Hope holds my wrists,
with ribbons that feel like chains—
gentle,
yet impossible to break.
I pace the bars
made of maybes,
counting instances
of what-if, could-be, and if-only,
each probe a step forward.
I press the soft faces
of my restless dreams
through the bars
of tomorrow's mirrors,
fogging the glass,
yearning with my breathing—
too close to see,
too far away to feel.
Some nights
fear rattles the locks loose,
and some negative whispers
seep into my bones,
but I will not stray.
For hope
is the only captor
I trust—
the one who feeds me light,
even through keyholes,
when all else fails.
I could flee these bounds,
and call it 'Freedom',
but I’d rather remain—
smuggling miracles of hope
foreseen through distant cracks
in midnight’s seems.
I'm a Prisoner.
a Prisoner of Hope!
In what seems, can be?
In the cracks of my being!
they call her kind, they call her bright
a whisper soft, a spark of light
but fairies lie, and mortals weep
when stolen dreams no longer sleep
she flits through keyholes, thin as mist
with ice-cold breath and silver wrist
her fingers pluck, her hands embrace
the dreams that drift on moonlight’s lace
a child who dreams of golden halls
will wake to bare and empty walls
a lover lost in passion’s heat
will find their heart grown slow, discreet
the painter wakes with trembling hands
his colors drained like drying sands
the singer coughs, her voice undone
the poet stares—but finds no tongue
she keeps them all in hollow glass
a thousand dreams that none surpass
some hum like wind, some scream like fate
some claw the dark, but it’s too late
for once they rest in faery hold
no hands of man can break their cold
a wish once lost is lost for good—
she leaves them hollow, where they stood
so bolt your doors, and bar them tight
do not give welcome to the night
for if she comes and takes your spark
you’ll never wake beyond the dark
You skulked down the hidden backstreets of rationality,
peering through the keyholes of human decency,
and crawled in through the sewers of thought,
to whisper your name to the unsuspecting innocent,
filling them with the fear of discontented oppression.
“We are America, So up Yours!” was your battle cry
and the naive jump aboard your pretentious parade.
Fake news…
Fake hair…
FAKE TRUTH!
Maybe we should have ‘read HIS lips’.
Wall them out, or wall us in…that is the question.
Oh yes, my dear friend William,
we are truly suffering the slings and arrows,
of outrageous buffoonery.
Do we now take up arms and light the battle fires of resistance?
Or do we sleep…
Perchance to dream.
Be careful what you dream for.
Written 3/10/2017
Chill confines a diary of absence
as September keyholes a papered wall.
A smirk tears a face--escapee silence
--styles wall with nothingness, dead ends AWOL.
A bottle of spent wealth parlays about ...
tangled weaves justify the performance.
Pebble leather worships darkly, blacks-out
a ghosted pundit building blocks, mischance.
Cold fashions the well, tilt pour sands reserves.
Alas, pitched secrets facades of falsehood,
its prisoner scopes round a war of words,
sheathed arrogance knells myPhone, knock on wood.
Crinkled gone days lay ... flattery goes on.
Scrawled lines drown, looming voice curts; "My Dear John".
Was it Wednesday ?
Partly closed, under a hide me peak
of “ Red Bull Inc “ His eyes shaded
cannot see further than his
half day Wednesday dream
expectation sits here ! It must be right.
Her eyes ! they drip the Moon and broken stars
and far, far away now, don’t and shan’t
their playing at it, hidden in shadows
bringing real time uncomfortably close
belief sits here, maybe a distance so near.
The longed for full Moon is half
the stars are hidden behind keyholes
wasted rolling minutes and empty hours
spread into Thursdays first light
it was a half day Wednesday, yes !
Must have been Wednesday.
~ Keyholes~
Are for the imaginative ones.
Some think they are just for keys?
These are the domesticated ones.
Others look though them and see sandy deserts
under brightest moonlight!
These are the imaginative ones, who write!
How about those who see lovers, long gone?
These are romantics, still hearing the call of
loves's sweetest song.
Then, come those who can pen poetry, historical.
Whilst, I can only pen things so metaphorical!
What do you see through the keyhole of life?
A future of glory or are you one, dedicated to loss
and to strife?
Hmmmmm?
