DARKNESS
Deep in the dark dingy corner of my soul, I cower from the light of the lone candle's still, unrelenting flame, barely alive, afraid to die. Scraping the trauma from from inside of my skull, whith callous fingers. Claws, reaching each crevasse, certain to pick away bits of damage and depravity. A band-Aid reprrieve for a jagged gash so deeply Ingrained with pain and shame, stalking me, heavy and relentless, suffocating, chained to the dark dingy corner of my soul..
Fingers pull at the gashes and scars that litter the body.
They are red,
harsh against the doughy skin they have claimed.
They run so deep into the soul,
Like wells of memory,
easy to fall into.
Then barbed wire,
Displayed as tears,
scratching inside of his throat.
Thumbs lick the roughness of past pain,
eating the contrast of texture between them,
And who he remembers being.
There is no softness left,
his mind whispers,
still trying not to fall into the darkness of the past.
The cave of history is full of rocks,
Sharp with his old blood,
Wet with the waves of depression his therapist begged him to ride instead of drown in.
He wonders about the cave when the tide draws back,
Angry at the darkness,
forcing his fingers to dig into the crevasse of a scab.
He flinches at the freshness of pain,
And watches the light glimmer off the thick liquid dancing down his leg.
He closes his eyes and whispers,
Maybe,
The wound is the place where the light enters you.
(W-W-H-W-W-W-H or 1-2-3-4-5-6-7)
I ardor you
with the passion of us
Depending on your values
however most agree
there is nothing more
universally greater than Love
the quiet consistency
or the public showing of
affection and compassion
oh love divine
might I not be spared
that you may make me to be
that we shall love as one
in the greatest feelings
of togetherness
respect and communication
to include compassion as
the essential component
of our togetherness
the context of a relationship
that selfless DeVine love
a connection between you and I
Love oh Love
saturate every crevasse
to have us done and redone
to again be as we were then
that love shall be on going and never
undoned
Love
Love
love
the ongoing emotional connection
of our togetherness
Sounds of the Amargosa Chorus
and Opera Orchestra
" Desrt Food and Song"
a christmas show
Piccola bo cal Music Co.
Desert City Music LLC.
a Groovey Music Company
On edge of crevasse
splitting the whole from broken
I waver between—
weaving to escape phantoms
longing for where I belong
I mask all my scars,
with smiles etched on hollow masks
yet memory bleeds
too whole to join the broken
too fractured to pass as whole
To love life anew
to re-forge and re-ignite
requires confession
to those entrenched in shadows
that death now terrifies me
On the mended line
I'm spurned by the ones I left
unclaimed by the rest
scars reverberate the past
with no guide to where to go
Now my mends can shine
cracks repaired with molten gold
clearly on display
showing what's been can become
unashamedly mended
Written July 14, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
************
So tiny, yet so vast: a square of purple flame,
A postal stamp formed from forever lame.
Houses at its center a half-cast, cloudy glass,
Trapped in a gilded cage of grief and lilac crevasse.
Bedecked in the hue of storm-light, a figure stands,
A gaze carved from ache, hair as comet strands.
Static roses, suffused in blue, stood behind,
Each petal burned by cords, yet spirit did not mind.
Rain doesn't soak into his skin or asphalt as he vies,
Yet, unshed tears flow from the dream to the sky.
The water leaves his clothing with faint rings,
But in this dampness, nostalgia unfurls its wings.
O, how you bend and blaze, purple witness—
A design firmly woven into the yarn of threnody.
Your quiet strength lingers as words fade,
A melody that pain cannot shatter or jade.
Let this stamp be a symbol in all mortal prayer—
For timid souls who dare not weep amid silk fare.
A poignant lament for love wrapped in mauve grief,
A message sent to a visitor, destined for the glyph.
I love this road.
Every little mound, and every crevasse,
Flower filled, to the brim.
The moths and mosquitos caught in my headlamps.
Trees of aspen and oak keeping me on track.
And here, the night clouds are much darker than the night sky.
And jets zoom 50 metres above my head, asking,
"What are you here for?"
In which I respond, "I'm taking in the sights."
"This road is beautiful."
"I wonder where it ends."
"Does it really have to end?"
And as for the rest,
Every single time, at every single jet,
I'm shaking, trembling, I'm speeding at each bump.
Pot-holes ruin my suspension.
My engine weakens (believably gently) at the thought.
My brake pads and wheels through the wearing of my rubber--
They're guiding me slowly out of this car.
And here, glowing brighter than the moon, I ask them,
"Why are you so weak?"
In which they respond, "I'm just burning bright."
"This road is beautiful."
