Where is the dress, where I hold the edge of the seam
My formally flowing reservoir of dopamine?
Against her skin I made epiphanies of gold
Despite my tender age of several days old
I once vowed to not escape her silky touch
As I grew old, it turned trapping much
Beside her, now matured, I grasp my creation
She watches and grins; I met her expectations
Now with her gone, I must voyage for approval
For that is how the human mind copes with removal
Her warm aura of blossoming rosemary
It only turned out to be...temporary
I turn to face you now, Sir Statuary
Before I set off on this forever ferry
Could this destination become final?
Like my heart, which always ends on a high note?
A quiet house
The house is quiet
Like it is every minute
Of every hour of every day
He’s not sure how he copes
How he goes on
How he gets up every morning
How he faces the emptiness
Of life without her
He remembers a time
when the house was alive
With her presence
Her laughter like music
Filling every corner
Her voice calling to him
Soothing, comforting
Reassuring
She was always there
Busy with chores, cooking ,
Baking, making the house a home
Their home,their sanctuary
The house they built together
The life they built together
The house that was so much a part
Of who she was, who they were
Is quiet now
He wanders from room to room
Recalling a conversation from years ago
She insisting they needed lots of rooms
Him arguing there are only two of us
Of course she got her way
He never could deny her
Now he wished he had
The house,their house
With too many rooms
Echoes the quiet
And it’s deafening
WHO SHE IS
AND WHO SHE WANTS TO BE
VASTLY DIFFERENT
AS LAND AND SEA
SHRIVELED HOPES
WRINKLED DREAMS
CRUSHED WITH THE WEIGHT
OF THINGS UNSEEN
THE PAIN, THE GRUDGE
THE BLOODY SCARS
HIDES BEHIND
THE MASK THUS FAR
NOBODY SEES
DO THEY EVEN CARE
WHO SHE WAS
WHO SHE LOVED
GONE WITH THE WAVES
OF YESTERDAYS SORROW
BEGGING,CRYING, TRYING
TO MAKE A RETURN
SOME SWEET MORROW
UNTIL THEN
SHE SITS IN SILENCE
SHE COPES, SHE DWELLS
JUST AS THE OLD PENNIES
IN THE BOTTOM OF THE WELL
She learned to let all of them all go
One by one after each of them let her know.
She learned to let herself finally grow
Day by day, even as she so often felt so low.
She learned to be more independent
From all people who made her despondent.
She learned to hold onto what love meant
Even after the times her love was misspent.
She learned to live life again on her own
After digging up, tossing seeds of love sown.
She learned it wasn't too much was shown,
Just nobody felt what she felt she known.
She learned to let go of all her hopes,
After realizing none can have certain tropes.
She learned to be a shell of a girl that copes
In her despondence, practicing tying ropes.
Tombs begin to bloom like raw, bloodless wounds.
Tomes are written with truths of her dead moon’s
tones. A keening lunacy keeps the dirges alive, while
bones rise out of repose. A degloved hand on the dial
hones into a night rainbow's radio, she runs on solar,
hopes for the rhythm to wrench free from her toller—
copes with the captivity of being bodiless hands. Twilight
comes to chance escape—open palms toward birthright.
Coves burst into flame; a hungry fire wants holier water.
Coven circles, recovers the skinless limbs of their daughter.
Woven like song, sirens' balm to restore coats of missing arms,
women are spells read correctly, using words as our alarms,
woken to language, resurrecting ancient pairs of sacred charms.
'Tis off to the races now that homeschooling has ended.
One half earns for their subsistency,
other half learns about delinquency.
Be they friends and their best efforts were suspended.
Tale spring muses as the anticipant's
appraised specifies traditional hopes
load stages standard addictive transplants
secured cognitive lodestar prolonged copes.
Missteps venture the wide-eyed sneeze, and runny nose
a caption reads, "This be the Time.", gone are
the reporting authors, counting those
to acknowledge them, minus their star.
Bloom's wilt and hues fade know not the hour caused,
advents trending acquisitions neglect closure
but fail to end the brotherhood of friends exposure.
halls went silent the schoolyard empty, turned men paused.
Harmorhage of blood, Midnight had seen her eyes, swollen by the custody of evil and the lies
Cravings in her heart that beated in, exuding through her mind, manifesting insecurity essencefully, with delirium of veins in grind.
The day was tinted darker than the worst poisons spell, with lack of choices left between The heaven or the hell.
The skin flaunting the hides of the burns of the age, every crease drew potraits, of memory that engaged;
The body was the body, the soul had seen the time, when excitement whispered stories to where anticipation followed the rhyme..
Nor the bonds of irons were there, Neither she was tightened through the copes, when knives described their sharpness, She showed mercy on the ropes.
The rope nor ordinary in colour or structure, It weaved the haunts of blame, each time the question asked her worth, She preferred selling herself for the game.
No one knows which era she lived, No one knows her name, Its said when freedom knocked her door, She said she'd fell in love with the cage
Time moves on
There is change
Better or worse
Just never the same
Our hearts adjust
Our souls accept
Our spirit copes
Our memory never forgets
The Pianist's Weep
By FD Ravenskraft
The reflection of the E minor
Constantly he plays for the grasps
As she copes forever last
Lasting in the passionate glance
He plays her final waltz
In the keys of 61 that 81 blends
The sins of the pianist's composing never ends
In the dens of her longing to wait
The burden of a unloved Symphony
As the sheep's ghostly dance
To his and her romance in the corner of the world unseen the blessings of the pianos dreams
G minor in the gossips of their love
The keys of the melodies
As he plays by the seas of trees
Where she slumbers
In The haunted yonder
That ponders in the lands of Wonder
As he plays and she watches
Composing his concerto in E minor
Where he finds her beside him
An gothika dark passionate play
The madness of his longing
No longer wanting to play. But must
To see her once more
Just for him to feel comfort and weep
Why she sleeps on his final keep
End
His father was an Aristocrat
His mother a high class whore
And he attended Public School
As had his ancestors before,
Achieved a First at Oxbridge,
Sword of Honour at Sandhurst,
Served in Bosnian with UNFOR
Saw genocide at its very worst.