3/24/2021
~3~
I float
in breathless transience
of heartbeats
as the moon's feral pupil peers
through keyholes
in the clouds
The Orpheus kiss
is a crap shoot
elevens showering sterling whispers
of soft Tiffany roses
from gentle arbors
or twelves
of black sky thundering
bastard answers
to unspoken prayers
I may toss
in subconscious unrest
but deep in pulsing ether
the pristine artery
to salvation sweetly beseeches
like an incandescent porthole
the siren lure of morning
from lips of nightmare
7/21/19
I watched you slowly disappear
pacing restlessly back and forth
warbling off-key through the
woozy blackness of a day
I watched you glide upwards
through the slender keyholes
quivering and sun-cloaked
towards the edgeless seasons
I watched you unfurl with rapture
rummaging the vast firmament
ill-famed for your cinder face
corralled and vaulted
I watched you smile in epoxy
at every wake and burial
you made weather off your skin
mostly smooth and neon-colored
I watched you sink in every rivulet
amidst the mountain ridges
and your incandescent eyelashes
creeping upon the timid animals
I watched you blast off to nowhere
becoming a zero, a ransacked town
only a replica of your blank self
a free sacrifice to destroyers
I watched you eat your cotton candy
heading home to fictive horizons
your limbs so flabby and tired
your eyes full of dismissal
Love is a lavender mist
loosening sealed windows
gliding through keyholes of bolted doors
melting frost from the heart
placing it in a nest of warmth
where a chorus of miracles lies.
Two times in my life
I've inhaled this miracle mist,
slaying one with my ego
the other slaying me with hers.
I'm still waiting for the third mist
to thaw the chambers of this
dormant volcano heart.
By Mark Miller 03/26/2018
We hold our personal abyss
Of nothingness sent caress
Tying the formless substance
Dancing naked existence
Where meetings forwell
Struggle the forest void reach
Skeletons scratch from blood
Fighting wayward darkness
Hiding behind forests breeze
Waiting for clearing screams
Of hopes pretense scene
Children displace loss cause
Never reaching home’s soul
Of worlds locked doors
Behold ghost spy keyholes
Echos howl man’s maiden wolf
Grooming feelings for bedomma
Paving cornfields lonely paths
Of practice poison malevolence
To deny the strain passion purpose
Kaleidoscope is a
kind of an uplifting
kit, from which the budding
kids can learn that even
kaput glass pieces can
keep shining through magic
keyholes if they use chance
Seven cities sat* silently in the sandstorm**
Waiting as the wind whipped around wickedly**
Dun walls draped with dirt and dust**
And the darkened sun desperately seeking a dim scenery*
But as the unsecured boards were battered and broken about
Clapping clappers clipping** the next scene
The humans huddle in the hovels hiding and hidden**
From the farce of the ferocious furor, full of fear**
But then, as suddenly as it started, it subsides**
As silence settles** and the sand sifts** down
Down to the ground and gravel
And carefully eyes peek out of slits and keyholes
Seeing the first rays slice through the haze
Defining from pastel to watercolor to crisp bristle brush
Even if the voice of the cities are still hush*
There is a stirring of life
Of hope
In the end of stormy strife***
*personification
**alliteration
***metaphor
A clown sadly crying laughter,
Prying it from grimaces that fail to smile.
Upside down grins dying on a joker's face,
Lost in a rain of tears his eyes can't see.
This creature who doesn't recognize wilderness,
A place from which he was born,
Where that scorn of nothing happy raised him,
Always hating those sipping on silver spoons.
Still they soothe him with lies that burn,
A painful salve which does not cure,
Just spreading many scars,
To parts they never look upon.
Only sneaking on knees to humorless keyholes,
Peeking gleefully at the sorrow they see,
Badges of cowardice bleeding before heaven's door,
While heroes of joy pass through gates always open.
Copyright © 2014 Robert William Gruhn - All Rights Reserved
"A poem to me is the essence of any thought,
Being built from its foundation into tower scraping sky.
It can fly like no other bird to places never seen,
Even spaceships can only dream of taking its place."
© 2014 Robert William Gruhn
Somber dreams, pierced
by morning light
Dawn’s tight woven tapestry
Unfurled upon the night
Countenances now so cheerful
Not nearly now so fearful
As last they were when wrap’t in fur
Those faces of the night
The gladsome glow,
so warm to know
Giving chase to gloom
throughout the land
Birds, beasts, snakes
mice and men alike
Shaken rudely awake
By sol’s harsh hand
Allowed no more
In tranquil sleep to lay
Summoned forth
To face new day
E’en thru keyholes
and cracks so tiny…
Seeps suns persistent
Probing touch
Telling us tacitly…
Yet pray tell
with great tenacity
Arise! Arise! Open wide your eyes!
You’ve slept friend, quite enough!
Lazy afternoons on easels
Maples giggle loud with sweetness
Blue and yellow mixed in grasses
Withered wrinkles sink in lilies
Joggers run in fear of dying
Secret trails end in abyss
As the sun stabs days in prisms
Bloody madness grabs the paintbrush
People old vanish from benches
Emptiness sits down by me
Artists mutilate self-portraits
Tempera in tubes succumbs
Painters shoot apocalypse in veins
Signatures escape through keyholes
Night becomes obsessive pitch black
Ghosts invade museum closed
...and I walk by with my suitcase
as reduced to it I am...
No one knows I carry homeless
The Portfolio of my Fate...
copyright@iolandascripca2012
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