"I'm wondering when does it end."
"And, will it end before me?"
I used to love to pick my nose.
After 3,
Better than playing with my toes.
With a nose you see,
Each little crevasse has a surprise for me!
A goober,
A booger.
Nothing I would find amiss.
Cleanest nose in town,
Until Momma was around.
Momma said, "Don't pick your nose,
You might get it on my hose!
There are not gold doubloons in there,
Just goobers and boogers.
Perhaps a bit of hair."
But that's the whole point!
My boogers and goobers,
Are my snacks at night!
Mommas in bed.
It's dark,
No one will see.
Just me and my nose,
Boogers and goobers are free!
More vacuous verse to the void:
abysmal, of meaning devoid.
A reflexive spasm
sends more to the chasm
where anemic arts are destroyed.
Escaping, strange thoughts from my head
go written but largely unread.
Another deposit
to add to the closet
of words that are better unsaid.
So, in the crevasse this now lurks
with woefully wonderless works:
discursive digressions
regarding obsessions
with muses and quixotic quirks.
Chasing this into that, chasing that into this.
Chasing silhouettes into a half-assed crevasse.
Echoing, "Boy, what is your purpose on this good earth?"
Poking the dark for a piece of velvet, a note from a harp.
A claw pokes at the skin of the soul.
A change of direction is needed again... pronto.
Mamma was right. Nothing good comes out of the dark.
Eating the light like a greasy moth.
Pitting parched lips against brightness.
Just another false prophet holding an empty Bic pen.
In the cul-de-sac of middle-class wish.
At least it was an honest attempt to find a grain of meaning.
In the dusk of my breath, the same silhouette yaps...
"Man, what is your purpose on this planet"?
They offer no rope nor traction.
Following a prolonged icy tongue-blast.
A slow slide into the greasy crevasse.
Where lie soul-stiffening white jackets.
There seem to be infinite oceans of infinite critics.
Vast deserts without an oasis of empathy.
Powers that be will steal the last of the cherries.
Leaving mountains of bluish pits and pluming death.
Drunk clowns are juggling our happiness.
Squirting flowers filled with ink and lye.
To cloak the last bastions of gilded sanity,
To poison any goodness in our lives.
So, what are the children of silence to do?
Sit in their blackness and lick a sticky candy dish.
Surrender the ghost of a million to appease a few.
Or come out swinging in the light-with fiery fists.
I wrote this poem during the pandemic as I questioned what the future held.
Since the pandemic crisis has passed, we keep hearing about a “new normal.” Normal is over, or did normal ever exist?
Will normal ever be the same?
It’s never been before.
Can this new lifestyle be the one?
Will less become the more?
Can changes move you from your place,
when altered is your path?
Will this new trail disrupt your life?
What is the aftermath?
I can’t predict the world’s new course,
as I survey my fears.
I hope my vision’s clarified,
while trudging new frontiers.
I can’t go back, ‘cause back’s not there.
It’s like a shattered glass.
The breach I see ahead of me,
could be a deep crevasse.
I pray to God He guides my way,
and soothes my harried soul.
I know that I can trust in Him,
to keep my being whole.
he thankfully grazed on gravel and grass
then suddenly heard the deafening blast
now rests with fruits and nuts–
gravy boat floats his guts–
and sausage dressing's stuffed up his crevasse
beauty,
not the cherished gift
fated to be ravaged
by father time,
but the enduring kind
the naked eyes cannot see.
the beauty that resides
deep within the crevasse
of the soul
and shines out
like rays of the sun,
exploding like a supernova,
now and then;
that's the kind of beauty
that age can never diminish.
inward beauty
matters infinitely more
for it is so true, and lives on
beyond
the span of a lifetime.
Date written: 05/03/2023
What’s in the grass and what do I know?
There are creepy and freaky things below.
All sorts of insects and crawly creatures
are among grass’ most fearsome features.
I wonder what else is in the grass,
seeds and stems in a crevasse?
They sprout and spread en masse
creating a soft sinking morass.
I believe there are secrets we’ll never see
perhaps some magic that’s in its esprit.
Maybe a fairy goddess or two
to order the chaos amid the fescue.
Who directs traffic so there’s no collision?
Who wields the power for that decision?
What and when do they celebrate?
There must be one they adulate.
Whatever is there I leave to that realm.
I won’t interfere or overwhelm.
I’ll welcome fresh grass in the spring
and wonder more, at what it may bring.
As she looked back through the truck glass
At the swing blown by the brisk breeze
In her small heart formed a crevasse
Did it heal or only reprise
Building 'til it became a trespass
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