Long Déjà Poems
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Here on the cusp of all things, is where I succumb
Ceding my stuff blindly, toward oblivion and none
Unwilling to persevere, without a modicum of fun
Listing in perpetual stasis, til the spasm’s undone
And yet a god may save me, or a talisman of love
Some prophet of euphoria, quelling ennui thereof
Placing good tidings, into a universal equation
Edifying eternity…..revealing its exact duration…..
Alas he speaks in riddles, and treads a mobius strip
Each cycle forming a twist, convoluting his trip
Determined I follow, my awareness in collapse
Narrow-mindedly stumbling into mortality traps
Now I sense the endgame, but decline to exalt
Its a distortion, an abortion, a cataclysmic fault
Chance meeting with a nihilist, yields positive results
Unable to see past zero, he reveals nothing but cults
Here on the cusp of all things, is where I begun
A contorted brain-f*ck, had no choice but to come
A demon of clarity, with an open ended measure
One who gives to please, but prefers taking pleasure
To believe for one moment, I’d live off a dying spark
Only denies potential, when again life goes dark
With more light to come, my sunglasses prepared
Eternity’s not polarised, just infinitely layered
If a blind man articulates, I’ve seen all this before
Screaming and convinced “I’m a seer at my core”
Could be he’s mistaken, or deluded with Déjà vu
Begs his final question, “do I have a point of view”?
The morning slaps me awake
with a frozen windscreen,
keys in hand, scraping frost like
I’m chiselling through someone else’s mistakes.
My breath hangs in the air,
a ghost of myself
mocking the effort.
The cold flirts cruelly with my cheeks,
leaving them raw,
only for the radiator’s blast
to burn them out of spite.
The heating bill waits in the wings,
a villain in this pantomime.
“Put on another jumper,” I mutter,
as if wool could conquer capitalism.
Blanketed, I surrender to films
where faces blur into
a tinsel-coated déjà vu –
different eyes, same dialogue,
happy endings so loud
they drown out my cynicism.
Stupid Christmas songs screech
their hollow cheer,
and I let them.
They’re easier to hate
than my own thoughts.
But the air is so fresh
it cuts clean through the noise.
For a moment,
the world feels lighter –
even the weight I carry
shrinks to something
I can hold in my hands,
turning it over like snowflakes,
watching it melt
into the brittle calm of this season.
Let it begin like a war drum cracking the ribs of the sky.
I rise here not as a man,
but as a scorched monument to every lie flung at me like burning tar.
I rise as the unwanted mirror, reflecting back the chaos she hurls,
the contradictions she stitches into a patchwork of impossible stories,
the shrieking, spiralling cyclone of memory shards
that cut no one more deeply than the truth itself.
I speak from the eye of her storm —
where timelines collapse,
where facts melt,
where every accusation is a ghost wearing borrowed clothes.
She comes at me with fractured recollections,
with déjà vu hallucinations,
with dreams mistaken for history,
with wounds older than my presence
and shadows she drags from childhood graves
and tries to nail to my name.
Her narrative is a bonfire of inconsistencies,
a theatre of shrill laughter and catastrophic leaps,
a mythology rewritten each time her emotions change shape.
She is a storyteller lost in her own labyrinth,
a witness drowning in her own tide,
a historian who cannot remember her own years,
yet insists on rewriting mine.
I stand here —
not begging, not bending —
but calling the chaos by its true name.
This is not trauma speaking.
This is not clarity speaking.
This is the echo of a life lived in storms,
trying to turn me into the lightning that caused them.
I refuse the role.
I reject the script.
I tear the stage apart plank by plank.
If she wants to paint me as a monster,
then let her confront the truth:
monsters are made of intention,
and hers is made of retrospective revelation,
of partners whispering reinterpretations,
of therapists planting new meanings in old soil,
of memories bent, stretched, and re forged
until even she cannot tell where the truth ends
and the performance begins.
I am done being the altar
on which she sacrifices her past.
Let this be the first strike.
Let this be the opening roar.
Let this be the moment the ground trembles
and the sky takes notice.
You wanted outrageous.
You wanted poetic rage.
You wanted a platform to build your fire.
Here is the spark.
Sometimes, when I'm with familiar faces,
I feel like the replay button clicked on.
And I have felt the same thing with places;
it is a weird brain-fart phenomenon.
It is as if I'm replaying a role,
and know the words before they are spoken.
And it feels like time's caught in a loophole;
or possibly, the matrix is broken.
It's a strange sort of vague déjà vu feeling,
that once experienced, soon disappears.
And yet, it often leaves my head reeling;
but fortunately, that fog swiftly clears.
It's a memory I can't account for;
though it feels like I've lived through it before!
We watched the moonlight on La Seine
Glissading down in gold refrains
But then, it seemed, the silence crept
with old cliché's, we can't forget ...
The moon's façade disguised the pain...
C'est la vie, what would be gained
to wish for things which can't remain ...
