Nervous flutters, against reaction
Emoting apathy, of mass inaction
Views: judges deemed pernicious
Evasion of truth, is more precious
Reeking, of dumbed-silent perfidy…
Self-satisfied, connoisseurs...
Acceptance of flat contours...
The strivings - perfunctory
Its contrived soul's victory
Startled mute or the astute?
Failed words/candid pursuit?
In thoughts turning caustic
Evasiveness begets a static
Death's when a brain stops…
(1/27/2021 - '85 Sea Ray 340 Sedan Bridge; DMS)
The final question
When on the death row
Is fear in tow
Or tranquil elation
No evasiveness possible
When the hammer falls
We can no longer stall
The question inevitable
Inner bliss current
Yet throbs in continuity
Inconsequential to serenity
Is life or death sentiment
23-October-2020
In the fetal position, in leaks of rust and rot, in the wet self-dug grave, a pushy dead man is passing time. An evasiveness of words, a haziness of consolations, a thorough count of merits and sins and the fear of death - they're gone: he’s finally dead. Oh, how he loves the certainty of death! Perhaps, probably, maybe. Life is clouded by uncertainty. Let's leave the vagueness of adverbs for the living… Suddenly, footsteps! voices! a golden pipe’s call! Now, any moment, a sentence will be announced: the darkness or the light where to, may be… Oh, no, he’s thinking “may be” as if he were alive!
Life, death, existence…
Oh, unbreakable impasse!
Taphotherapy*.
* A voluntary and temporary burial for therapeutic or meditative purposes.
17.05.2019
Pick A Title, Vol 4 - Haibun Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
My son runs like a deer;
Not the skittering evasiveness
Of a doe in danger;
Nor frantic frightened flight.
He runs like an alpha,
Prancing in perfect posture pride;
Like the ballet dancer he once was.
You haven’t found among notable faces
Or even quotable phrases
Any bankable aces
Even as your appetite chases
Though the teaching remains taught
The pursuits remain unsought
For many hearts resist being wrought
By the Blood of Christ, by which we are bought
Through the years of evasiveness and quiet
The loud silence births the disquiet
And the feared epitome is yet
If is not fed the moral diet
The screams near their outburst
But will be ushered by their first
Breaking into a unison of thirst
And the fear of the excruciating worst
But the scripture places in our palms
The quenching word and refreshing psalms
That are the most soothing of balms
Assuring the calmest of calms
As the farmer takes stock of his herds
Sowing seed and chasing birds
So must the evangelist do with his words
Treading the truth within its girds
The day whose hours only a dream ago ended,
Was a test to the grave some men commended,
For seizing any opportunity to push and trip,
Is what men do when they want you off their ship.
The grave is a temptation for sure, but to endure
By moving on, by vowing instead to live more pure,
Far outshines the humiliating lights of evasiveness,
Whose eyes fearing the look of so-called craziness,
Would rather play it safe to make the world flatter.
Flat-landers, fearing bumps too risky to matter,
Huddling in groups with crossed fingers on backs,
Searching the ground for tell-tale signs of cracks,
Prefer cleaning their roads to clearing their minds,
Daily management easier without certain kinds.
The day whose hours a deep hurt now lets go,
Was an exam whose answer I begin to know.
The writing on the wall though merely commenced,
Is the writing of a fall that will not be dispensed,
For this refusal is more then a denial,
But an affirmation of the life I love and smile.
A warm heart, yet…
It sizzles with anxiety
And melts away emotions
That still linger on.
A sincere heart, yet…
It chokes with evasiveness
And chars every feeling
That flickers with hope
A bleeding heart, yet…
One sleeve is left exposed
And burns with desire
To escape all flames
A singed heart, yet…
It smokes it’s own desire
And reasons with love
That flares without control
Tammy Snyder
A wandering wavering wind bleeding doubt
wraps tightly ‘round its' victim
in a masterful landscaped sketch of anger
it falters and stumbles
in its' indecisive nature
that at times sways around
the arch of a sword
determined only to find the truth of its' mark
An unsettled mind
decides only to take itself out of everything,
it finds joy in being nowhere
and in that it hides
behind a misted mask of silence
it may cry with tears of unknown sorrow
as it dances its' weak-kneed waltz
around the truth that dares
to spin out of control
A lumbering languid mindset
is preoccupied with listening
to every single word of every conversation
but never acting on anything
it search for conspiratorial theoretical indiscernible meanings
where there is nothing;
It is a foolish denial of the possibility
of easily accessible truth
An unguided emotional eddy of evasiveness
tangles around cords of hesitancy
it swirls in fearful tranquility
only broken by
strong communication
that is covered in truth and love
and in honesty and compassion
"My pen drips of sorrow and on this paper, I write each tear"
She wears her feelings as a mask.
Keeping them in the closet,
gathering them up like the thin blanket
on a cool summer night,
holding them close,
not daring to share the love, - - the pain.
She cries alone, sometimes for love,
sometimes for hate, sometimes just
for shear desperation.
Trapped in a treadmill life,
she lives moment by moment,
day by day, and memory by memory.
Behind the artificial smile
she breathes heavily.
Behind the sweet remark, loneliness.
Seemingly astute, a cordial demeanor
dances around silent flippancy as
she compliments.
She exudes evasiveness,
mistaken for mystique and candor.
Wearing this mask as a second skin,
she is eventually consumed by the charade.
There is nothing left of her
but pretense.
© aug 12 2011 Charles Henderson
For Constance's "just write contest"
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