Long Escape hatch Poems
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Everyone has an excuse for what they can't do.
Don't be like the others looking for an escape hatch.
If you have a dream, you have a reason to believe.
Dark roads are ahead so you can’t
Look to dodge the trials up ahead.
Don't Stop now your almost there,
Don't quit now your time is almost here.
Push forth with what you have left
Then refuel and go for the rest.
If you have dream chase it,
If you need help go get it,
But whatever you choose don't waste it.
Life is short and before you know it,
You'll be looking back wishing
That you took more chances.
Take the chance and don't waste it.
Don't Stop now you’re almost there,
Don't quit now your time is almost here.
Push forth with what you have left
Then refuel and go for the rest.
Don't open the escape hatch until he is far away.
Look out the elongated glass opening right above me.
Only then I can offer proper advice to each soldier.
I read a secret advanced directive I hoped I wouldn't open.
Sometimes it seems everything goes up like a puff of smoke.
Ok laugh at me, in minutes I hope everything changes.
I can't understand why I have all this on my aching shoulders.
It seems our last effort's so enormously futile!
Evan had opened the escape hatch on my order.
Helplessly I watched a bomb enter the open hatch.
A terrible end, my advice caused a disastrous explosion!
No one left, our bodies are nothing except puffs of dust.
All gone, every person in our coffin of death, evaporated.
Con/Vow contest
Feb 14th 2013
I don’t understand how you can put them down
You have never met them, the new people in town
Old hag said, “I do not have to explain any justification…
for my obviously brilliant floccinaucinihilipilification.”
I rolled my eyes which traveled to FAUX NEWS on the wall.
They were steamrolling libbuckers, showing how they all fall.
So this is what she watches, this channel for the brainless.
I am getting the picture now, and it is kind of painless.
TV is now generalizing Dezicroms, making fun of each and all.
She can easily generalize every group taking her lead from TV on her wall.
I saw an escape hatch, so I pulled it and ran out of the mall.
Azure blue skies weep in rent glacial torrents,
iridescent earth sun trap poised to garner sympathy,
dark red cloud’s indignant float might yet rumble,
toxic deluge drenches mudbank plot as toilers whine,
thunderstruck I gaze at wild indigo sea mist on brine-fleck shore
Edge of seat terra firma species orange alert mere bluster,
grim altitude apocalypse for amber moon orb,
rampant shower pockmark with visual scar as trenchant plague,
vapour trail from lachrymose horizon now a shrunken haze,
alarm bell’s doleful peal across an impact cratered expanse once sumptuous mint green
Stream of gurgling silken brook upon reciprocal bright cadence,
otherworldly pine from volatile nebulae’s damp swathe,
vapid biome acreage a gaunt reflection though surreal,
despite magenta stardust twinkle whose infant phase corralled
by wayward drizzle
Hemisphere by half redolent of sombre devastation,
yet exotic visual haunt is that vaunted shadow zone,
sweet maple leaf ether bound refuge from monsoon rife,
pot of gold opal strewn paradise escape hatch,
from lesion blight topsoil or open sore empyrean
Purple leaf and bell pepper cascade swirling o'er panic stricken globe,
perfume clad hillock under hawk-eye squint,
denizens idyllic foster atmospheric canny urban vault,
they hobble gingerly on salmon pink stone bridge en route to harried terrain rescue
He lives between two worlds.
One that an average, or sane person, finds him or herself living day to day,
and that of a fictional writer, who allows his creative side to pull him into the dark spaces of his mind filled with fantasies and mysteries.
Artist capture these visions in these inner journeys and put them to canvas,
Writers enter this illusionary world searching for a tale their creative side bangs out in millisecond bursts. He withdraws from the creative chamber only to scribe to paper his understanding of these flashing insane hallucinations.
In deep thought, he ponders, and molds words, and picks adjectives that best describes what this illusive world has flung at him. Sentence by sentence he works, and reworks and once satisfied he re-enters this dark chamber again to do battle with his mind's eye, beating it to death day after day, night after night, until the his imagination has run dry.
Exhausted, he now knows it is done, it is over, he can do no more.
But, he now wonders, did he interpret it right ? Does it make sense? Is it the best it can be?
He re-reads it time and time again. Will the reader understand what he tried to say?
Will they clinch their fist in anger at the right moment? Will they laugh or cry? Can their mind’s eye visualize what unfolded in his head?
So, what is left for this creative writer who has finished his work. Dose he stack it in a closet on top of so many others, or does he deal with the other world; the one he hates. The world of the common public that accepts their monochromatic existence.
He is not a salesman. He is not comfortable with this part, and would rather return to the chamber, and let others sell his works, but the more he returns, the more it seems these encounters are taking over his life. He’s now hearing voices, whispers, barely audible, but they are there. He begins to fluctuate between sleep, fever, delirium and reality. Till one day the chamber closes its escape hatch behind him and he is trapped there forever.
No one will hear him, for his cries bounce off the walls of this dark chamber echoing on top of his previous cries. He has found true hell. The hell that awaits all mystery writers who will allow themselves to find too much comfort with the voices within.
I have played the coward and the brave,
both the strong and the weak.
