some kind of drags
of coals boiling
on point here
into so darkness
but you've seen me smile
and did you ever knew?
of a stranger's chest,
empty without a heart,
how whimsical
of battle wings flailed
though the separation
tore them so mistaken,
flaking are the eggs
are the reasons here
and the scent is so odd
seasons so warm & cold
The bark peels back like old skin—
Mine, yours, the cinnamon scrolls
Of what we shed to live. August
Bleaches the world to bone, the bark’s faint spice
Rising in the noon glare,
Heat tasting of salt and sand. And still this Crape crowns
Itself with Myrtle fire. Still—
I cannot explain what breaks in me. Still I press my cheek
Against its flaking flesh, feel
The pulse beneath—magenta,
White, pink, the deep red
Of what I've never
Bled for anyone.
Each blossom a small fist
Opening with the muted pop
Of summer rain on dry earth. Each petal, tissue-thin
As the lies I've told myself
About enduring. The Eastern Shore sun
Has made this tree what survival
Looks like: stubborn—
Beautiful, built for the burning
Seasons that strip us
To what we are. Winter comes,
And I am learning
How to be naked—
These mottled limbs
My teachers, conductors' hands
Mid-gesture, never finished
With their fierce music
Of staying alive. Of reaching
Up through the killing
Cold, brittle air ringing
With the clink of frozen twigs toward something
Green promises I cannot fathom—yet still I know
Lives in the light returning.
This Is a Tanka written by Eileen Manassain and reimagined by me by
adding every other verse in order to create Lyrics we could put to music.
please visit Eileen recent page and enjoy This poem in it's original Form.
I want to Thank Eileen for the privilege of working with her on these poems
Nothing seems to last
The present now the past
flowers weep faded petals
Like flaking paint or rusty metal
A faint scent lingers
Upon the barren tips of fingers
once blooming in bright color
Now appear quite smothered
My poems have lost their appeal
No longer things seem real
emotions wither
And darkness comes hither
Wilted words whirl in the wind
Until they blow my way again
bereft of beauty
Void of duty
I strive to remain rooted
In a world so polluted
hoping for droplets of love
Droplets from above
A city block vendor chimes pleasantries prouder
than Muzak or an unseen crow in the background
elevating alarm clock music in the caws
uncredited and angrily growing louder.
A walkway narrows between the vendor
and a building. I teeter between both
as I pass by her grill
parked beside the vape shop. A blistering warmth
whitens piled pink hotdogs and tickles my ribcage.
A parakeet on her shoulder
is flaking off the sun and feathering the moon.
Steamy sundowns moisten her saucer eyes.
One dog pops sausage through its skin. She fans
the minty menthol. I pay the price
for squinting. I've dropped my glasses. Splitting
off-key shattered glass,
the containment of what used to be
bits of me shows up digits-bloodied.
Long after the initial sweep up,
little jagged cuts still happen.
The catcher in the rye
I go and drop the ball
I lay it down and cry
I’m sleeping in the stall
Cause everyone is phony
Your company is lonely
Your animals are bony
Your everything is only
I’m underneath the bridge
Below the overpass
I’m locked inside the fridge
I’m sleeping in the grass
Cause everyone is faking
Every excuse for bailing
Your painted skin is flaking
Success story is failing
You’re spinning all around
Mascara masquerade
You’re walking without sound
A conga line charade
You’re hands and feet are bound
You’re tied into the ground
And nailed into the wall
I’ve lost sight of the ball
I’ve lost sight of the band
And buried in the sand
They’re telling me it’s fine
They’re calling me insane
They think I’ve lost my mind
They’re calling me Cobain
They’re telling me to smile
They tell me not to cry
And maybe stay a while
The catcher in the rye
The two stared at one another
both knew something that the other
didn’t; that was the game; the rules
by which they play, and played, the fools.
The putrid stench beneath their feet,
that those who went before excrete,
impregnates their skin to slow taint
their rotting ankles, in restraint;
for there is no escape, save one;
one word divides those lost or won.
They chose to play this game, these two,
paid their dues, later joined the queue.
The fun soon turned to anger, hate
vile intercourse, spitting raw debate
the scratching of old wounds, new scars
what's old, what's new, what's mine, what's ours!
Blood slowly seeps from bites by rat
lapped greedily by purring cat,
two squawking rooks, and buzzing flies
that crawl around their staring eyes
hatched from their own fetid waste;
two lovers, gamers, now debased
They thought they'd easy win this game;
but neither ever named the name.
And so the two they sit and stare
at their flaking skin, falling hair
disintegration of each face
ever locked in death's embrace.
He watches with an evil smirk;
this couple in their deathly cirque;
both rotting from without, within;
both guilty of a deadly sin!
That evening,
we sat under the old elm, its bark
flaking like dead scales from a fish.
You pointed to the sky,
but the stars did not come out—
only the moon, swollen
like a bruise above the rooftops.
You whispered about the farmer,
how he placed his scythe beneath his pillow,
dreaming of storms.
I listened, but saw only
your shadow stretching across the grass,
twisting with the branches.
In that moment,
you became the moon.
