Long Fistfuls Poems
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There is never an ending
to the spending
a world of paper
and plastic to collect
and horde
clothes
and cars
and homes
and jewelry
and fine wine
and paintings
stocks and bonds
vacations
and expectations
entire vocations
devoted to
disguising the numbers
the Caribbean masquerade
to volumes of recorded
purchases and voices
of invoices
making
discreet
choices
all
to extend
the accumulation
of dates
and names
places and faces
communications
and connections
at breakneck
speed
must fill the need
must fill the need
a shouting browbeating
broadband
handing over
fistfuls of cash
to make sure
make certain
only the best
the finest
the rarest
of air is not available
for
the underwater martyrs
the silent box dwellers
the empty bottle collectors
the wheelchair drifters
the SRO limbo sellers
the workers at
the bottom
of the
fast
food
chain
and the indigent gamblers
who line the halls
to knock on doors
of government departments
crippled by reckless
and corrupt state
administrations
choking the dwindling
sources
and resources
that have
nothing to do
but
count the days
and ways
to disappoint
disarm dismay
dispute the reputations
and applications
held in sweaty palms
eager
to begin living
to end the doubt
to end the not having
the counting of pennies
the slow heroin erosion
the unbroken hollowness
the whiskey-soaked
ravages of vacant histories
better-forgotten memories
of cold emergency rooms
to end being
in a world
apart
a world
of resentment
of fear and hate and anger
of dark empty streets
empty recriminations
empty promises
made to themselves
by themselves
harming themselves
or
arming themselves
to rob to steal
to maim
to take whatever they can
for as long as they can
to approximate
the wonder and magic
of having what you need
when you need it or want it
to not have to beg
to not have to humiliate
or be humiliated
to not have to watch
the ease of others
who have a casual
contempt for misfortune
and respect for nothing
but their own wealth
of deception
to breeze through
tall golden doors
to an unbroken string
of shiny bright todays
and tomorrows
to not have to
lunge for hope
and
never grasp it
in all ways
and forever
just out of
reach
My guitar strings in the moonlight should be something beautiful,
but the cold liquid white just makes everything harsher.
–not soft like snow, but deceptively fine –
Light is discordant
like my clumsy fingers that keep
mutilating the restless heavens with their attempts at mourning.
Why won’t they move right,
Don’t they realize how much depends on perfection?
I’m right here; I mutter to the stars and pray they spread it out over you
Like the night they hold up while atlas dreams.
But I’m not there. I’m not even anywhere –
I can’t put a finger on me.
I’m not real. I whisper over the translucent shell of my existence
and drench myself in intangible alabaster…
and I’m not real because I need your voice
to tell me I’m not invisible,
to stop me from falling up like a red balloon.
I don’t want to be the scar in the sky anymore.
I’m looking at patterns of patterns of the beyond
and no matter how many constellations I calculate in my head
the lines here, here, and here, easy as you please
I shiver because I know it makes no sense.
Not like we did.
I’m walking on edges of that metallic element of pale
and grasping red-rimmed fistfuls of atmosphere
but they’re never close enough, the stars–
and that’s why they’re there. That’s what I’ll tell my children.
They’re just the paint-brush splattered whim of
some malevolent deity –
Maybe we all are. I write it down, “paint-splatter of flesh”
tracing finger-prints through indignant sprigs of lawn.
But I might as well be writing on the bathroom mirror
because the words still won’t come out right.
And now everything’s backwards –
and you can’t fall up
and you can’t explain god
and you can’t fix light, even if it looks broken
and you can’t reflect sound, even if you angle it just so.
I can’t live like this.
This is me raping the red of an apple,
the breathy sweetness of the flesh underneath,
a slab of clean, radiant cold filling my mouth.
I can feel it under my teeth,
your skin,
like the calm of an apple.
This is the tip-toe edge of a knife
slipping through the base of my skull,
and the blooming sickness of blood
curling up in my throat, as cold
and as calm as metal,
a tide against my tongue,
the breaking of waves against gritted teeth.
