Long Confessional Poems
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Overture floods sacred seconds
as well-worn dread clings like a
stale apostle before betrayal.
Seat 2 in row N is my island
confessional from which all lies
are learned and recited.
I sit patiently staring at the
crimson curtain that hides all
God’s sainted abominations.
When it finally rises, will there
be redemption, retribution or
ultimate recognition?
Lights slowly fade down in this
hallowed auditorium where
Omega eats Alpha and sleeps.
Billowing velvet floats into night
as a figure enters and silently
stands center stage.
He is my new past.
A sentinel blurred, but certain.
The show has begun.
Their intimacy is gloved,
moments dovetail
in a tea-room.
I color-in implied gestures,
listen to the ambience
of undertones.
They enter a confessional space
lips linger over shared visions,
oracles only they can read.
Lipstick on China cups,
the twirled edge of a napkin,
the unclasped mouth of a purse;
pieces arranged on a white tablecloth
of magnetic intimations.
They are both attractive
yet in different ways,
together they impart
a comforting confidentiality;
bring to this small space
a delicate allurement.
I sense a wry tilt into humor,
a deeper conversation surfaces
as they settle the bill.
Leaving the warmth of the tea house
they kiss
but only lightly upon cheeks,
no flamboyance,
yet the inferred diffidence
is far more telling.
One of them seems to carry
the other's onus of care
sheltering her body from the cold.
I have a brief impulse to follow,
to stay awhile
in their mutual life raft.
These observations I record here,
are moments
to be contemplated only later
with closed eyes.
My autopsy room is a confessional,
where killers in absentia divulge
their sins through bodies
rigid and frigid, mutilated and mute.
Graffiti of abrasions, contusions and lacerations
reenact without deceit or reservations
a catalogue of perversions and violations.
Rage, hatred, greed, jealousy, sickness
explode and leave behind vandalized anatomies,
a *********** of naked emotions
in the topography of vacated husks.
Silently, they talk.
With my eyes, I listen.
They confide in me about themselves too,
these chatty cadavers,
about their public faces and private hell.
Tattoos speak of loves and obsessions,
silicone breasts betray insecurities,
medications reveal internal insurgencies,
needle marks give away muffled screams,
cirrhosis lets on alcoholic dreams.
A hundred foibles preserved by the
candor of rigor mortis,
each corpse an abridged,
unfinished biography.
By the end of their final confessions, the departed
have parted with their burdens of secrets.
In death much more than in life,
there is honesty.
Still, I take comfort in the lies of the living.
Raw conscience brought me to my knees,
no strength left to defy my shame.
Soul manacled, bereft of keys,
pure guilt by any other name.
To gain my life bought by his loss
raw conscience brought me to my knees.
I face torn sinews on the cross
for by this death mankind he frees.
Hands clasped, head bowed I make my pleas
recounting sins like tables times,
raw conscience brought me to my knees
to man and Lord confess my crimes.
Now cleansed, hands, eyes and soul I lift.
Though this penance is by decree
and liberty the promised gift-
raw conscience brought me to my knees.
For 'Show me Quatern poetry' , sponsored by Andrea Deitrich
27th January 2016
I Don't Want to Live This Life
(Change of pace equals review of book
long out of circulation,
but eyes experience immediate hook
so perhaps...take a look
and best locate a cozy nook).
Authored by Debbie
Spungen early 1980's,
yours truly doth recommend
perhaps Facebook
message I will send
whose person I would
be eager to befriend
cuz, title of poem by me,
and book written, sans arduous
motherhood to contend
by above (now octogenarian) gal,
a pitched battle blend
of brute confessional honesty,
and maternal love,
yet heaven forfend,
such sacrifice after gleaning
(of... course add in mix amidst end
of post World War II establishment,
viz hippie revolution number 9)
now only praise, aye absolutely commend
dubble "NOT FAKE" grueling
tale of emotional survival
during anti war
counter cultural trend
insert flaps did bend
immediate curiosity as
spurious hours to expend
choice of reading material,
thus found this bookworm
trying to comprehend
analogous taming wild animal
hence, engrossed many hours on end
today sunday February 17th, 2019
since birth Nancy Spungen the
firstborn and utter archfiend,
whose decade long trajectory,
yet to complete reading
harrowing story til the bloody end,
where near total
mortal kombat doth descend
how young mom stayed sane
one can only applaud and defend,
the monster birthed
from doting parents,
as both key figures
appeared to extend
more patience than Job,
mebbe wounds will never mend
unfortunate unbearable task
since day one did portend
a downward spiral, each day and night
for twenty orbits of Earth round sun
surviving family members
punishing trial may forever
garner kudos to legend
deary selflessness still
cost steep psychological stipend.