But goodbye tears, are sometimes wept
We watched the moon
The same old songs are sung again
Where lyrics speak in whispers, kept
A déjà vu, that lingers yet
Of love that left just sweet regrets
We watched the moon
______________________________________
For the Contest: "C'est la vie"
Uninvited Solitude
Trying to embrace a shadow
With fleeting fragments of reality
Tattered remnants of remembering
Float in swirling enchantment of mirages.
Daydreams drum in midnight shades
With illusions etched upon the soul
Wraiths of innocence overwhelming
Dewdrops of grief descending.
Arms remember holding magic –
Gathering wind spells – chasing stardust –
Whispers tiptoe past fading rainbows
Cold quiet stills the laughter.
Fantasies dance with déjà vu
Just beyond the specter of dawn
Leave their footprints of impressions –
Overwhelming the shadows.
Fireworks of flashbacks flame then disappear
Figments tripping over apparitions
Pushing back on spilled chimera -
Uninvited solitude.
Arms remember holding magic –
Gathering wind spells – chasing stardust –
Whispers tiptoe past fading rainbows
Cold quiet stills the laughter.
8-25-20
Dark grey shapeless clouds win the sky.
They morph into illusions, untamed and free,
Casting endless shadows for all to see.
Over fields and meadows, they dance and sway,
Their presence altering the course of day.
As I, suspended in time, now sit and wait,
Tears flow like a river, an eternal space.
The night surrounds me, hushing my cries,
A solemn solitude beneath starlit skies.
The clouds, devouring the veiled midnight,
Engulf my world in a profound, hollow plight.
Loneliness echoes from its impregnable den,
Transcending all boundaries, where alone met again.
Falling deep into this abyss of despair,
My heartaches, yearning for love's tender care.
A sense of déjà vu whispers through my core,
If only we could start anew, just once more.
But alas, we cannot rewrite our regretful past,
No chance to undo the damage that amassed.
Like a roller coaster, emotions ride high,
It's time to disembark, bid you goodbye.
For your stony eyes, indifferent to truth's plea,
Never held the essence of love's decree.
Drifting amidst the intricate places of my mind,
A vision of my heart, elusive to find.
Seeking to transcend the boundaries of tomorrow,
I remain suspended, shrouded in sorrow.
Against these shadows that cling so tight,
In patience and hope, I await the light.
A déjà vu? What can I say?
I know the track so well.
It is so dark yet treacherous.
I am not afraid. Careful, here is a curve,
it almost turns onto itself.
An old oak tree stands there,
just off the corner. I can smell
its delicious odour or feel
its sturdy trunk, its cracked bark.
I hear the lower heavy branches
swinging slowly in the breeze.
Watch out, there's a ditch there,
dank water, that smells like drains.
And just before it a small jutting rock
that can easily help you tumble
into the murky stinking place.
Walk on, do not mind the dark
nor the screech of the nightly owl,
just mind where you step
for the ground is quite treacherous here.
It's not far now. Hear the dog
on guard, barking its warning.
Not to worry, it knows me all too well
although I cannot see it.
How can I? I'm blind.
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Glimpse a future you haven’t earned yet.
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Instructions:
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Steep for seven minutes.
Do not look away while it steeps.
Drink under candlelight.
Do not tell anyone what you saw.
Warning:
May induce déjà vu, spontaneous time loops, or inconvenient epiphanies.
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Do not drink after midnight unless you want answers.
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POTD 6th August 2019
The clock ticks down the passing day
Tedious seconds count down my existence
Time for my pills ~ Time to call the nurse
Time ~ taunting my resistance
Soft haunting strains of a violin float
sweetly liquid, melodiously unchained
freeing my mind from weariness faced
No barriers ~ it flows ~ unrestrained
My world of music I lived it ~ breathed it
In whispers ~ it spoke to my Soul
bringing with it, adoration and glory
and a passion beyond my control
I glance at the painting on the wall
pondering this feeling of déjà vu
Memories of this glade from before
Triggers mentation I need to pursue
Memories flood ~ a vision in the distance
an Angel dancing in its midst
who had danced with wild abandon
lucent skin the sun had kissed
How I had yearned to dance with her
with that angel who made me sigh
she had come to shine her own pure light
prompting my spirit to fly
But there’s no girl there ~ awry is my mind
And I’m but a frail old man
I must erase thoughts from my life bygone
And prevail however best I can
~ Every great dream starts with the dreamer
who ventures where mortals dare not tread
And laughs with mirth and cares not for
unfinished rhapsodies playing in his head ~
What’s this? I’m suddenly in the glade?
A strong young lad once more
She has come for me, my Angel love
I leap - I twirl - I soar
We dance with wild abandon
We dance without a care
sun kissed skin our arms entwined
Wild flowers everywhere
It seems I’ve left the world behind
And unshackled my attachments of
A hundred birds do sing out loud
To watch us Dance to Love
by Maria Williams
Thank you for listening and watching this video.
Video arrangement, production, direction
and compilation:
Ron Williams
Video editing, sound mixing, graphics:
Jayne Hartanto
Part 1 and Part 2
Narrated by Kelvin C
If you like my video please share and subscribe on You Tube - thank you
Copyright © August 2019 Maria Williams
POTD 6th August 2019