Long Abraded Poems
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The mobile mind of the indomitable mariner,
the resolute sailor floating on the waves of life,
rolling on the curled crests with splintered moon,
drawn into dark agony troughs of drowned stars,
spread to oblivion breaking on the shore of past.
The crushed sands carve seaward footprints,
designed by the crumbled contours of decay.
Time arrow points to terrain beyond the shore,
away from the abraded wilderness abandoned,
where the chasm consumes the collapsed hopes.
The weed-webbed wasteland defined deep within,
piles up the washed out wreckage of life unlived.
The withering garden garners metallic bleakness,
as the path paved outside the familiarity fence,
waits to be walked by the mesmerized wanderer
to the mesmeric meadow of tantalizing tomorrow.
The invented alchemy aptitude of mystic memory
makes glittering gold on the rusted crust of ruins.
Marigold blooms in the scrap heap of abiding hope
in the Midas touched junkyard of the metallic mind.
_________________
February 19, 2023
For Brian Strand's Your Choice Again Contest
The rain didn't fall
last night so much
as it was thrown.
The wind didn't blow
last night so much
as it was whipped.
And a whip is
a thing which
lacerates, it cuts.
The day after
was the last day
and the next days
will be filled with
no more and no longer
until the next days
outnumber the
here-with-us days
and the days after those
days will pile on, unmercifully
as well. The whipwind cuts.
Whippy storm.
Shallow breath.
Dirtied coat.
Abraded eyes.
Right one swollen.
No bowel signs right,
and few on left.
Unwilling to move -
pressed rump-first into
a corner
facing southwest.
Signs of sweat.
"My other horse went this way."
she weakly offers
to the morning air,
to the isn't there,
foreshadowing shadows
and coming despair.
"I wish the doctor would
hurry up and get here."
though we knew he would,
he was, he would be...
soon.
How soon? We didn't know.
- - -
Shaving tummy,
seeking what's beneath,
what is deep.
Ultrasound inconclusive.
Which leads to a conclusion,
the conclusion.
Mommy cooing for hours.
She's brushing him now.
"He's toxic" says doc J.
"It's time." quietly said
to all who already know.
But the spokeness of it is
it's own gift.
The haunting guess brought into
Life, into the moment
into Astro's stall.
- - -
Outside, the crows cried.
The grey winds sucked
warmth.
"You're gonna like where
you'll be." repeated Momma K.
A stroke.
A kiss.
A nuzzle.
A forelock felt.
He thumped down.
Momma started.
We four knelt down,
knowing that but
three would rise.
Syringe after syringe.
Twenty two years.
"His heart's stopped now,"
says Doc
"That's just his diaphragm
tryin' to do its job."
Astro huffs heartily.
- - -
Blankets cover him now,
in a damp paddock.
His bridle off.
At long last.
He is still.
She shakes.
Tears from both.
- - -
The wind won't stop.
He seems to breathe.
It's just the wind
under the blankets.
He really seems to breathe.
- - -
"I learned so much from this horse."
"I don't see myself..." he began.
That's quite OK.
You can feeeel yourself.
We can see you.
We do see you.
(and we are trying to feel you.)
Let us in?
"...making it through the next few days..."
he continued.
That's quite OK.
There is nothing to make it through.
Time doesn't have a vessel,
you aren't a vessel
hurtling along, bumpily
racing along, perhaps lost:
pinballing are caroming along,
ploughing, skiing, skittering,
piloting, surfing, mucking,
hopping, dithering, meandering.
No!
Time washes over the ever-present
present.
A tide, or swath of sun
rolling over the shaded meadow.
Time comes to the immovable,
the unchanging. To know this,
locate your heart. Your Spirit.
To do this, seek another, serve another,
open, offer, extend, comprehend.
Touch, Listen, Grieve Unalone.
Smile.
"...without inflicting grievous bodily harm on someone,
much less the next four years." he ended.
That's quite OK.
You're quite OK.
Today, though
you're losing sight of
how you deeply are
and you are...
quite OK.
Turn, perhaps instead
to Beauty.
Seek Awe.
Revel in some Ridiculous.
The prickly-sharps you feel now,
are real, are true.
but feel, you're you.
Not them.
Let's them, too
be washed off,
be abraded,
let the Tides of Time
wash clean the
needly pokey stuff
let the Tides of Time
polish the youYou.
Let us help, too.
you ARE felt.
you ARE seen.
you are not OK.
You are OK.
-ShhDragon
(for Joe Turecek.)
Always the world splinters—
the world breaks, fractures,
yet we lean into the cracks,
as curators, as keepers,
guardians of each other’s troubles
We gather the fragments,
hidden deals, relics, left-overs.
Embers still warm from the hearth.
Praying to self, I was near you once,
and it mattered, it burned,
it endured, it lasted, and mattered.
In the prance of happenstance
uncertain, trembling, raw, delicious,
we shuffle our scarred tokens,
knurled with abraded edges,
blurred and charred—
still radiant, still reflective, alive.
Laughter bends into mirrored halls.
Mirror on mirror aligned;
none showing the same viewpoint,
a shifting, stuttering constellation,
echoing a thousand selves
crying out together in reflection.
We are more than simply ourselves.
We are the harvest, the gathering.
We are the constellation.
A mosaic of cracks, left uncovered.
Where we let the light crawl in.
We are a threshold, an opening.
Where the light breaks in—
through the doorway
cherished as broken,
not worth fixing, nor mended.
Never broken enough,
Never done enough.
The door is broken.
Let the light come in!
All was arranged like an orchestral chamber,
The music - synthesis of heart and mind.
The symphony of universal splendor
Was ringing through the ears of all mankind.
Who was the judge, and who was the contender?
