Harley’s favorite life began at Arkham
She reinvented herself
no longer a mere psychiatrist
now Joker’s lovesick groupie
she flashed from tame to wild
from mild to violent
a murderer now but still likeable
she pretends to be naïve; but she retains kindness
craving affirmation, she latches onto people she likes
selfish? Yes
Unstable? sure
An unstoppable force
Harley Quinn, with her faux innocence
highly suggestive, easily manipulated
an anti-hero villain you grow to love
Doors with rusty latches and windowpane
Decaying house stands at corner of blind lane.
A lone old lady spends dull days in pain.
I’m a forgotten home to sigh in vain.
Old lady cleans pale torn carpet with much care
Visit of children -grandchildren is rare,
though once the house ran in gorgeous glare.
Her depression, loneliness, none to share.
Sixty years back she planted saplings at best
turning huge massive trees at front gate.
Strong gate now runs almost in broken state.
I’m a forgotten home just to lament.
For children-grandchildren, no use to wait !
Inevitable lone life to accept.
Despondency to drag days is her fate !
In forgotten home she can't welcome guest.
Easy targets are those being trampled on rights wise
least we forget where the truth stands voicing an opinion
take the structure of your argument cursing and name calling
it embarrasses righteousness to even speak in defence
Now search your soul for a few minutes addressing subject matter
moral deformity within society has taken a dark shade
nothing is impossible for you to see when push comes to shove
If one looks the right way around with a balanced view
identifying grave error surrounding values
many in this world today are complete frauds
Justice no longer exists to protect the innocent
instead it latches onto the guilty parties side
Three times today one individual roared in such vulgar language passing back and forward
whilst we prayed adding this soul to the list for conversion of heart
sad to see some people totally possessed and so abusive
Memories dwell
within low spirits over-
whelmed by suppressed
feelings and unspoken
thoughts that accumulate
into a small ounce
poison juice.
My father craved it,
My mother hates it,
My older brother became
lost in it.
I for one nor hate, craved, or felt lost,
I followed the smell and it lured
me with its delicate scent
and harmless manner.
a sip of its warm
flavor coated
my drained throat,
the taste is somewhat
bittersweet, but
its flames bursts
as it hits
my stomach,
its fragrance strengthens
its resolve causing
my head to spin
in illusive traction,
my body burns
to a hundred degrees,
the intensity latches
onto my lungs
like a bloodsucking
parasite rejuvenating
what's left.
While gasping for air,
I lose consciousness,
blurred vision,
echoes strum
against the walls,
I fall barely holding on,
while whispers travel
along my ears,
as its voice ascends
slowly,
I catch a glimpse
at the shot glass filled
with barrenness,
a once detailed portrait
is now the remains
of a youthful shadow.
In the old city of St. John's,
in the older neighborhoods,
there are haunted houses...
residences with revenants...
apartments with apparitions...
even schools with spectres;
and there is one edifice with an eidolon
that I know well:
a softhearted shadow
very benevolent,
not at all maleficent.
It is supposedly the ghost of a child
who passed many years before;
a tale from days of yore
not well-known in local folklore.
This ghost is known to close
latches, doors and windows,
as if the occupants are being told
"Please keep out the damp and cold!" -
a phenomenon inexplicable
by a force completely invisible.
Some years ago, I observed this first-hand
and I'm sure I did not fully understand,
but I quickly deduced that it would be most
polite to say "Thank you" to the ghost -
a sudden burst of intuition
to please and placate this amiable apparition!
A Shadowed, Darkened Course
by M. Griswold
10272020
I evoke a tale of a shadowed, darkened course.
Where death rides atop his ghostly gray horse.
He's astraddle his saddle with searching evil eye.
Scanning far then wide to spy who's next to die.
For no man nor woman that's ever been born.
Will escape this pale rider’s stare for the forlorn.
And upon each and all of us his gaze will rest.
Then withdraw our lives from hearts in breast.
Leeching, death latches upon our sorry bones.
Then drags us to where no good thing roams.
A place where shadows dwell and spirit’s groan.
A space of dank, darkened walls of a hellish tone.
Oh yes, I tell you a tale of all men's fearsome foe.
Of death and his dark place bare filled with woe.
I tell you this tale of death without any remorse.
Because it's all men's shadowed, darkened course.
In a tale entwined with Chib,
A love perceived as true, but plagued by deceit,
Her affection feigned, insincere it seems,
For all she desires is wealth, not dreams.
Her kin, entrapped by vices they crave,
Unable to provide for her, her needs deprave,
Thus, she latches onto love's fragile thread,
In hopes material gain will fill her void instead.
Yet my love for her remains untainted, pure,
Blinded by hope, unable to fully endure,
Her heart's true intention, a secret unknown,
For I'm lost in a whirlwind, emotions overthrown.