Cloistered within the restroom stall
eavesdropping on my peers
soft whispers echo off tiled walls
revealing secrets, hidden tears
Somehow this restroom has become
a sordid confessional booth
a place of refuge, safe for some
to air their inner truth
Co-workers cluster, confiding things
they wouldn't want the boss to know
nasty hangovers, weekend flings
soap-opera worthy woes
Some speak carefully, checking stalls
noting unfamiliar shoes
while others quickly unleash it all
like they have nothing to lose
“That ratfink took credit for all my work
but I'm gonna wait and be patient-
'cause I've got a plan to fix that jerk
next week while he's out on vacation!”
Young woman details a wicked trap
to catch her mortal foe...
while on the door, the impatient raps
of another who's “got to go”
Next there is an angry mother
scolding her wayward son
something or other (he did to his brother)
the fussing has just begun
“Listen Mister, I've had about all
I can take from you today
Oh, now you're sorry, no- don't you bawl!
I wasn't born yesterday!”
Then tripping in, catty office girls
meowling with purrs and sighs
pretend to freshen their faces and curls
while sniping and scratching out eyes
“...Lovely green sweater you're wearing, my dear-
wherever did you buy it?”
She means it looks quite awful on you
“Here, this smells good, you should try it!”
“Gangway girls- I'm comin' through!”
woman bellows, bursting through door
the others pause, and then continue
nonchalantly as before
Eventually they all trickle out
and two teenage girls traipse in
whispering about poor What's-Her-Face
and all the trouble she's in
“She's only twelve, and such a shame
tried to kill herself last week
they said she's crazy, that she's to blame
a loser, misfit, freak...”
“So they had her institutionalized
and she sits, spaced out, and stares
while they tell her the abuse was 'made-up lies'
and she knows that no one cares”
Sooner or later, there's silence
as the restroom door swings closed
then after a flush, a wash, a rinse
I get myself composed
Finally, I'm all alone here
in this magical, comforting place
voicing my own insecurities, fears
to my mirror-image face
Past psychological development
describes zigzagging mama's yoyo
casually, aye publicize, (asper
mein kampf) personal woe
unpleasant memories indelibly
etched, jagged, scar outlined like ticktacktoe
solitary games invariable resultant
draw between every “x” and each "o"
metaphorical of course for this poetic,
formerly non opportunistic
generic Joe Schmoe,
hoof hound cathartic airing emotionally
rocky terrain, whereby floe
tips of icebergs with poetry I tool
examining, excavating, extracting, et cetera hoe
ping to discover ring visa vis,
why this ordinary fella did not want to grow
up, when on the throes of puberty lugging
"FAKE" nostalgic memories in tow
markedly heavy impossible to shrug
Atlas off (as if yoked with an albatross) also
weighted with Taj Mahal size fountainhead
gushing with emotional phlegm like no
buddies business shockingly deadly toxic
sputum nearly killed me, the only bro
their too hoo (owl right) untwisted sisters
one older, the other younger dough
ting on this then suicidal, impassive, and
ambivalent depressively sullen self burrow
wing boy within my own wormhole unresponsive
to overtures of sincere love - self castrated
particularly social maturation grew
ming this present day subdued chap
still smarting from ravages of anorexia
nervosa, particularly wrought hardy brew
of schizoid personality disorder self
deprivation excruciating frame of mind
as I mercilessly flayed and never grew
to experience ordinary relationships,
hence though married with grown daughters,
nonetheless...pay penance forever rue
man hating price hermetically
sealed wharf from humans,... thus you
cannot reach me, - now adieu!
I write poetry not to change the world,
but to change the way I feel.
Sometimes it’s just made-up fantasy,
sometimes, something a little more real.
I’m not a sophisticated poet you see,
using litotes, anapest, or alliteration.
Though I’ve been known to use an aphorism or two,
when talking about the politicians of this nation.
I pay little attention to the rhyming scheme,
and syllable count means nothing to me.
I’m not even sure what it is they really mean,
When they talk about ABAB or CCCC.
Am I a Beat, Black Mountain, or Dada,
conceptual, confessional, or poststructuralist, oh my.
