Long Dirtied Poems
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12 when I wrote this, from the perspective of a mushroom.
My gills grasping at air, but the grass is not too far;
My scales glimmering stupidly to shine through watered tar.
And in the gaseous tarmac world, I shine here far too bright,
And oh, the air, too stale if for my gills to get it right.
I long to build a house and make a living off of sticks,
Press flowers to make bookmarks. Feather ink dips.
And for one day, to hear ... a knocking or a rattle
Of rats and pigeons at my door. To me, should they grapple
I wished to fly away with birds, claws ripping flesh and all
To find my new roots in the sky: frail, delicate, tall.
I wished to burrow in the ground when I must collapse.
I wish to hide me from the world. I wish for a relapse.
A tingle down my stem, my gills no longer pulchrify
My dirtied shine, my residue: I tell you, "eye for eye."
This vivid tarmac world around me, perfectly reflecting
How little you appreciated when we were worth defending.
OLD DIRTY MUSICAL NOTES
FROM THE GROUND
Listen to a song nobody wants to listen to,
The beautiful notes thrown to the ground,
Torn and spat upon as worthless,
Stricken and rejected as useless.
The stone which the builders rejected has just become the chief cornerstone.
A bruised reed,
Made into a cheap flute,
A diminishing wick swiftly dying.
A symphony that everyone has counted as worthless,
Just like the words of the ancient prophets.
I took the old, dirtied musical notes from the muddy ground,
Made them into a dirge
That predicts the end.
The smoldering wick was trimmed and forced
To give light into a dark world.
Another day and the dishes have piled up yet again
So back I end up in front of the window
I do not glance up, but concentrate
On the dull, dirtied objects before me
I do not hear the voices from yesterday
I still wallow in the grime of gray
I smile in malcontent
As I lather the dishes with soap
Against my will, I look up
To see a lone, fat man opening a refrigerator
He is shirtless, bulgy, and he looks pregnant
My first supposition is to laugh
But I only look back down at the dishes
Not wanting to stare at the fat man
Not wanting to think he looks pregnant
For sure not wanting him to be my neighbor
Across the way
Against my will again, I look up
The fat, pregnant man is gone
I see ornaments on the refrigerator
Some pictures, some magnets
Family; not so different from my life
But yet, there is a transparent fancy of mystery
A flashy rage of difference in the silence
Oh, so quiet
The blazing sun sprays its light upon the hour
Not only are my hands wet from the soapy water
The deafening tone of quietude
Revels in me a mixture of loneliness and physical heat
A burning desire for something not seen
A desire for utter disgust of my newly found neighbors
But I find myself not disgusted at all
Until I look up again and see a fully naked man at the window
Across the way
Forsaken are the dying trees,
Poisoned skies and barren land,
The wilting plants and lonely bees,
Who cannot take a stand
To wage a war against the thieves
Taking life to meet demand;
Each rolling down their dirtied sleeves
To hide their bloody hand
In matters far beyond repent;
Lives unable to withstand
Their broken homes and the ill intent
That spread from rock to sand.
So now I speak for all the trees,
All the grounds that they had spanned,
The septic skies, dejected bees,
And all the deaths unplanned
That came as a result of greed;
I speak for the voiceless land,
And surely ever-growing need
To stop and take a stand.
Heart breaking ice
I have been bitten
In the deepest
chambers
Cold black
frosted ice
Cracks begin
Showing
Watch where
you are skating
Oh but I
am not depressed
In fact
the very opposite
Raging mad
Like a red rag
to a bull
A bird dirtied
on the nest
Blowing
the main fuse
Like a flash
of lightning
Heartless burning
Deep inside
Beyond
my wildest belief
To have the nerve
Cold as steel
I shake your hand
Tainted
my little paradise
Drawing the past
latest conquest
A place dear to me
Were I grew up
Laughter and happiness
echoes
In the mind beautiful
I have no words
to say
Cutting
in blue cold steel
On the blades edge
On thin ice
Breaking up
I say forward
Driving it in
The dagger opening
a deep wound
In the heart
Now that you have gone
I meander through lush memories,
of when we were young, and,
your heart was given so tenderly,
and my soul, rejoiced in receiving it
The years passed, and I saw the snow fall,
and I discerned, that you received it's chill,
with open arms...and open heart
my zeal and affection
was not enough to warm you
and the last of our embers died.
Why did you not have the courage or the will to resist the cold?
The stars I fought so hard to attain,
you returned them, without
so much as a thought, or a thank you.
I watched, helplessly as our life unraveled ,
as time and unexpected events pulled our
heartstrings in different directions
My cello and I have become
solitary companions,
and I stroke her strings now
and she resonates with me
but only in a soulful dirge
I used to bathe in our memories,
until you dirtied the waters,
and now I'm stuck in the mud
that you left behind
The stars have departed now,
I gave them their wings and
released them with a soulful sigh
I look back for one last time
at what was, but now is not
and will never be again,
I trudge onward, the path to
the future growing ever dimmer
now that you ... have gone.
