IN THAT SMALL PLACE
I find her there
In that small space
Between wax and flame
In storms
That strike the night
A flash of light
Between drops of rain
On my own breath
When sleep is far
And mornings near
I find her there
In that small space
And breathe her name
And breathe her name
Some memories are an ethereal malignancy ... Inoperable, incurable, and terminal.
A spot on my shirt-cuff
a stain on a bathmat
In the back closet, a pile of stuff
a litter trail leads to the house cat
A chip in the mirror in the hall
a slight imperfection in the paint on the wall
Occasional drip from the bathroom faucet
Smoke alarm inoperable, ought to toss it
This is where the poet moralizes
sensing how quickly former standards slip …
Ha! Fooled ya! I now embrace compromise
Thanks for reading, pal ~
don’t forget my 25% tip
Being slow as an excuse
for the delay
can be superior than
coziness inoperable
If someone, anyone remembers you
then you will live two lives; one where you are
and the other in a rented mind,
but when you are totally forgotten,
what then?
There will always be that one
that leaves a still smoking hole in you,
a bullet now lodged in an inoperable place.
That person probably
does not recall you at all now.
Only when you close your eyes,
do you remember
your long disappearing trick.
It is said that when you pass,
if but one person remembers you
then you will live two lives; one in the hereafter,
and the other in a rented mind,
but when you are totally forgotten,
what then?
Perhaps someone will forever
Be opening doors in your astral body
trying to figure out
what you once meant to them.
Of course there will always be the one
that leaves a still smoking hole in you,
a bullet now lodged in an inoperable place.
That person probably does not recall you
or regard you at all,
or even note your long disappearing trick.
Mesmerized by phantasmagorical flames
brandishing cerise, fuchsia
and crimson-colored
tongues of fire;
I marvel at the beauty of the beast.
I see the chard smoldering underbelly
of the flames, cloaked
in bellowing blankets of thick smoke;
its flames lapping at the coating of hope
someone had amply applied to their dream home.
I hear the glass windows
screaming as the broken panes
shatter the illusion of a quiet death;
and the house, no longer a home, crumbles.
I witness irreplaceable memories
melt like plastic soldiers
stationed at the gates of hell;
with little chance of rescue or survival.
I smell the acrid stench of fear
clinging to the hopelessness
of a devastated family;
like an inoperable cancer
that has metastasized.
I grasp the stark reality that confronts me;
and a tear trickles down my cheek.
It’s only a Guinea pig, people eat them,
the cattle don’t complain.
Peruvian mountain folk do not have to starve,
there’s no dearth.
Many are bred for their special coats of course:
the Slinky, the Peruvian, the Abyssinian,
the American; the American
is good with other guinea pigs -
good to know.
This one must be a mutt,
it always reminded me of Elvis in his fat period,
and now it has inoperable guinea pig cancer.
When my son gets back from school
I will help him bury it in the garden
next to the cat and hamster plot.
I have a little burlap bag to put him in,
it used to hold peanuts
I think Elvis would like that.
O Sweet poem
Wielder of undisclosed tales
Conqueror of unyielding hearts
Comforter of inoperable minds
Consoler of inconsolable souls
Utterer of the most unutterable dictions,
You have kept secrets for poets
In the deepest corners of your heart
I implore you,
Keep a secret for me!
With your soporific charm
You have softened hearts of gallant men.
You have won beautiful maidens for Kings.
You have spoken for the mutest lovers
You have reconciled the irreconcilable
O Sweet poem
Keep one more secret for me.
With your powerful allure
You have heated the coldest of hearts
You have reached unattainable horizons
You have opened the tightest doors
No secret is too sacred for you to keep
I pray keep a secret for me.
there is this vendor on the corner
where the girl with the inoperable brain tumor used to sit
she loved to tell her stories about the characters in the room of her mind
she would read to the vendor with her uniquely sloppy handwriting
the vendor was amazed at the depths her imagination took him
she was not a prodigy of any kind
she was just a little girl with ideas
that inoperable brain tumor did not matter
then today came
i told said vendor today that the little girl with the active imagination died last night
the vendor just smile slightly and thanked me.....and then pulled out this book
i forgot that i had to leave
the little girl's brain lives on in that book
thank you, Little Miss Ray-Anna, Peace Be With You All-Ways....
