He was dealt a bad hand, so of course he flushed
it down the drain
The house of cards collapsed on faulty grounds so
he built again on new terrain
He set his sights on new foundations with the intent
to build anew
Blueprints were drawn on solid ground to keep the
plans from falling through
The glassy house he was seeing through was nothing
more than a mirage
The games that are played are exercise, now he's
exorcising all facades
The deck was stacked from the beginning so of course
the push went to the house
Behind the scenes he was pulling strings while staying
as quiet as a mouse
His sleight of hand is David Blaine in the realm of those
that imitate
With every hand that's dealt he levels up, now it's up
to you to speculate
What you see as water he sees as wine, & he's getting
drunk off every glass
He just gets stronger with every sip while using adversity
as a form of gas
Battered Blaine down in the rain.
And kept still in the winter’s chill.
Sudden appetites and several sour fights.
His moods distorted by the pain.
Seasons came and swirled the same.
Inside his brain, a sickly change.
At the will, of the world ‘s exchange.
Slept in sap and cloaked in shadow.
Amongst the sorry sights that drained him.
Deep in thought he stayed, inside a numbing claim.
Repeating his name, as the rain turned to snow.
Restless and weighted, he fell into cravings.
Worthless and hopeless, empty and shame.
Silently, he shouldered all the blame.
Irritable from inability, he lied alone.
Lied to those he loved, lied of his state.
And lied in the embrace of nature’s disgrace.
Until a tone rang from his phone.
A message to remind him of himself.
Which broke the haze of frozen plight.
And brought him back into the light.
He soon rested near a common man’s fire.
An electric heater, with a lamp above him.
Nestled in a blanket with his phone in hand.
He took his medicine and began to aspire.
To soothe his moods and mend his wrongs.
He would not give into his disorder’s might.
Instead, he would remember his light.
I’m opening a factory,
Recruitment starts today,
I’ll describe you the Person Spec.
Send me your resumee.
You have to have experience,
Of doing magic tricks,
And no exaggeration,
How you use your magic sticks,
For ours is a wand factory,
With each a special touch,
They’ll all work very well,
But don’t rely on them too much.
The manufacture’s easy bit,
The black with a white trim,
But putting magic into them’s
Not just done on a whim.
You have to have some power,
You can use and then pass on,
Cos we don’t offer refunds,
From the factory once they’re gone.
Each power is acceptable,
Working here, you’ll get fond,
You’ll make some lives get better,
As you make each magic wand.
And if they are misused at all,
Then each one we’ll retrieve,
And we will only employ those,
Who in them do believe!
Complete your application form,
Try hard to impress me,
You can use David Blaine or Merlin,
As your referee!
There is one stipulation,
That the wands can’t be used for,
They can’t be used for COVID,
Because Trump would claim the cure!
Blaine ran out of tissue, so did the stores
He had to “go” while he did some yard chores
His stomach grumbled
He ran and stumbled
Got up and “went” behind a bush outdoors
Alexis Y.
04-4-2020
Some invite my contempt,
Others, my ridicule,
Some are opposite sublime,
But none deserves my time.
Inspired by the following exchange between Rick Blaine (Humphrey Bogart) and Ugarte (Peter Lorre) in Casablanca (1942):
Ugarte: You despise me, don’t you?
Rick: If I gave you any thought, I probably would.
A ghostly shade of white that cloaks the ground
Of contoured guesswork and ominous mound
With flecks of skyward flakes tossed by the storm
That frost the gray, obscure the day and change its form
Observed within to look beyond a misted window pane
Into bitter extremities of ague and blaine
A snowbound silence that inhibits the soul
And uncertain depth that impedes all goals
Struggling iconic beauty that stealthily grows
Haphazardly drifting across the moors
Confining rugged scene of whitened dune
Snowbound and shackled this afternoon
To gaze and sit and reflect and ponder
The greenery beneath the shroud out yonder
Shane Blaine walked with a swagger
and was viewed as a bragger.
Ladies liked him lots
but kept secret their thoughts.
Awed by his eight-inch dagger.
In the Southwest of Scotland
Marin county Argyle-shire
Extends a narrow mass of land
Known only as Kintyre
A certain mull on which is known
What sea the eye adore
As glitter to a rolling mist
As waves align the shore
Not far from there in Campbeltown
Five miles or maybe more
Sat Duncan Blaine McGeachy
His hat upon the door
Young daughter Isabella
Bound for distant farms
Alas to Rocky Mountain House
Clutches in her arms
Where Peter Paul of Eckville
Did spy the raving lass
More fair than any local
And quite a lovely yass
Peter Paul and Isabella
Rose the Adams pack
Jack Loreen and Mary
James Peter at the back
I remember James Peter
Marge would say J. P.
