Long Amnesiac Poems
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Written: May 23, 2024
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I call you a Venus-blooded princess
deity related to grace and love
you, alone, lost track of your roots
you seem like an amnesiac orphan
searching for love
and a spot to deem abode
lingering emotion
still a sight of a shed dynasty
a voice from wide Hellenic chasm
deep into satin-waved azure sea.
You travel through life as a refugee
being unaware of your royalty
awaiting you is your dynasty
Ignorant of celestial ability
sliding nightly to kiss your feet
your modesty enhances your splendor
oblivious that angels revere you.
Blood flecks Earth's palms
vulture-vamoosed blood loss
fragmented feelings slapped at you
from men grody to your stature
you trade power for gossamer grief
saving those who lack to drain you
finishing a faintly flickering flame
once fatuous flared flawlessly.
You still fight valiantly
still, search for your ethnic kin
you've been banished, little knight
supplied by your ancient souls
tell you to heed the wave whispering
be quiet; listen to Atlantis' harp lament
you are infested with worms.
Pirates stole your Kismet
Zombies inveigle your regal elixir
oblivious disconsolate each air
eviscerate you and lay you bare
quenching hunger in esoteric fruit
while you bear ethereal anguish
crestfallen, reclaim what's yours
let the tides carry you home
your tenacity defeats lecherous
your breath creates waves
hold Elysian sword tightly
your veins are boiling with fire blood
focus on inner chimera samurai
return to your throne
wear your genuine crown.
I addressed the young stranger sitting alone on a park bench:
"Hi, I'm Jason Bills." His handshake was firm, his smile uncertain
but warm.
"Hello, Jason. I--I don't know my name or where I am!"
And so began the odd but fulfilling relationship between the amnesiac
and my entire little sheltered Southern town. Enveloping him in
concern and love, we created "Jerry" and a life for him, making him
brother, son, friend to us all. We took pride in our--uh, invention--gladly
taking care of his needs and wants. He did odd jobs quite skillfully; we,
of course, paid him in cash.
At first, we asked few questions, since he so quickly became nervous.
Then, after a few weeks, the town's conscience reared its accusing head,
demanding that we make an all-out effort to awaken his past. Loved ones
surely were grieving and searching for him.
We weren't very subtle. We probed and prodded: "Any memories,
even vague ones, of family? Past surroundings? Profession? Hobbies?
Religious faith? Problems that might've traumatized . . . ?"
By then, "Jerry" was trembling, almost in tears. "I--I just don't
remember--ANYTHING. I'm sorry!"
We promised, "Okay, Jerry, no more interrogations! Some day soon,
maybe we can contact authorities to help us discover who you are.
Surely you, deep down, want to know."
Jerry's smile was gone. The next day, so was he.
Based on my consulting this year’s almanac
June 30th being the best possible day for a BBQ out back
I sent out invitations to everyone, I didn’t hold back
There was the lumberjack, the nymphomaniac
The humpback, the hunchback and the hypochondriac
The kleptomaniac, the hemophiliac and the insomniac
No reason to leave out the egomaniac and the pyromaniac
Ooops and how could I almost forget our local amnesiac
I proposed a neighbourly exchange of paperback
I asked them all to contribute, call back or at least provide feedback
Eve of June 30th, gotta prepare my shack
Start to clean vigorously with ammoniac
Wash my floors and dust that miscellaneous bric-a-brac
To make room for guests, park my hatchback in the cul-de-sac
Find bowls for every possible sweet and snack
Think of various games including kayak and piggyback
Think I might serve some type of aphrodisiac
Put together a musical playlist of 60’s to 70’s flashback
Get all set for a promising night of banter and wisecrack
I think I’ve thought of everything and I’m right on track
O gotta go… I think I hear the doorbell- must be Jack
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
I sit, my back against the black.
My thoughts a jumbled supplejack,
a wanna-be amnesiac.
Oh, autumn leaves a fluster,
the winds in tipsy bluster.
I’m weightless as I drift away
on whiskey wings, a moth astray.
My grief in ashtray where I pray.
The equinox is tilted,
my wispy body wilted
and in my stupor do I dream?
Are clouds I seek a false redeem
as sunrise bleeds through jagged seam?
Damn seraphim and serpents
and fantasy disturbance!
I keep my secrets like a sphinx,
my insight an elusive lynx
…a widow with a hard drink jinx.
Yet soul, a black-eyed-Susan,
still blooms in bruised seclusion.
Dawn’s dapple-gold flint-glints like stones.
As hard on eyes as nightmare crones
who rattled empty bottle bones. .
As half-light scries the mirror,
my pulse does bring me nearer
to burning on the altar of the sun,
my moonshine valentine…
Among the forests of ideas that get lost in dense fogs,
On high cliffs, beliefs carved into the mountain's root,
We stand bound by incantations, by formulas we recite like a litany,
With hearts full of ancient seals, whose deep mysteries are unknown to us.
It is a world of shadows we weave, from the word we speak without thought,
Rituals adorned in silver, with their echo of unanswered questions,
And we hide beneath these masks, the face of which we've forgotten how to read,
A fear of the heights, of the depths, a fervent desire for refuge, for a deceptively cozy nest.
We inscribe on aged parchments beliefs that aren't truly close to us,
Yet we honor them fervently, carry them on our backs like sacred talismans,
Clutching at our chests those formulas, those dogmas we hardly breathe,
In a melancholic ballet with slowed steps, hoping they will save us from drowning.
Ideology – behold! – a wall built not from bricks of clear conviction,
But a tiny labyrinth, made from the unrestrained desire to feel safe,
With every repeated ritual, we stray a bit further from the understanding of the sun,
And we warm ourselves by a flickering flame, of a light we never truly aimed for.
We, on the altar of the unknown, sacrifice meaning for the sake of form,
In a strange ceremony, where words become automatic gestures,
Hiding our fears under the mantle whose embroidery we no longer decipher,
We adhere to a ritualistic walk through which strolls, amnesiac, a poet who has forgotten what it's like to be human.