Oh, how I yearn for love's genuine embrace,
But her motives concealed, a deceptive chase,
I must find the strength to break free,
From this web spun with ill-fated glee.
Love, in its essence, should transcend all greed,
A bond built on trust, where hearts intercede,
Though tempted by her false charms' allure,
I shall seek a love that's authentic and sure.
With lessons learned, I'll mend my wounded heart,
Steering clear of illusions, playing my part,
For a love that's sincere shall someday find me,
And in its embrace, I'll find serenity.
Metals at rest as tend to rust,
Love that latches on looks like lust,
As diamonds get made from grey dust,
Ye, Destiny, get deemed unjust.
Yet, whatso lies idle would rust,
Love lost of freedom looks like lust,
Not just diamonds, world’s made from dust,
We tend to forget fiery test!
It might seem so, where’s unjust fate?
Seeds sprout, aloud to say it all,
Man reaps no more than sweat may let,
Fruits, not before they ripen, fall.
He starved of will and manful means,
In grey envy tends to see greens.
_________________________________________
Sonnets | 04.02.2007, revised May 2023|
WHERE I AM FREE
My freedom lies beyond
the cloud of unknowingness
beyond mists of time where
I disappear into olive groves
which furl and unfurl in slow dawns
Here there are no gates
latches or rusty keys
nobody entices with tickets
to a show and gala gifts
dark chocolate or apple orchards
Where I am free translucent dragonflies
and red quilts are escaping memories
rooms filled with roses and ferns
or silky scarves do not exist
promises evaporate as steam
Desires for dancing legs
warm marrow, wet kisses or
tears, scars are packaged
like data bits with grapevines
Angels appear only to take a peep
Where I am free I do not exist
There dwells what you seek
and what you seek is an
illusion of Light which lives then
dies in milliseconds of ecstasy
To touch it is to orchestrate
melodies as a harmony of
unknown instruments to
convey Creation’s glances
Not all can come
where I am free !
GhairoDanielsPoetry2014
take a look at nature
watch how everything
learns from another
a plant learns to quench it's thirst
from soil so it survives
a newborn goat latches to it's mother
a family of beavers surround themselves in water
building dams as their home and protection
Why do those lips
moisten my own - years on?
That labial goodbye, with its embrocate
of memory
returns as a tangible ghost.
A time-traveling incubi latches upon my mind again.
A hummingbirds sip,
a recoil of sensory jack-hammers.
Today, words are meaningless,
lips remain pursed to that goodbye moment.
I did not know it was the end back then, but
it is perfectly clear now -
I am over it.
Somber are the passages
Sunsets mountains plains
Over ended visions
Clouded atmosphere
Unlock heaven's gate and lightning latches
Rolling lands of browns and greens
Environmental decisions
Adverse scenery
11/28/21
Written by James Edward Lee Sr © 2021
he sits in his wheelchair
waiting
her visit
to ease his world of rubble
to snap shut a sense of aimless
in a nursing home of minimized living
its weariness that closes in like shutters
she bends to greet him
her touch a force that shapes his joy
shedding his decline like shaking off soot
two decades together till a swirling tempest rained sorrow
an accident, gut retching moment
swept aside the bliss of living
one couple, hands held
to unfasten latches of closure
to comfort them, re-imagining what's familiar
a vibrant rootedness
unbroken, he knows the glow from her kiss
crumbling gloom
when he hears her approach
the clack of her heels
like chimes in wind
Poem composed November 14, 2021
I sit under the trees
Later
My neighbor said
“I enjoyed watching you pray.”
“What do you mean?”
“You sat there so still
Head tilted up for a very long time.”
“I suppose so
But actually I was entranced
By the crowns of the Oaks sweeping the sky
And that Cooper’s Hawk nest along for the ride
Swaying basket beneath a parachute
“A Fledgling teetering on the edge
“Doesn’t fly at first
Thinks
Then falls head first
“Batting tree trunks
Talons raking the bark
Crushing the branches in a humiliating commotion
Leaves ripped away
“Tumbling upside down
Wings hoisted half way to the planet
Then like magic
The bird fastens
To something close to the harness of an orbit
“Latches upright to a branch
Shakes its head
Furrows its brow
Eyes narrow to stirrings on the green mezzanine
Below
“Just like that
A Hawk reincarnated by hunger.”
“But I saw your hands clasped.” She says.
“Instincts, I guess.”
My trusty chunky Globite with its rusty clunky latches,
Its shattered battered corners and its lid worn thin with scratches,
Pink Floyd stickers on the inside where the teachers couldn't see 'em,
Now my dusty rusty Globite’s sitting here in a museum.
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