A man must be a man, and forget nothing,
keeping close to him
those times of disgrace and honor,
drink both the gall and the nectar
of a far too tell-tale life.
I review, and examine myself
without any escape-hatch excuses.
Clap my hands together loudly
praising this searchlight mind,
that is a ray of infinite power
directed from
the very heart of love.
Are we not all things,
the bold and gentle,
we the lamb and lions
interpreting the patois
of all our incoming angels.
strange they are,
yet we know them,
are them.
I have lived for the wild calls,
and the gentling murmurs,
shared my bread,
gorged from the manger.
This helter-skelter life
will be upheld
in that wordless court
where a life is scrolled out
to retell
its make-believe tales,
and the Light will not judge me,
nor I regret.
Team leader Renee peered out
of her faux gold window around a pulsing Friday noon.
“Almost like we’re puppets of each other down there.
Maybe everywhere?”
Albert, her partner and co-worker were apt to look down on the buzz where their joint venture, their central office, was located.
Quite often hoards of people of all age groups hung out, shrieked with joy, abandon, near the hazy plume cafe.
They were snacking and sharing purchases.
There was rainbow signage to the left of this group promoting all the companies within Renee, and Albert’s brief.
The name of their company was Hereafter Unlimited.
Close and “trustworthy” friends formed this postgraduate 7 person cluster which later evolved into quite a
mind-bogglingly complex concern.
Hair-raising hubs were hatched.
Geniuses one and all created one matrix after another of sequential self-financing companies.
Ideas among them spread like avalanches.
Songs and puns were sung.
They had “flames” or “wildfire” intensity at their fingertips.
They were at the mercy of their own brilliance.
Their aim was to bring countryside joys into every nook and cranny in their chosen capital.
There were bookstores, clubs, restaurants and other outlets named after the multifaceted rustic charms that obsessed them.
Each outlet had a communal dining area to draw in clientele.
The underlying idea behind all these shops, stores, stations
was to have a magnetic pull.
Havens, an escape hatch that would leave an out of this world impression on the visitor.
From energetic background music to kaleidoscopic screens, to elaborately sculpted tables, mahogany tint chairs, azure blue halo moon menus, kid zones in high jinx.
Cascade after cascade of hue swirls in tandem with jubilant dance trope very much in evidence.
A magic merry go round motif underpinned each inventive hub.
Once savoured, never forgotten.
Festivity a frequent festoon, mouth watering smorgasbord without rein running riot.
The element of surprise, key and kernel to atmospheres that thrived on visionary continuum
A misty morning in Donegal.
My sheep are scattered over bog.
Must wipe the sand man from sleepy eyes.
Put on the kettle when I rise.
Rex is already outside half door.
He senses mist may rise some more.
No delay on this most Irish day.
Drink my cup and let's be away.
The little windey road ahead
leads to bridge then gap in hedge.
Where they escaped once before.
Those silly sheep now over Barnesmore.
At brow of hill I see Lough Eske.
The view always takes my breath.
Away Rex, lets get started.
At the escape hatch through which they parted.
Staff in hand I guide them in
Whistle to Rex what a good dog he's been.
This time ensure gap is closed.
Home in time to enjoy repose.
Every journey
carries
its own arrival
folded inside
what it first
let go.
A stone kept
the other pocket.
The skip
noticed neither.
A bridge
pretends
to be its arch.
The span,
hung in chains,
remembers.
The ladder
offers
one rung
to tomorrow,
one
to yesterday.
Both feet
know.
The escape hatch
grows lighter
without opening.
The room
learns
its counterweight.
The kite
believes
the string
is holding it.
The string
believes
the wind.
Neither
touches the sky.
The grandfather clock
unwinds
its weight
until
the floor
begins to listen.
One day
the other pocket
forgot
its stone.
The hand
didn't.
When time flies, feelings of euphoria,
spur jaw-dropping habitus within,
vision of nirvana on groundswell earth,
chirping bird amber tone on hedgerow,
cacophony that piercing aural backdrop,
riotry of wild bewitching warble,
golden fronted leaf, black nape oriole,
northern red bishop,
snapshot or sedation, honey dribbled spatula,
that ladles satin eardrums,
as momentary plot unveils its kernel,
fleeting countdown to ecstatic charm,
mesmerising tailspin gust bract swirl,
of diamond stud color burst variety,
time lag is an instinct riven leap,
lustrous spark escape hatch mere sprint,
who could be immune to such splendour,
embellishment or antic flourish,
folly swept aside in brisk stanza,
hyperbole on jewel rim chariot,
passenger in situ juggling spheres,
morning dew mist clad bank enchantment,
divinity in spiral foam waterfall trance,
speckled moon’s transient blind soar,
amid hall of mirror dream cloud etching,
bonfire of imagining without rein,
infant echo chamber left me thunderstruck,
lightning flash recall as I shudder,
with ardent inkling of toddler stopwatch era,
parental caper, boisterous shriek,
blue stain paddle boat capsized,
guffaws at the peak of silver rush,
backscatter on a prior and current bloom,
like a reckless swimmer’s wild swipe,
at a grazed iron metal lifebuoy,
whose toss and turn gyration high jinx,
another symbol for the heaven in one’s palm,
that vanishes as soon as it clocks in.