Please tell me why we didn't get our happily ever after?
I fell for you hard, it was love at first sight
As our love grew you became my everything
We were inseparable and all was right
Every day you caused my heart to sing
Please tell me why we didn't get our happily ever after?
We got married almost a year after we met
I loved you so much, I wanted to bear your kids
You introduced me to watching the sunset
I often think of a house full of grandkids
Please tell me why we didn't get our happily ever after?
I thought it was your witty sense of humor
Because of the funny faces that you made
We found out you had an inoperable brain tumor
You're not here, and your place I would trade
Please tell me why we didn't get our happily ever after?
3-9-17
Alexis Y.
You thought you had a hold on me?
You thought right, you did have a hold on me
You thought letting you go would break me?
You thought right, it did break me
You made me miserable
It was always about you, you self-centred selfish son of a…..!
My thoughts always occupied by your beauty
Mission in my life was to satisfy your needs
Your caring for me was camouflage
You made me lose my balance
Caught me off guard
Longed for your attention
I blame my naïve little self
How blinded I was from your abuse
Your ability to speak harsh words to me and not flinch?
Not listening to me and always wanting something from me?
Change has emanated
I embrace difference, I am different
My step conveys swag uncontrollable
Confidence oozing out of my pores
Beauty beholding me with no regrets
I hold my head up high
Take a bow
Witness the inauguration of a Queen
Powerful, strong and not afraid to exercise her authority
I can feel it
I am forgetting you
You unapologetic, doleful, egotistical, self-aggrandizer, inoperable, ugly son of a ……!
Forget you man
Oh by the way, I bet your mama has a loud bark!
She looks down at the world
All around at her feet,
With a look that beckons
With a calm presence
Undemanding
But she is not meek,
She can thrill you
Start a fire,
She is a ruckus
Low on the radar
Stealth trouble
With a face that permeates
Through all emotions;
Renders you inoperable
Subdued
Leaving you clueless,
What just went down?
You want to know
Why you cannot frown
This is her mirage,
When you look again
She is no more
Like a mist;
But you know she was real...
And I walk
across numerical figments
speaking hyperbole dialect to their imaginations.
Numb, blocky gaps
whisper invitation to secret club.
Enticing my stature
to belong
to become exponent’s side-kick.
So they can welcome me with open arms.
Coating my digits with inoperable tumors
double-knotted in hot pink laced bow
and baby-breath scent.
They even left a Walmart Rollback smiley face sticker
with crack residue on right cheek
and a comic-style bubble caption, “welcome home puppet”.
Yes!
This is exactly how Mother 1 told me it would be.
Kinda like marriage,
but less detail-oriented.
But, I could never fit in.
For I am neither positive
nor negative
about their (cult) ural ways.
Timing would always be off.
An arm from the clock that suffered a stroke at Midnight…
They’d never understand,
how they’d alter this unevenly, odd numerical figment.
For they’ll just calculate,
deduce,
my sum with rusty protractor.
This Zero, into a fraction...
© Drake J. Eszes
What is this Evil
Growing inside me?
Who gave it legs and
Permission to feed,
On this - my own life….
Why can’t I cut
This evil out?
Why can’t I bleed
Fountains of youth?
I cry tears,
anguished pain;
Yet nothing…
Nothing
Can save
…me.
(written August 19,2008 as a result of learning of my mother in laws inoperable lung cancer.)
How should I describe this empty?
So that you may wake from this slumber
With my words,
As some magic kiss.
It is far more deep, and tender
then any other wound.
You
Who had stretched tenderness,
The ability to believe,
Over my once
Inoperable fear
Of forever.
You
Covered me
In a definitive reply to a puzzle
That had never seemed to make sense.
And you
Borrowed from my well of dreams,
In hopes to fill our bellies
With waters less dark
And wanting.
So tell me before you go,
One last time before you go
How should I fill this empty?
This lack of me now,
This lack of
You?
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