The poet is a physician of sorts
tending care to the physical
of his craft -- His patients, the
hearts and souls of humanity --
Latching belts on sleds of words
a-summit he descends, precariously
no safe tracks when in lyric free-fall
Altitudes and scathing depths
are the wails and screeches of
his siren journey down -- when and
where, a dicey pit travel...critics
offer no parachutes...and his lovers
often unavailable, amending their
own wrong steps. Can a writer really make
it safely to the other side, through the creative
pressures of ever revolving mantles and imperative
crushing cores!?
The days were brighter then,
When without the slightest effort, I’d succeed in making a good impression.
Now it seems no one knows me to be “good”,
How will they? I’ve hardly provided any proof
I used to swim in an ocean of praise,
And I’d bring home what I perceived to be, good grades.
My smile-wreaked of genuine ecstasy
Now it seems to be impregnated with melancholy.
Desolated and a mess,
I’m losing the best part of myself.
I feel as though I’m burning out like a candle,
One, I fear won’t ever rekindle.
My passion, I know has not yet, been misplaced,
Even at my darkest hour,
I refuse to let years of hard work go to waste.
It’s foolish to even think
That I’m on the brink
Of failing to chase a legacy
Created by the so-called “old” me.
To great lengths I’d go to get that girl back
And as I’m latching on to the faintest hope of getting her on track
I urge her not to abandon me and depart forever
Because I don’t know who I am without her.
This reputation of unwanted feelings appearing up at the wrong moments has become predictable.
My mind, body and soul have become depleted and there’s nowhere left to go.
I’ve been trying to rebuild who I am but when I look in the mirror the past is always latching on.
I weep at night waiting for the will to live to be strong enough to break this grip.
My demons cackle knowing that I'm not powerful enough to let them go
Sometimes the words cannot outweigh the anchor latching my lips together.
Sometimes my eyes go stark, and they begin to peel over.
Sometimes my shoulders sink into my spine.
Sometimes I’m so far away my senses dull.
Mommy, don't be upset
When they say how you should stand, sit and eat
While I munch on your blood and meat.
Just don't be upset
When they advise you on when I should be fed.
You alone know when my tummy needs bread
Mommy, don't be upset
When they say I was born lean or bulky, dark or fair
And force home remedies and weird aftercare
Just don't be upset
When they judge you for the cuts on your belly
Or the amount of milk generated by your body.
Don't be upset
When they rebuke you for keeping me on diapers
Or nag about your choices right from mittens to rompers.
I know how you guarded me for nine months
Every time I kicked from inside, your heart went nuts
When my poor latching has hurt your nipples,
I felt the wetness of your tears on my nerves.
We ate and slept together
We screamed and sang together
I was in your belly and you were in my blood
To meet each other, we worked as a team and laboured.
Now, who are they to make you feel low?
No, whatever they say doesn't help us grow.
Just don't be upset, Mommy.
We'll do only that, what is best for us!
Someone gave Jeff Kyser a subscription
Writer’s Digest seized his imagination,
It was almost like an editor’s prescription
For developing Jeff’s fine poetry articulation
He quickly discovered the poetry pages
Latching on to new forms…not on P.S.,
Strange syllabications from some sages
And navigation of the complex, I guess.
Probably more than any poet I know
Jeff wrestles with rhymes and patterns,
Ranging from serious to silly, although,
He lays it on thick when rhythm matters
Certainly, one of the better poets here
He deserves this moment of recognition
So, to Jeff, I want to raise a stein of beer
And say “Hear! Hear!" to a poetry patrician!
Written October 15, 2022
Once when we were around
the sun setting and
the air getting thicker
she withers like a flower
with countless jokes
dedication
sorrow continues
where no one appears
there is a wave of pain
escape from the soul
another,
tear she shed
see it flying in
thousand crystals
stared in the mirror
no one looked back
but the echo was there
her pure spirit
deepened.
she was looking at a picture
partner or clone?
still not latching well enough
the lights flicker,
threw a cryptic smile
recognize daytime stasis
our daisy fondness
Our stiff season
Is it lightning?
