I speak to the skylights
of your tender soul
in formless forms
in eccentric accents
aching in aloneness...
when tragedies of footprints
remain a sculptured secret ~
like an untitled nightfall
dressed in denied definitions
avoiding the touch
of perception
for mindfulness mirrors
memories I hoard
within titanium trays
of masked melancholy…
but I long for you to wear
chronicles carved within
my cold conscience ~
a universe layered
with moulded memoirs
tell me how it feels
to be a beautiful burden
to the jinxed jewels
feasting upon
scrutinized skin of silence
skeletons of psyche ~
too complex
for concave light...
let me stay ~ stretched
in the still solitary sketch
of surrealism ...
I am not a vision
of gold and glitter
that wicked weavers
can materialize
but an unnamed sight ~
a breathing mystery
the eyes of unfelt dusk
fail to stroll through…
intoxicated on pain
~ an ecstasy etched through angst ~
to never be tamed
to never be told
Medicine Cabinet
The shelves in
the medicine cabinet are
radioactive.
Keep God in mind when you look within
for answers to self
Everything you need to know is inside the
cabinets of your soul
The pantry is full of soul food waiting to be
taken from the shelf
Compartmentalized pieces of information
ready to be consumed whole
It's hard to process everything contained
in these rooms
You can't digest the contents if they haven't
been chewed
School is in session and your appetite for
knowledge is understandable
We feed on each other in this universal college
of cannibals
Still starving for understanding while eating
the meat only to spit the bones
Trying to find our way home while still sleeping
in our own beds
Lost in our own head in a glass house throwing
stones
David Cameron
Skull you could hammer on
Back from the Lords as Home Sec
Shows the UK has just gone to heck.
Suella Braverman
Made many mistakes, but the major one
Was using the pro-Palestinians
to insight riot from Social Darwinians.
surfaces
hand-planed and
dovetail-joined …
with deft hand
he pets his
creation
uttering
craftsmanship
ain't dead yet.
January 27, 2023
Tricube Poetry Contest
Sara Kendrick, Sponsor
R is for the repeated distortions of facts,
A for press articles written with hacks,
M for the emphasis placed on survival,
P for the piss taken out of your rival.
A for analogies that never convince,
N for false narratives making us wince,
T for traditional values cast-off
That cause umpteen scholars and clergy to scoff.
L is for lovers whom I dream of all night,
E for electric bills high as a kite,
T for temptations I can’t keep at bay,
H for Matt Hancock - please God stay away!
A is for the **** he fondled intensely,
R for resigning - we respect that immensely,
G is for the government of which he was part, and
Y for the yes-men aboard that rotting cart.
Another season nears its end
closing the doors on the dreams we played pretend
in the days we hoped would never end;
a place where times are unchanged secure in their shells,
endeared moments regained within a magic spell
of holidays and holydays renamed, long memory held;
the antique reservoir of child and adult things
knickknack recalls of earlier life scenes,
glass framed doors in their revealed etchings
the items of fading Christmas collections
angels, shepherd, manger scene recollections
when moments are shared with love and perfection.
Close the doors, clean the glass, dust the trinkets off
the memories are stored that ever hide beneath the coif
hold them close, embrace them within your heart soft,
the season closes in on the once opened doors
and suddenly within the somber quiet
Christmas is hidden behind the curio doors.
Flayed inside his shadow box.
A permanent collection.
Years lost under glass.
History anchors hate and trinket.
He crafted this cabinet.
Polished the locks.
The tours are all guided.
And he leads every step.
To the left: heart on shelf.
To the right: fist just in case.
His exhibitions never open.
His artefacts are never viewed.
A relic in love’s wreckage.
Sorry, forever sorry.
Read the sign: Stand behind the line.
Don’t touch the display.
A knock, knock from the shadow box
rattles raw-boned words that collapse and flail
in another scribbled knot that snags in
straining throat and slackened mouth.
I have lost my train crash of thought in that
desolate transmission so many times my
faltering breath simply rolls over and plays dead
like an obedient and desperate puppy.
On hidden shelves they wetly sit in their thousands,
those interrupted ruminations, my aborted utterances
as they tap out their sloppy, forgotten code and
plead for the key to the door.
They were once nestled deep in my flesh where
they gestated, fattened, and rapidly struggled for
an early delivery that would ultimately see them
born cold, grey and premature.
So they wait and ripen in that cramped little cupboard,
relegated to the dark and left neatly in line until inspiration
once more arrives to release them back into the already
crowded world of interminable prattle.
*Image of Waterford Curio by Houzz.
Cup in the Curio Cabinet
An empty cup daintily accompanies
an assemblage of finery,
from old-world porcelains crafted
against Dutch Boy bluings,
bone China platters painted in
Eastern mystique watercolors,
cozy teapot, sugarbowl, and
creamer set in English rosewood,
a stage concerning crystal
stems elegant Irish sultry charms,
anticipation ...
what season be?
what hour is it now?
what satisfies this void?
2021 August 04
*4th Place*
Imagism
~~Emile Pinet: Judged 2021 September 01
The maid caught me out in the wild,
Where I was out dancing merrily:
She put a spell on me,
And locked me up with a magic key.
The key shone with gold
And was shining bright,
And when it opened into another world
A lovely new moon shone at night.
The cabinet’s filling
With nothing that’s healthy,
All lacking in judgment
But goodness – they’re wealthy!
Yet just like my kitchen
There’s one thing that’s great –
They all will get tossed
On their “Best Used By” date!
Everyone Educate Horn Limerick
Trump is not keen on making points;
Himself always awards and also anoints;
Nothing ever does he clearly explain;
Drives us insane when he does complain;
Can you imagine cabinet he appoints.
Can't wait to see them on Saturday Night Live;
Will laugh so much and hope we can survive.
Jim Horn
The swollen eyes are from lack of sleep,
The shaking hands she hides.
She can't remember important dates
But oh, how she does try.
The hair that once was washed and curled
Has turned a dirty grey.
And if a friend came by for tea
That would truly ruin her day.
The headaches are more frequent now,
Her attention span has gone.
She used to speak of news events
And what the government did wrong.
It's called her medicine cabinet
And she checks it every day
In the corner of her basement
Where her hidden bottles lay.
Sometimes she feels so very ill
She decides to make that call,
But the line is always busy,
Into bed she trips and falls.
A new day finally does arrive,
Her routine is now a habit,
She walks slowly to the basement room
And sneaks a bottle from the cabinet.
Lynn Hanna Barany
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