My eyes scan the map of our lives –
lived experiences – etched across my grandma’s face.
And her eyes look right back.
But not the same;
The light that once danced to old jazz tunes,
and bold classic blues, that light that is extinguished by name tags at Christmas
donning the shirts of which she herself bestowed the identity.
‘I am sixteen’ I tell her,
again,
and she nods along, but that light does not quite gleam,
dimmed by the brain that cannot stay clean
and I find myself pointing at faces of which she is the blueprint.
Her fingers follow mine,
shaking,
as she tries to recreate, copy what cannot be faked
and I stifle a sob as I find my head bobs as she asks if I am okay.
Silence strangles my words
the way dementia does hers,
and I want to scratch at the very back of my throat the way she wants to remember the name of her firstborn:
An itch that will not be itched.
Not by her pretences or attempted defences, for she does not
remember
faces or names but her love remains, backed only by the assumption that
she should.
For she does not remember the family secrets that her brain will not
reveal –
not even for the sake of this family appeal.
In all these scrapbooks:
Flowers I have liked.
Flowers I have seen.
Flowers I desired.
Flowers that itched.
Flowers that burnt.
I wonder what was mine?
These manly hands
have held another
image itched in eternal stone
looked on by an admirer
running through crowds:
feeling so lost and so alone!
Nothing too beautiful lasts quite a while,
it has the fragility of a delicate, perfumed rose
soon to be snatched by a lover of ardent prose...
ready to conquer the wild eyes of sapphire!
Any poet staring at that joyful, serene face
would write amorous verses that'll endure time,
even a painter wouldn't hide such a fine grace:
poetry and paintings carry souls into the sublime!
Nothing too beautiful lasts quite a while,
if beauty is a display of delight to anyone:
we must preserve its image from forgetfulness!
not allowing it to fade away from self-awareness.
A legendary dark, so thick,
A corrosive smog to my young eyes that itched,
My kid-glove skin crawled like the parasitic tick,
It felt as though my whole system glitched.
A welcome into the dark cave,
Exhilarating walk from the womb, a step into the mystery,
Where shadows of truth barely behave,
The haste of rolling days writes the history.
A love missed; he was lost in a drunken haze,
And vanished in the phase, moments before I could show,
Double pain left a lifelong graze,
Tattooed on my heart but made me grow.
Into the enigma of unburied hatchet,
A tale of betrayal, the knife in the back.
By his own blood, sealed in casket,
They drank from pain and fed on lack.
Destroying his foundation was their thin little win,
But even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while,
That wade through the swamp was brutal and grim,
But through the murky sky, the dimly dawn cruises easily.
Make sure you shake your shoes out before putting them on.
I once got bitten by something (I suspected a spider)
on the long toe of my left foot.
It swelled, itched, and throbbed on and off for three weeks.
I wasn't insured at the time
So, I self-remedied-mainly with ice, aspirin, and cheap spirits.
I'm insured now but rarely meet my deductible.
Always shake life out before you put it on.
Poison is the love of shadows and the unemployed.
I didn't drink the brew
because it made me twitch,
and break out in hives,
every where I itched.
She cackled real loud, a
high shrilling pitch,
and hit the broom stick
with a switch, and flew
away in the sky with out a glitch.
Must still be the season of the witch.
Her depression drones
an endless dirge
and proffers toxins,
sliding between space
that lied between his rhythm and ruin
that rejoiced her melodic destruction.
Embraced by shadows
and loved by not a soul
as the phantom consumes
the entire light
as she lies stripped bare
in a grave filled with bones.
They whisper their tear soaked songs
the intoxicating sweet scent of sorrow,
surrounds .
Ending so artistry,
with the fulmination of stars
a supernova be adorn,
goodbye to the soul
turning to be the artifact of the passage of time
only evidence of her condition
was the grave with her name
itched in bold.
Long did Odin recline
nursed by the long slain.