Your hands—small enough to cup it—
trembled as you talked about constellations,
the fisherman’s hook snagging a fragment of the horizon’s sigh..
I wanted to laugh,
but the night kept swallowing the sound.
The wind rolled across the empty streets,
gathering the scent of rain
and some unseen flower blooming at midnight.
And when I reached out,
only your shadow touched me.
The sky opened
and I could swear I heard the stars
laughing at us,
or maybe it was just the elm,
cracking under the weight of too many moons.
"I have been a stranger in a strange land." Bible, Exodus 2:22
The compass whirrs.
North toward rock, south toward sand.
East toward ice, and west toward river.
Like a game of spin the bottle I take a chance on north,
run my hands over stone and pebble,
the spine of life a twisting snakeskin, shedding.
The compass whirrs
as words and winds uproot me to the south. Dust ridden,
arid. Earth sizzles, a roast overdone. My flaking skin
drenched in sweated drought.
The compass whirrs
as those years of crinkling sand dune heat melt
somehow into eastern snow. You don’t understand
how or why or when those summers became leaves that
fall, became sleet upon which you slip, recklessly, helplessly, toward time’s
splash. The final plunge pool.
Now, western waters offer a mirror,
sometimes murky, sometimes crystal,
and still, the compass whirrs, as you realise
that strange land - your body.
The stranger - you.
Spring
the first winter, after a long war, was cold
today snow was slushy, the beginning of spring
a poor street, houses
had not been painted for years
not much foo, the ice was reluctant to let go
of its pale grasp
It was then I saw a wall of flaking paint
a solitary yellow flower, the color so bright it
blinded me
I had a moment of clarity, I understood
and saw it all
In the windows of old houses, curtains
and sills
flowers in pots of empty tins
humanities need for beauty
I must not forget, hastened home to write
the wonder of life.
So long ago now, spring 1948
people were friendly back then we had suffered
together and survived
Psych wards often lack mirrors
Out of fear that they will be broken
We cannot watch our faces stain with tears
That privilege evades the hopless
Yet still I remember staring at that wall
In the bathroom above the sink outside the stall
I stared at bricks with the paint flaking off
And in the nothingness, a reflection is what I saw
I saw that I was broken and didn't want to heal
That I was grieving for the things
I had forgotten how to feel
Despite my diagnosis
I'd say I've never had depression
Despite my semicolon, all I had was symptoms
Death was the logical escape
A coward's way out but a more gentle fate
And when that too failed
Everyone's words were the same
"It's gonna get better"
But how long am I to wait?
As of now, half a decade
And my stance has begun to change
Living is enough
I do not owe you a reason
I exist for myself and this world is better with me in it
In your silence I see colours,
speech crumbling like flaking paint, dried; truth dripping from lips, black spittle on a brush.
In the silence I inhale the scent of a feeling,
what you think of me curdles from willows to weeds; from ivy once intoxicated to rotten root.
In this silence I taste our time together,
a history in meat chopped / diced, fried in oil burning; our future an incomplete recipe, lost.
Night's descent with heaven's catharsis
Of white cold's drug for the dark;
Even whirls of flaking bits loveliness—
Winter's fresh, ice only shower.
Of white cold's drug for the dark—
Just right for the meek moon's glow,
Winter's fresh, ice only shower
On sleeping hyacinths underground.
Just right for the meek moon's glow,
Even whirls of flaking bits loveliness
On sleeping hyacinths underground—
Night's descent with heaven's catharsis.
Growing up I've always admired the story of Icarus & the sun
But as I matured I learned that I actually resented it and here is why...
I am the sun
scorching, burning Icarus.
My heat leaving imprints of his flaking feathers
Upon his skin, engraving his bones.
The wax slowly melted making his harness heavy,
Weighing down his harness; he has nothing to grasp onto
Just his
f
e
a
t
h
e
r
s
I am the ocean as
He sinks down to the ocean floor
Trapping his lungs with salt water
leaving no space for a scream, cry, or merely a whisper for help
And surely no chance to escape the grasp of the waves
Never will he feel the sun upon his skin again
As he is forgotten my waves will keep on
crashing and trapping anything that comes into contact
As he is forgotten I will burn within my dancing flames
till they go out destructing myself and everything around me
As I am forgotten...
I saw a leaf today
in the up-draft --
one last dance
and lift before
the Fall Finale;
crisping and fading,
flaking...but only an
illusion of death, for we
know the chemistry, and
the majesty of seasons --
thinking of our shared
love, the years of affection
ever greater...would be
an unforgivable pity
if heaven
were the only
contrary….
I was born there,
there between the grey days and ghostly nights.
I came out of the warm cave
fully encased with my mother's sadness.
The ghetto walls moved in or out
inch by crawling inch, they were a mirage,
but they remained in our eyes
as forever impenetrable.
I still dream of it, in that nightmare,
the buildings are too close together,
too full of bricked-up holes.
The narrow streets leading to no roads.
Sometimes, I find in the rubble
of a derelict building,
a tin wind-up manikin,
its painted form flaking,
yet its eyes
blink in the sunlight
as I carry it away.
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