And when she called him Jimmy Joe
He’d hide behind a tree
Old Jimmy Joe he got to know
How grievous love could be
He stood inside a few short days
More tall than any tree
His mother Isabella
His darling Marjorie
Would both depart on one foul whisk
The maker for to see
Of Jim and Marge had come a brood
As fine a brood could be
Of Randy Eddy and Janelle
And my sweet Laura Lee
One year anniversary today of the laying to rest my beloved son Nathaniel Blaine Gibson. The most horrific, saddest, tormenting anniversary to have to experience and remember. The sting of his death is still very fresh and excruciatingly painful. Still in shock. Feeling his absence with such intensity. What a heavy burden for all of us to carry, especially for his princess Nayla. The hope in the resurrection promise is the only thing keeping us from completely loosing it. Life is not the same, true happiness is not ours at this time, we live each day in pain. We Love and Miss him so very very very much, WE ARE NOT COMPLETE AS A FAMILY WITHOUT HIM.
Today is the one year anniversary of my beloved son Nathaniel Blaine Gibson death.
Everyday I grieve but this week and this very day is even more intense.
I love him so and miss him terribly.
To heal is not mine....
With the words;
"In time you will heal",
many try to console me.
Though said with all good intent,
there is no consolation;
only hurt and anger I feel.
For those words translate to me;
that there should be a limit
to my grief and that in time...
I should be okay with my loss.
To heal is to.....
cure, make well, restore;
those words.... those utterances
have no relevancy to my loss.
So to heal is not mine.
Oh...but there is a promise
that the future holds I'm told,
hence; in all desperation and
with all might I grasp hold;
just as a frightened child clutches
the strong and secure hand
of her towering father.
The promise of a perfect and
everlasting healing...when life
to many sleeping in death
will surely be restored.
So alas until then....
To heal is not mine.
By; Joan Marie Peranteau (mommy)
Dedicated to and written in regards to my son
Nathaniel Blaine Gibson.
Your name I speak every
day....
I don’t care what they think or
say....
You are my precious son
always....
You’re not trash that I should throw
away....
You are significant in every
way....
Though you sleep; your life I
display...
Until the promised day you are
raised....
your name I will speak every
day....
You are my precious son
always....
Dedicated to and Written for… my precious son…Always.
Nathaniel Blaine Gibson
May 7, 2014
I miss that old playhouse of brilliant plays
And when I used to go see a show
Vintage but very classy
And I miss my uncle rod
Who used to be when he was young
The brilliant wardrobe man agent
I miss him and this playhouse that is no longer
They tore it down with no money to keep alive
And all that is left from that old playhouse,
That built my uncle Rodney is a picture of him
Standing with his friends like Vivian Blaine bob Cummings and shelly winters
All I'm left to cherish is their photos in a journal
I hope my uncle see's in heaven
Just how much he inspire me to write
This is to inspire him
With all my heart he and the playhouse
Will always be remembered through time
Blows a kiss to the night sky
As I live to tell their stories
By Brian Otoole
Every time I close my eyes and go to sleep at night,
I dream of dancing with you beneath the stars;
on a warm moonlit night.
As we dance the ocean waves roll in, rinsing the white sand from our feet,
I hold your body close to mine; the rhythm of our hearts matching beat for beat.
We hold each other close all night, and watch the summer sunrise.
I take you by your hand and gaze deep into your beautiful dark brown eyes.
And at that moment we come together for our first kiss,
The waves explode against the rocks, showering us in a romantic summer mist.
I don’t want this moment to end; it has been the perfect night;
And so I shut my eyes and hold you close, and dream of dancing with you beneath the stars, on a warm moonlit night…
By: Blaine Anderson
Inspired by: Kayla
natsumi could walk on water
if she felt like it,
for she has flown many feet above
the subway platforms in tokyo,
she has hurled herself, hovering,
as if she were running a sprint,
up above the street
bearing her gorgeous bright red
dress in the morning
daylight---
and as she coasts down the street,
sometimes holding an umbrella in
case of rain, she has photos taken of her---
she one-ups the likes of
david blaine,
whose own levitation has been videotaped,
but seldom are his feet ever seen---
she floats like a modern day superman & she
does so amidst all of technology’s race to
install the nanobots appropriate enough to
allow us all to do the same,
but alas, natsumi, the humble & self-described
yowayowa, or
“weak” or “feable”
camerawoman,
keep her secret silent,
while dwelling peacefully with her two cats, who,
being her most photographed models,
consider themselves accomplices in the mystery of her
unique
ability.
Related Poems