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 spoke out
A yearning calls
But, is it of the heart
Could be a yearning of a selfish pride
A secret to gain self-glory
A trek of agony
To forge through this life
For the glory of self-satisfaction
Is a short lived story
Once again with shovel in hand
You dig deep to portray a fictitious facade to begin your story
And then along comes the day
To face all your truths
To remember all your secrets
And walk the road you've paved
[]
I saw this man subdued in chains
A life of ridicule he lived each day
Perhaps, born with a heart of love
But, the world and all it's expectations
placed him within
a dark crevasse
Be careful Oh people
Of all the words you choose to say
For some people are vulnerable
And the cost is more than they can pay
Could It be a lonely soul dreaming of a chance
To fit in and find acceptance...
Hide quoted text
for the world and all its trickery hands out murmurous words of doubt
Alone and desperate
For this man
I spoke out
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 earth 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 from out of the dark.
Eating the light like a greasy moth
pitting parched lips against brightness.
Just another false prophet holding an empty bic
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 earth.
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 seems 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
and poison all the 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 a 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
I'm blessed to have landed in mother's quilted arm.
To romp in a sandbox with other blessed hearts.
I'm blessed to have a gentle souled father.
Who dusted off a cluster of first heartaches.
Pulled me firmly up from the deepest pits.
Taught me how to run the bases... of life-
I'm blessed to have lovers and the love of adventure.
To pull weeds in a humble garden.
To climb the wrinkled face of uncertainty...
To hold in my pleated arms, a baby of my own.
I'm blessed to have teased out the lesson from failures.
Be rouged by the harsh karma of selfish victories.
I was given the chance to glissade down.
The icy backbone of the unknown.
Into the blue eye of a heartless crevasse.
To come back into the light-bloodied but a bit stronger.
I was blessed to be given the chance to sprint with infinity.
However so very briefly.
I wish you could have tasted all these sweetened things.
but you were tossed to the cold slag heap called unwanted.
There was no first kiss....or blessed last rights.
Nor anything in between-
Unblessed
We started on a common path,
But not one of our choice.
In time we went our separate ways,
To hear or find our voice,
And so traversed the wilderness
With joys and dangers fraught.
The path I chose, not best or worst,
Just mine, or so I thought.
I did not scale that rocky cliff,
Nor cross that deep crevasse;
I found the briars and the thorns,
And verdant, pleasant grass.
Yet here we’re called to take a rest,
Again, not one we chose.
The way is forward; that is clear,
Yet to where no one knows.
Shall we recount where each has been?
Do bygone ways still matter?
Or shall we share a common time,
Again before we scatter?
How will I know about that scar,
Those flowers in your hair?
Or you about my painful limp,
Those wrinkles there and there?
Come, let us simply rest a while,
Tend sore and calloused feet,
For He alone knows when our paths,
Divergent, wandering, meet.
—————
for the 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 12 Poetry Contest
sponsored by Mark Toney
written 03/15/2022
Related Poems