I catch my own eyes in the bathroom mirror
before I even turn the cold water on.
I watch every quiet, hopeful plan I made
get quietly picked apart and gone.
I wear this skin, I answer to my name,
I’m the author of every doubt I hide.
I pull down my own small victories
and stand my own worst foe, inside.
When 5 a.m. hits with its pale blue light
and promises a second chance to try,
I drag out old mistakes from years ago
just to give myself a reason why.
I tell myself I am not man enough,
that every step forward is a fake,
that the moment things get steep or real
I’ll bend beneath the weight and break.
I sit at my desk in the afternoon slump,
building a maze out of unread mail.
I lock the doors, throw away the keys,
and then wonder why I’m set to fail.
I dissect every single word I said,
turning harmless moments into debt.
I don't need anyone to tear me down,
I haven't even given myself a chance yet.
And yet I'm the one who holds the pen,
the one who keeps writing out the fear.
If I'm the architect of all this noise,
I'm the only one who can clear it from here.
"The painting is her. Her ruin, my hunger. Every stroke on the canvas carves her deeper into me. I own her screams now."
I don't mind saying the ing word now.
I’ve been an *******—
it doesn't ing matter.
The painting on the wall taunts me,
staring, silent, brutal—
reminding me of her.
Of the way she smiled
before I crushed it.
Of the way her eyes used to beg—
God, I miss it.
She broke me.
I shattered her worse.
And still—
I'm not ready to let her go.
I don’t want to.
I don’t know how.
The tears I drag out of her—
holy, violent things,
falling from lips that still curse my name.
She hates me.
Maybe I hate her too.
But hate has teeth and claws,
and love just lies there, bleeding.
Apologies rot
on the tip of my mouth,
waiting, festering.
I could say I'm sorry.
I could beg.
But damn it,
I love to make her cry.
Her sobs are mine.
Her ruined voice is mine.
She’s mine.
Mine to cage.
Mine to ruin.
Mine to break until there’s nothing soft left.
No one else gets to bleed her.
No one else gets to call her broken
Only me
I wait
for hazy clouds to soften noon—
The world dims
as shadows
drag out hues.
Burnt cement stops sizzling,
sparrows quiet their off-beat chatter,
my sore eyes shut in relief—
a final note,
the muted outro—
Until the clouds scatter.
The familiar heat shatters
breezes into embers
filtered through a stinging azure.
So I sit back and
wait.
In stasis, with the cluttered city,
for silence to fall
again—
When I imagined what it would
be like to be a writer,
I saw myself hunched over a
typewriter with bourbon on the
rocks sweating a ring onto my desk.
I could smell the ink on my fingers
and feel the burn of alcohol in my gut
and hear the keys clapping, a standing ovation
for the poor sad boy who wrote wings onto
his back and flew away from the red mud county.
But it's quiet here.
I sit alone at my desk and I reach into my guts
and I grab fistfuls of blood and viscera
and the keys don't move
I choke up the rage my father left in me
and the keys don't move
I cut out the fear my mother so lovingly placed
and the keys don't move
I drag out every black eye, bloody nose, and split lip I ever earned, every fight I lost, every single argument I had, every sunset I was a brother beneath, every truck cab I ever fell in love in and
THE KEYS DO NOT MOVE
I’ll SIT UNDER THIS TREE HOPING SOMEONE MIGHT STOP AND TALK TO ME
I’M TIRED OF BEING ALONE AND IT’S OH SO LONESOME AT HOME
MAYBE THEY MIGHT CARE AND HAVE A LITTLE TIME TO SHARE
WE COULD GO SIT DOWN IF WE COULD FIND A SEAT SOMEWHERE
I THINK I’LL BUILD A BENCH WHERE WE CAN SIT AND SHOOT THE BREEZE
TALK ABOUT WORLD PROBLEMS AND OUR SORE BACK AND KNEES
WE CAN TELL STORIES AND FIBS EMBELISHING THE PAST
DRAG OUT EVERY WORD TO MAKE EACH SHORT STORY LAST
IF YOU GOT NOWHERE TO GO AND NO PLACE TO BE
COME SIT ON MY BENCH THERE’S ROOM NEXT TO ME
I BUILT MY BENCH SO ANYONE CAN FIT
IT’S THE PERFECT PLACE TO REST AND SIT
RELAX A WHILE TAKE A LOAD OFF YOUR FEET AND MIND
ENJOY THE SOLACE THAT’S WAITING HERE TO FIND
IF YOUR LEGS ARE GETTING TOO TIRED WHEN YOU WALK
HEAD BACK TO MY BENCH TO SIT SOME MORE AND TALK
THIS BENCH WILL LAST FOREVER I BUILT IT OUT OF STONE
IT WAS MADE TO BE SHARED NOT JUST SAT ON ALONE
It is snowing! It is snowing! It is SNOWING!
Three children I usually have to drag out of bed are heading for the front door.
I say “don’t forget your bookbags! Don’t you want breakfast?”
Mom, it’s SNOWING! Says the middle one. No school. Right?
I begin to laugh. This is Minnesota. We don’t cancel school here.
An abdominable snowman could be eating busloads of kids,
we would not cancel.
An avalanche could bury six cars on the school road.
We would not cancel.
MINNESOTA I remind them.
We used to live in California where they would cancel school for rain.
They begin grumbling, put their pajamas on, and try to feign illness.
Too late, I say. I saw how fast you got dressed and got those sleds out.
