came to see… the resulting gaping hole…
Trolls jumped into the new pool, made from the broken water pipes, Yo Ho!
Dragon tried to gather everyone up, to take them home, with him, to reside.
It took a Lot of effort to round them up... nobody wanted, with him, to abide!
They kept running away! Until they realized they’d be staying in our home alone.
For a little while, that is, until the Carpenter Trolls, finished their brand new homes.
When rebuilding, the homes… bigger and better, became the name of the game!
And a new Community Center, came with the swimming pool, now so acclaimed!
Not to mention, a meteorite was found, worth a King’s ransom in glorious gold.
Finally the shy people of ‘Nodding-off-Ham’ returned, to close their doors, so bold.
All agreed that it hadn’t been quite so bad, as could be… along life’s tragic shore.
And it ended: a Great News Day, for all, when our Hero Dragon, did save our town!
So ends the most recent tale of our neighbors, in the town of ‘Nodding-off-Ham’.
The moral: Help can come from unusual places; even Dragon’s and Trolls known for a little Mayhem…
Written by Carol Eastman 7-7-2016
When rejection eludes understanding
Anxiety places love on trial.
And you start pleading for just one more chance,
extrapolating Hope from denial.
A heart haunted by unrequited love;
begins drifting between Hope and disgust.
And pursuing fleeting shadows of joy,
it loses its ability to trust.
You must hold truth as a prerequisite
if love is to have any chance at all.
For, shackled to an inflated ego,
lies will only intensify your fall.
Reality seemingly disappears,
isolated within fanciful dreams.
And depression becomes your nemesis;
fueling frustration and silent screams.
Unfulfilled dreams morph into delusion:
resulting in an inward migration.
And walling off your heart, you're imprisoned;
in a fantasy of your creation.
As acid tears begin to dissolve Hope,
happiness starts slipping away once more.
And you want to turn back the hands of time:
so that everything could be as before.
Act III, final scene, psychodrama script-
the world is ushered off into history's crypt.
All the super heroes lie slaughtered on the floor
while apocalyptic addicts are screaming out for more.
A handful of patriots ride the airwaves into night
broadcasting dire warnings to bring the truth to light.
General population is glued to the TV set
watching situation comedies, smoking cigarettes.
The program's interrupted by a special news update
"World War III declared" more details at eight.
General population pumps his fist hard into the air
grabs himself a six-pack and settles back into his chair.
Less then twenty cases later he is morgue decor
from the radiation resulting from the war.
The tube becomes his headstone, body decomposing on the floor
beneath blue light TV flickering...1984.