Long had he relied for news
from his two ravens,
from a world he still thirsted after
and long did love.
His one eye itched
for their long expected return.
Muninn
(known in the old tongue,
as Odin’s Memory),
at last appeared.
The birds sable feathers
were now ghost-grey.
It stumbled in its speech
as it spoke of
what it had seen of the world.
Long were its strange tales,
long were the gaps in its telling
until Odin could not piece together
the recalled from the unrecalled.
In time his second great raven
Huginn (Odin’s thoughts),
entered his awareness
together with its dark ponderings.
Its dire re-telling's
they smote Odin with such force
that he gasped
in a toothless gawp of horror.
He called for his nurse, alas
no nurse was to be found,
he was adrift
upon the long night.
Dawn found his caregivers
searching high, seeking low.
yet only the long discarded bones
of ancient ravens littered his abode.
not giving a shift
an open flower
pis-til...
p/b's itched for her as...
a honey fuss
this way and that
so p'ees be...
b'ees home
sweet home
stan sand
hmmfffffff huh
can imp lies
shhhhh!
it's wearing!
to be itched
...in your ear!
stan sand
(piled)
Before the dawn ripens,
My beloved wakes up.
By her side I’m still roused
In the bemused dream.
The fragrance of her hairs
Itched my placid nostril.
The cool breath of the morn
Unruffled the gist of my body
The thin seam of my skin
Sore by depth of the night.
Breathed into life again.
The luscious lips of bygone day
Kissed the juicy lips of the day
The imagery of my poetry
Blush her lips in velvety glow.
Out of the window
Of my room of passion
The sunbird whistles.
The tree with ripe fruits
Plunges to the earth
Dispersing the fine words
Of my poetry scribbled.
In the terrace between
In and out of the moment,
Me and my beloved
Rest on the day to come,
In the flashes of sun
Just out of the East
I snap a selfie – my selfie.
*
Jammed some fun into one day
Aboard kayaks, paddling play
Mangroves, stingless jelly fish
And in my head, a hand itched
In beats, a beach reggae-tunes
Crashing waves upon the dunes
As curling smiles seemed to mock
Monster cruiser at the dock
Yellow sun did set too fast
Dashing night on anchor cast
Awhirl the sea’s brooding deep
Yesterdays pile on the keep
(9/12/2020: '04 Carver 420 Mariner; DMS)
eerie odds itched
fumbling frails flipped
saucy syllables puked
nosing nocturnal nude
lanky lust birthed
heaving haughty pandemic
ordeals awed strife
taunting tuning thrives
wielding whooshing wiles
dark dribbles dripped
tracing bruised tips
laced wit's lips
trained technology thrilled
taming teenybopper's twigs.
'20:05:09:19:21
Note: Of trained technology.
eerie eyes etched'n
cloned callous crest
felon face featured
fostering porous punctures
dark dribbles drooled
hoisting haggard pukes
voluptuous vision danced
taunting tempestuous trance
bewitched aura bagged
irking instinct itched
hoisting sassy skills
coursing mouth clipped
bounty battle birthed
saline liquid slipped.
'20:04:22:18:35
Note: Of pluming picture.
'Twas the night before Christmas
and there was a heat wave
Poor Santa's beard itched him
The man was dyin' for a shave
But I've got a brand to protect
He reasoned with mirth
As he glued on his fake beard
and adjusted his girth
So Santa waddled shed-ward
to saddle up the reindeer
When his eyes lit on a sight
that ruined his whole year
Now just what did he see
that disturbed him no end
Why, he saw Mrs. Claus
in the arms of ten men
Those new elves he'd just hired
Millennials all
Handsome as hell
Every one over six-foot tall
What could he do
'Twas time to depart
How could he go out there
with a big broken heart
'Folks,' Santa shouted
'Whatever this looks like --
No presents this year
~ 'I'm going on strike!'
November 21, 2019
The Night Before 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Joseph May
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