I hear grumbling all the way to the bus where other kids are yelling “Snow!”
This poem made me feel powerful and less lonely
Gave me permission to drag out my own macabre feelings
I found myself flying toward brilliance, enjoying “bat on the wing”
In a way, I felt this was written for me exclusively
A secret pact between me and the songwriter
“no moonlight for me’ is the way I feel on my darkest day
It is wonderful to know I am no longer alone.
Spring has sprung
The lawns gone nuts
Mowing time again
No ifs or buts
A martyred sigh
Trudge to shed
Drag out mower
Filled with dread
Attempt to start
Psyche self up
Try many times
Any luck? .... Nup
Give up the fight
Drag back to shed
Watch the lawn
Grow long instead
Ignore complaints
From near and dear
Enjoy the daisies
Mow next year
I carve a path out for me
trying to make it in this soulless city
confined to a big house
aspirations seem to drag out
sitting in this pink room
trying to catch my breath at noon
This heat is making me crazy
I am not sure where I'm heading
too many questions I don't know the answers to
I have too much time on my hands
too many thoughts swirling
Is this what they call the end of the beginning?
I have no clue
Do you?
Maybe I am inching toward the madhouse
A nasty feeling
a subtle thought
and suddenly it doesn't seem so bad
this notion though does make me sad
I have yet to see, what becomes of me!
Summer stands for beaches, parks, and camping.
In June most flowers will be in full bloom,
Zinnias, Begonias, and sweet-scented
Zephyranthes share every color, while
Lavender freshens the air with each breeze.
In July, a thirsty sun sips dewdrops,
Night deposited upon the moist blades of
Grass that now sparkle in dawn's breaking light.
Hot, humid, and sultry, describe August's
Oppressive, sweaty, sticky, seek shade days,
Thank God, the public pools stay open late.
Summertime's for fun and relaxation,
Under the shade of your favorite tree.
Many find that the warm weather somehow
Makes them feel more connected to nature,
Especially if they flee the city,
Rather than stay in a concert hotbox.
Dog days of summer drag out the heat
And the chilled breath of fall sounds appealing.
Yet, I'll take summer's heat over winter's
Snow anytime, I’m no fan of the cold.
(Acrostic)
06/14/2020
My husband's like to water, I to oil.
We're masters of the knock-down, drag-out brawl.
We just don't mix. I cause his blood to boil
and he enrages me. The dude has gall!
From "Water and Oil," a parody of Edmund Spenser's Sonnet 30 "My Love Is Like to Ice and I to Fire" from Amoretti
Date: January 16, 2020
Contest Title: Arbitrium Divisa 6
Sponsor: Gregory Barden
my parody
My husband's like to water, I to oil.
We're masters of the knock-down, drag-out brawl.
We just don't mix. I cause his blood to boil
and he enrages me. The dude has gall!
Why in the dickens are we both still here?
You'd think one would vamoose to parts unknown,
but each holds our vast property so dear,
we keep a death-grip on it, scowl, and moan.
Explaining our relationship is hard;
We're cold as ice, with tempers blazing hot.
All sense of reason from this home we've barred.
Will white flags soon be waving? I think not!
Such is the power of assets owned so long
by two who daily scream, "I'm right; you're wrong!"
Edmund Spenser’s sonnet (see notes) follows the rhyme scheme of
ABAB BCBC CDCD EE.
The rhyme scheme of my parody is English/Shakespearean.
Date: January 11, 2020
Contest Title: English Sonnets Contest
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
The loyal ones we keep close
The mean ones, we ignore those
The truehearted ones, we cherish
The treacherous ones, we banish
The helpless ones, we give a hand
The careless ones, we push around
The adventurous ones, we visit them uninvited
The measured ones, with our secrets they’re entrusted
The lazy ones, we drag out of bed
The crazy ones, we straighten up their heads
The loud ones, we let them talk us to sleep
The quiet ones, we tease them till they flip
The foodie ones, pick the joints
The moody ones, we crack with jokes
To the dreamy ones, we make them reach
To the hopeless ones, we set a bridge
The brokenhearted, we cry with them
The departed, we hold a candle flame
We miss them, we make them
We remember them, we break them
In a bliss, when we hurt
We love, we hate
A friendship is fulfilling but can still deplete
Friends can break us into pieces and make us complete
There's a spider on my ceiling
He's been sitting there all night
From the moment that I spotted him
He gave me quite a fright.
Even at the long off distance
He appears to be quite big
I've never really liked them
ever since I was a kid.
When I have to walk beneath him
I run quickly along the wall
I dare not walk beneath him
knowing my luck he would fall.
I yell up to my partner
"Get down here its bloody back!"
It cant be the same spider?
Because I sucked him up the Vac.
I rush into the kitchen
If the kids see him they'll freak
I drag out our old cleaner
And attachments with long reach
I drag them in the living room
plug in and then switch on.
Then I look up at the ceiling
And the bloody thing has gone!
written and composed by Mark Longson (c) 2018
Although my baby and I are not pugilists
and we never ever brawl with our fists
we have knockdown drag out fights
every Friday night
Roundhouses to the ego
Sucker punches to the past
Draw tears, but don't draw blood
You never hear the one that hits you
But that's the one that gets you
The guilt comes down like a flood
Maybe, just maybe if we had a referee
The bout might be closer to clean
because sometimes I say things I don't really mean
and her language gets simply obscene
This ain't no sweet science
we'd be better off in silence
I'm sure our ringside neighbors would agree
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