He resigned his commission
Following his service there
Couldn’t cope with the memories
The sense of guilt and despair.
He dosses on the Streets now
A homeless hulk without a name
Disowned by his family and
Just seen as a bringer of shame.
The people on the streets
Try to avoid his eye,
Toss him the odd coin
As they pass him by.
He nods his head in gratitude
But he’s not really there
As he copes with his demons
Behind his thousand yards stare.
All people see is a vagrant,
An alcoholic and a souse.
He’s in Line for the title and
A seat in the Upper House.
Nobody gives a toss about
The many cases like him.
That’s just the modern world
You either sink or swim.
Come and join the forces
Show that you are willing
To go and serve your country
Accept the Old Queen’s Shilling.
Learn to fight and kill
Sell your service on the cheap
And if you crack and break
You’re out on the scrap heap.
Kayla shouts Father! Father! I'm here!
Kayla? he cries crouching, arms outspread
I'm here now sweetie, there's nothing to fear
But he wakes to a life far beyond dread
With the world asleep he drives through the night
There's the hospital which offered such hope
Oh, his angel! His God-given delight!
His grief's too deep, but somehow, he copes
Streets still and empty; a brisk Sunday morn
Bland buildings sprouting in cold cement
From natures blessed gift he is shorn
The wound can't heal; was his life truly meant?
Wife and friends seem odd; not fully real
Banal, empty, irksome words swirl
The mirror's harsh truths on his face reveal
He lost his life when he lost his sweet girl
Written 8/25/22
A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE CONTEST
Father is a stump grinder,?
a heavy planter. Shovel fingers?
bulling through onions and leeks.?
Truck-hands lashed to maroon suspenders.?
Head in the dirt, a blue exhaust?
trailing from grub-working teeth,?
hefting clumps and yellow ***-ends,?
raising clammy clay blooms.?
?
Mother is a house,?
most of it closed.?
Sometimes an upper window opens.?
net-curtains fly out of gray eyes.?
A girl-ghost locked in a bottle,?
?
She lifts me up on a dangle?
of faith to her bedroom.?
A mahogany night-dresser?
tucks away her dreams.?
She has closets, drawers?
where lovers doze.?
She whispers, less they all awaken.?
?
Outside, father crashes through turnips.?
Mother bleeds bitter-root?
from nub bitten fingernails.?
She pushes her child into rooms?
called 'buried-lost, buried-found'.?
The dead are everything –?
she copes not with the living.?
?
Later I listen to father grunt over her,?
as he spades a blinded moon?
between her broken fences.
I'm not a real poet
just as Pinocchio wasn't a real boy
but for our hearts and faith
we live life in full awareness coy
a revelation of ourselves in bold deploy;
with this arsenal of dreams and hopes
we yield a rendition beyond simple idea copes,
and we merge and blend inner secret expression
of who we truly are within our own egressions
living on the edge of time and space intervention;
so let us have our dreams
mindful enterprise and thriving schemes
as we purloin the words and phrases
pretending we contain the wisdom of the sages
in a sequence of interactive rhyme assuages;
so here it lay,
a poetic urge openly on display
that poetry lives in each and every one of us,
it's just a question of appreciation and trust
in the wordings that we say.
Whispers of Light color the Night in lifeless hues
Musical Notes arrayed in soft Quotes for a muse
Filling up Lives with captivating Archives in cues
For moments of Bliss, feels like a Kiss to bemuse
Gentle Insights soften our Sights with pure truth
Creating a Peace that will never Decrease its ruth
Embracing the Heart from the very Start of our youth
Echoing Hopes, finding moral who Copes with uncouth
From the Darkness comes a Starkness that sighs
Words within a Poem, so you Show him who tries
With passions Alive, burning to Strive so they rise
Above the Pains life sometimes Gains before one dies
Faith makes one Wise in another’s Eyes detect grace
That blinds the Soul who is Whole and cannot face
The past that Casts a bitter shadow that Lasts to chase
Black thoughts Around and finally Abound in this place
Loving feelings Abide deep Inside the one who feels
Alive with Compassion that leaves you Ashen from appeals
To be Appraised by those Amazed that love like this seals
The heart with Joy which will Destroy any corrupt ideals
In Rhymes Sublime Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Joseph May
November 1, 2020
In his eyes
Were blue skies
Love to last
From the past
With desire
Light the fire
Burning hot
Dampen not
Gentle thoughts
Bound in knots
Silent hopes
Always copes
With the muse
That we choose
To inspire
I admire
Gentle peace
Does increase
With his love
From above
Bringing thirst
Not the worst
For a breath
Before death
Waking bliss
With a kiss
I love him
Like a hymn
Singing sweet
On the street
Rousing song
Nothing wrong
Bringing faith
Glory saith
Where he is
Worship tis
Feeling soft
Loving oft
Give my heart
At the start
Threes, Please Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Beth Evans
September 17, 2020
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