For marathon poetry contest 15
I drank the blood.
Shuffled up to the altar,
pearly white shoes scraping over
faded white tile dirtied by the footsteps
of countless sinners.
(I knew, even then, that that same grime already claimed my soul.)
I accepted the golden chalice with shaking
hands and brought it
ever so gently to my lips.
It tasted like poison, but I drank the blood.
I’d never feel so holy again as I did that day,
wholly pure in untouched white satin,
bursting with life and joy
and the light shining from the proud eyes of the parishioners.
But the light of their spirit would soon curdle in my veins
from the hatred of false goodness.
I pored over page after page,
dutiful scholar I was,
and found nothing but tongues lashing like the Romans
they should’ve disdained,
not mirrored.
Every biting indictment corroded the gleam of my soul
until the only light remaining
was the reflection of that glistening chalice.
I am not the one who bit the forbidden fruit,
and yet the sweetness of its juice mixes with
the blood on my dry, cracked lips,
crimson trailing down, down,
down my ashen face.
A stain of my humanity.
A stain of Your hands.
I drank the blood.
The transplant attacked my system,
draining the life from my eyes
until I was left pleading You to sop up
the few lasting drops with a pitying rag.
Merciful as You’re written,
I begged you,
knees bloodied and scarred,
to transform me.
Make me whole
or dismiss me to the depths.
Fix me,
or allow the scourge and fire to purify me
for ever and ever.
I called into the night for year after year
before I realized it was as vacant as I was revolting.
Was I right?
I may never know,
but I do know something inside of me broke those days,
shattering me from the inside out.
I try to escape, peeling back rotten layers,
but it courses through my veins
steady and permanent as my beating heart.
I cannot claw it out, no matter how I try,
for I drank the blood.
my life laid lifeless in your hands,
you decided to be the one to bring me back.
to be the only one i held faith in.
to be the only one to deserve me.
i never asked to get attached to these scars.
it got uglier with every line you drew.
with every cut you made, i healed perfectly.
why would you give me
these beautifully flawed tattoos?
you never answer me.
this mirror is no longer my reflection,
i’m missing.
this body is no more than a reminder.
the eyes i looked at you with.
the tongue that dirtied your name.
the face that you longed to see.
what use am i now?
i can’t handle this alone,
this soul meant to hold two.
In the dim light of the moon's glow,
An orphan dreams where the cold wind blow,
Hot silent tears trace paths on a dirtied weary face,
In a world too vast, an empty space.
The cradle that once rocked, now stood silent and still,
No more lullabies, no more warmth to fill,
Tiny hands reach for shadows of love and care,
But find only echoes in the midnight air.
Once a child of grace, now lost in the night,
Seeking solace in stars that are out of sight,
Once shielded from the cruel world's sting,
But now left in the sorrow's cold endless spring.
A heart once full of laughter and cheer,
Now haunted by memories, distant and near,
With every stride once taken side by side,
Slowly fading where echoes hide.
In the shadows of deep dreams, where no one can find,
Ghostly hands of love lingers, undefined,
An orphan's soul tender and bruised,
Cry hard where affection is seldom abused.
Among the crowd, a figure alone,
Wandering paths where no seed is sown,
Yearning for arms that will never embrace,
Seeking a home, a familiar warm place.
Yet in sorrow, rose a quiet plea,
For kindness to flourish, for heart to see,
Though dirty and alone, they are still whole,
A beacon of love and kindness could heal a wounded soul.
Just look at the peak
Tall and sleek
Looking at the creek
With jealousy
A little enmity too
For the creek has its friends
Trees flowers showers
Towers of colored clouds
Prepared to appease it
With fire dousing rains
The mountain peak
Lonely monotone
Head to toe alone
A single standing stone
None to share the agony cones
Of grief
No bird no ballad
No pink clad
Deserted by all glee
Eleanor Rigby
Messy hair and dirtied skin
Frail frame lean and thin
To vacuum, she likes to grin
Almost an empty bean
Knee loves chin
Exhausted by her misery
Eleanor Rigby
Her stone-cold gaze
In her eyes the grey haze
On her face blocked sun rays
Starless nights and dark days
From loneliness sickly
Eleanor Rigby
See her at the county fair
There are vacant chairs
Yet she chooses to sit
Near the river beside a pit
Skin taking support from the bone
A dull ache seated all alone
A sculpture from wood or stone
Attempt to laugh bringing out groan
A torn paper with the wind blown
A voice of hesitant monotone
Alone alone and again alone
All colours monochrome
Though surrounded by people
Living in a desolate island
Walking along the empty seashore
A solitary story is she
Eleanor Rigby
Suddenly she collided
With him
Was about to slip into the river
He held her tight
A cup of tea
Eleanor Rigby
September 4, 2019
Eleanor Rigby Who was she Poetry Contest
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