Who won, who lived, who fell, who bled, who died?
All this is known to universal splendor
As manifest in nature and mankind.
It was not long before, as I remember
That good and evil had been ill-defined
Until the light of universal splendor
Came blazing into eyes of all mankind.
As I's and You's are put into a blender
And blades bleed them to blackness as they grind,
The smashing arm of universal splendor
Descends upon the nature and mankind.
In inspiration comes the soul's defender
And as it burns on every side, I find,
The glory of the universal splendor
Invigorates the hearts of all mankind.
In states like this, you cannot sit or stand or
Attempt to see - You'll utterly go blind:
Such is the flame of universal splendor
That vitalizes nature and mankind.
You look at galaxies, and you surrender
To universe so gloriously designed:
You come in face with universal splendor
And its creations: Nature and mankind.
As each poetic spirit bears the standard
Of passion and of beauty deified,
Through them will blossom universal splendor
And through them reach the essence of mankind.
In heart aflame, abraded to an ember -
In heaven and inferno intertwined -
Will burn the truth of universal splendor:
The truth of God, of nature and mankind.
(In 1807, Beethoven wrote a piano/violin
piece with this title. Count Leo Tolstoy
followed in 1890, with a short novel of the
same name, in which he argued that
matrimony can never work.)
What is a marriage? A fusion, or a tether?
Two very different creatures, yoked together?
I was a piano, you a violin:
I, solid, calming, you, discordant, thin,
and laced with bitterness. I was your base,
and you provided brio, flourish, grace.
A lacewing trapped inside a window frame,
yet driven by one blind, unchanging aim,
you struggled up until, played out, defeated,
you fluttered down again, debased, depleted.
A war's a love affair, and love's a war.
We're so inept - or what's a heaven for?
A nest of wasps, my grievances boiled over -
but could there ever be a vita nuova?
We never learned. I hammered pointlessly,
while you abraded. Why could we not see?
And so I played it stately, sad, no frills,
while you kept up your repetitions, trills
and variations. Hovering and wary,
you shunned my structures. Ever more contrary,
you coiled and squirmed in spasms both continuous,
spontaneous, free-wheeling, lithe and sinuous.
It seemed to me the harmony had gone:
we sang on, yes, but each a separate song.
Two butterflies together, intertwined,
we tangled on the same, but different, line.
A turncoat sheds his skin, like autumn leaves,
To don a new coat with many bright hues.
With a mask, and an overcoat for thieves,
For whom or what, when, his deceit may choose.
Once clad in virtue, now as a fraud dressed,
Hiding the old spots of truth frayed, faded,
That once for friends and loyalties professed,
Now remain as scars, torn and abraded.
He knows no truth, nor love, nor noble dream,
For chameleon's spots are insecure,
Flitting and feigning camouflaged esteem,
Beneath the coat of colored spots, impure.
Can a change of skin or spots on a coat,
Ever excuse a lying turncoat's gloat?
Hustle of traffic
In red and green
With whirls of more motor horn and
The thrust radio in my car
All concealed and unfortunate but,
In fierce search of oasis
"why not play the recorder?"
That someone said
And felt the rain...
Tale of love abraded by rain
Tale of absence gore my veins
Tale of glimpse bygones stake my chest
And sounds of raining sings melancholia,
Glooms every joy we together savoured
Once alive,
And some ghosting nights...
And my mind full of abandoned tasks
Knock inside the glass of my car
Here's signals green.
I felt,
This vehemence of your desire
I am savouring,
Both unconsciously and unconditionally
Since shrouded you in the riot of 2008!
(Bombay songs, 1995 depicts as playing)
I will celebrate temporary triumphs
Little moments when my skin feels like my own
The days I wake up without the crushing weight on my chest, setting the elephant aside to greet the dawn
I will write profusely , when I feel whole again
I know that these minutes are fleeting
I can't always recognize myself, or hear my own thoughts anymore
There is a void both within me and outside of me
A longing for a life that used to be
I've been busy drawing blanks
Occupied with my sorrow and its visceral weaponry
When I can find myself I'm already stretched to thin
I've been molded to the fabric of this new existence
Abraded and raw where reality meets the skin
I have come up with many ways to fold myself
Fitting in to the necessary shapes and spaces, can you see the seams
My desperate attempts at stitching
I've grown weary of trying to keep it together
I thought it better to become hollow
I want to cry, to scream, to be enraged
Instead it has been the numbness I've chosen to embrace
Cheers to the small victory
Of still having days I get to be me
Even if it hurts
(In 1807, Beethoven wrote a piano/violin
piece. Tolstoy followed in 1890, with a novel.
He argued that matrimony can never work.)
What is a marriage? A fusion, or a tether?
Two very different creatures, yoked together?
I was a piano, you a violin:
I, solid, calming, you, discordant, thin,
and laced with bitterness. I was your base,
and you provided brio, flourish, grace.
A lacewing trapped inside a window frame,
yet driven by one blind, unchanging aim,
you struggled up until, played out, defeated,
you fluttered down again, debased, depleted.
A war's a love affair, and love's a war.
We're so inept - or what's a heaven for?
A nest of wasps, my grievances boiled over -
but could there ever be a vita nuova?
We never learned. I hammered pointlessly,
while you abraded. Why could we not see?
And so I played it stately, sad, no frills,
while you kept up your repetitions, trills
and variations. Hovering and wary,
you shunned my structures. Ever more contrary,
you coiled and squirmed in spasms both continuous,
spontaneous, free-wheeling, lithe and sinuous.
It seemed to me the harmony had gone:
we sang on, yes, but each a separate song.
Two butterflies together, intertwined,
we tangled on the same, but different, line.