"cupid set us on fire"
Hang & Lazy
handling devotion
riddles on the beach
no one felt
the edifice of our stance
once you thread out
I'm reasoning now
none of us are living
this content is new
Written: October 11, 2022
I feel deep sadness for the sullen and morose,
For their lives are wallowing in dissatisfaction
Unable to experience “The Lightness of Being,”
Aligning themselves with a disgruntled faction
Clutching tightly to every slight they’ve ever felt,
They throw verbal barbs like pagan poison arrows
To wound whoever lately has crossed their path,
Their mind consistently and ruthlessly narrows
Shutting out positive and improving influences,
They sadly engage in self-pity, playing the victim
And come to believe they are without any fault,
While latching onto their religion, issue dictums.
Written July 7, 2022
Writing is a messy feast
where crumbs fall to the floor
to aggregate and congregate
to hide and form and spore
Left alone and thrown away
these remnants take new life
invading what you fear the most
on dark and stormy nights
They creep inside your cleanest lines
to weaken and distract
what memory long has cast aside
now rising from the cracks
And latching on while holding tight
they make you speak their name
those orphaned crumbs your table cleared
—in sweeping lost disdain
(Dreamsleep: October, 2021)
i am...
without mercy!
my thirst is
unquenchable.
i'm a predatory organism
inhabiting
and feeding
off your flesh;
latching on
like a leech,
slurping your blood
like Count Dracula
then licking my lips
with delightful glee
your blood is
my nourishment, you see.
i suck you
bone dry
steadily;
draining life
out of you
as I'm cackling
at your skeletal frame.
you are...
my host.
Date written: 01/22/2021
Peace in 2022
David J Walker
You were the one
I was the one
Weren’t we?
Together
Counting on 2021
To be different,
Well, it is
As some of the chickens
pending
Are hatching
Latching on to our
Foggy dreams
Before the dawn
It may be true
Me and you
Waiting for
Peace in 2022
Truth be told poetry is inbred,
breeding deep within the soul,
latching onto thought’s untold,
creating tunes of rhyme in time
harmony flowing through the mind
Spilling out into a verse of sonnet.
Written down about this place,
With mercy and grace..
Whirling though the air freely
capturing dreams from nowhere,
entering the eye going to the soul,
Testing others thought’s of harmony.
Creating connections of minds,
all different but match others minds,
Creating a bond as an open book
Bound by a match-book of words.
The Inbreeding of a Poets Poetry
Does love need an
audience
Or are such things
rehearses
for future
engagements
One would mention
a fear of abandment
so latching on to another
ensures at least marginal
assurance
which God do you
worship
The one who makes
betterminds smarter
or weaker minds more
tolerant
Which tomorrow's
comforts the lonely
that the nights before
If love is clever
are lovers unloved
that such endearment
might mean allowing
Oneself to be fooled
deceived or even
undermined
are lonely too
Drawn by subtle intuition
I follow a winding path
into the heart of the woods,
emerging in an open glade
where feeble sunlight falls
upon a moss covered wall.
Isomorphic intimacy holds
me in a trance; latching
the present to the past, as
nostalgia flirts with mixed
emotions. Resting my hand
on the stone slabs I caress
the rough texture with affinity
sensing the agony of collapsed
aspirations, decayed dreams,
and the utter helplessness
of the irreversible.
--------------------
This poem has been published in a PoetrySoup Anthology:
“Reflections on the Important Things” Nov 2023 (print)
"Wall in the Woods" contest
Sponsored by Craig Cornish
Placed 3rd
© 11th October 2020
Sugar Cain spin speeches
coming from wrinkled, prune faces
Citrus acid tongue leeches
latching on to golden palatial places
Waxy viper lips moving in lamprey motion,
voodoo witches brew is an anaconda potion
Goodwill gestures nod seen tone sourly,
Facial expressions is wink frown candy
Let the people lick the sores of their festering fear,
never tell them why the wounds won’t heal
Sell the primetime favorite lies they so love to hear,
then see how filthy lucre low they can kneel
Reach for the fools gold at the end of the faux rainbow,
trolling for more tears from a-many larynx weary soul
Money talk always speak envy green pantomime,
sour face gestures grins an emerald enamel shine
Related Poems