Things like cacophony, euphony, cadence, and feet,
confuse me to the point that makes me want to cry.
I just put some words in my dilapidated computer,
typing it out in fourteen font Helvetica.
I’m never sure of what form of poem I write,
Wait, is this one called Ars Poetica.
"Lemonade"
Agency sent me to
the territory of
Lemonade dreams
where secret rendezvous
were disjointed
and criminally spent
shooting the cool breeze
she blew hot and cold
covertly coquettish
while they waited for
absent common sense
to repent in her confessional booth
like diamonds their eyes twinkled
their smiles stroked
the changing colours of her
scaled existence, waiting
she smoked their egos
like she was patting
lackadaisical fur
she reminded herself
they were all reptilian
lazy nights with the
Blue Iguana
lounging long legged
stilettos sharp and lethal
schmoozing sonorously
with shiny wet lipped
slick talking smooth
barflies and lizards
talking tangled tongues
they kissed the air
hissing, this of course,
blithe and thin,
full of promises
and sensual missives
taking their lives
with shots of time
tempering caresses
along the tumultuous
tears in the fabric of a frayed life
short skirting the rim
swallowing a small esse essay
while they gobbled wild turkey
straight,
shooting words like bullets
no ice and bent stories
they would appear as monks
religiously flagellating
regular and on point
tomes of despair
lacking their one
shot at a heroine
whose fair addiction
psychoanalysing
muddled minds
bubbled like lemonade
cool, she was a long tall glass
sucking dreams up
her sucking straw
seen through her cut green
glassed shards of mirrors
they were all transforming
into colourful big beaked
squawking macaws
while she read lines
with her man Coleridge
and considered everything
“as if this earth in
fast thick pants were
breathing”
she turned their bent pages
fey and crooked and
burned the leaves for mystic tea
an aphrodisiac as sacrificial offering
to a plot twist
dei ex machina
surely all gods would come soon
in time to a party
bare of good men
where the rule
was no law
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
"There was a moment, a hole opened in the sky
A chance to join that pantheon
For all the times they never heard your battle cry
Now even angels sing along"
I emerged / born with a silver pen in hand
…and a tempest raging within.
Words writhe, a serpent's coil
…tightening their grip
A soul adrift in a sea of
…self-made iniquity.
I buried my daddy
…in the black shoe
…by the Yew tree
Yes, I, the beekeeper’s daughter
…bearing the weight of hexagonal cells
A hive of memories
…buzzing with secrets.
The bell jar shattered
….a fractured hive.
Its glass walls no longer a prison
…but a shattered cocoon
……a metamorphous!
Pain and disdain drip like honey
…a bittersweet nectar of survival.
He, a poet
…crowned in the harsh light of fame
Bound in chains of duty and shame
His words
…a romance of lure and alarm.
Echoing the sirens' song
…enticing and harmful.
Yet, his tongue
…a viper’s forked lie.
Whispers truths and half-truths
…conjuring illusions to die.
Wandering the maze of being
A little fugue of
…fractured fairytales.
Each note a fleeting glimpse of clarity
Lost in the discordant
…cacophony of life's emptiness.
Like my "Little Fugue" a dance of shadows
A journey through the corridors of the mind
Seeking answers in the interplay of light and dark
Striving for harmony amidst the chaos
Parchment of blood and ink I leave
A riddle of life and death's plea
Maniacal madness with visions slight
A macabre dance upon the night.
Ariel, brings lightning and fire!
With heavy heart
…I sealed my children's room.
Softly kissed them farewell
……Extinguishing the final flame within.
Enveloped in oblivion's velvet veil
………Yielding to the oven’s cold caress.
…………No, more morning songs...
Inscribed a cryptic goodbye
Breathed in the silent slayer.
For, I Lady Lazarus
…Dying is an art
……Faded into the ether…
Her blacks crackle and drag, a fire of new birth
Flames licking at the borders of life
Consumed by oblivion's greedy blaze
Lost in the vast cosmic ray.
The embers die
…a fleeting spark gone
No masterpiece
…….just dust reclaimed
A silent echo in the void unstained.
A mystery lost
………never quite explained.
Yet, God's Lioness
...Fierce and Untamed
Roaring her defiance
…Covered in darkness…
----
Underneath the star-strewn skies
A fleeting passing note.
Lost in the vast expanse
Living on the edge
For, I am but a speck of dust.