An untamed, hot wind like wanting.
I am red like the sun
snapping the softness of the shadows, the
patience of the moon and her lazy circles,
dripping white perfume and
jazz –silver and cold onto the hungry earth.
I am mournful, desperation,
fingers pressed on parted lips
and hollow strings –the soft, clear scent of wood,
the cool reality of it unfolded beneath my palm,
lithe as skin.
This is me waiting for you
because empty has overtaken
my marrow, scooped out fistfuls of organs
and flung them across the stars.
I have nothing, so I set it on fire,
and it burns
and it burns to nothing.
And this is me reducing myself to ashes,
wrapping my arms around my chest to
count the beats,
wishing they wouldn’t skip
so
fast.
notes spilling into
the white spaces where the shape of you
waits empty.
This is me conducting music in the rain,
your name beating at the windshield,
sliding silky down my thighs.
This is me flooding across the floor,
the heaviness of the inhale before syllables –
an ocean staining my reason –
You: beautiful, intangible, surreal
as I reach for the
bright spots of the moon,
the unbroken crimson of an apple,
the wet indigo of the sky.
A cold, pregnant emptiness curving,
the breathlessness of the sea
misted white over my fingertips.
cold steel …
against my arm
a metal hand in my own
but it’s warm …
purple eyes with glowing fuchsia
pupils that react
but there, in that cyber gaze -
a spark of something ...
more ...
MUCH more …
not just sentience
but a pleading, soul-like sensitivity
a flame of acumen that
I have seen ten thousand times
in humans …
it was the LAST thing I expected now
and it stops me cold …
fistfuls of its fiber optic strands in
my other hand -
plenty enough to DO the deed -
one sure tug
and this metal monster is done
hard drive wiped -
neural pathways fried permanently
(via the self-destruct circuits installed)
the last of its kind
my intended act would end the
Age of Replicants for good
and humanity would be free once more ...
but free to do ... what?!?
the desolation around me is OUR doing
not theirs …
and to admit
THEY are our finest achievement -
a meld of exquisite technology
and resplendent organism …
I look again …
and it is still there -
that spark
that glint of spirit
the unmistakable shine of divine perception
the pulse … of LIFE
"do what you must," it says metallically
with that look, knowing …
far stronger than I
it could easily stop me … end me
but it has no malice of ANY kind …
I let the fibers drop
giving the warm metal hand a
soft squeeze …
"we have done enough," I reply, letting go …
it smiles at me
the robotic eyes brightening with hope
for they can do no worse
than we have …
I walk off into the thick night mist
the soft whirring of positrons
fading …
behind me.
~ Honorable Mention ~ in the "Strand Select P Any Form Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
One night as we pulled into the complex
Over the bumpy Colonial Arms exit,
Taj was sitting out on the brick stoop
With a single light blinking over his serious face
His mouth encased in a smoky cloud
And a single flame at the end of his cigarette
Tapping into an empty
Heineken bottle
I opened the door, and my slender leg
Lengthened on slick black heel
As I made my way to him
Knowing that the night should be over
Knowing that I had no plans to end it
A couple of blinks and words later,
I’m pressed to the bathroom wall
And I’m losing it all
Clothes, my red lipstick, my sanity
“Screw it” already sealed my destiny
And though some would say
“You’re there for the ride”
I’d so no, I’m just trying to survive
I’m scrambling for a light in dark places
The night’s not over, but I’d prefer to be
An alcoholic fool to find it
And before long, Taj knows what I’ve done
And he calls and mocks my pride
curses my god, insults my father
And I try to hold it together
My red chest in fistfuls of my shaking hands
My vulnerable bitten lips
Unable to sob through the shock
Of my stupid heart, and the way
I acted on all my misgivings
This isn’t living
But it’s a fact I’ll forget when I go
And screw it up again
With a friend, with a stranger, with a man
with his fingers crossed behind his back
I have to laugh
When this morning, a year from then
I find myself collapsed and chapped
Sobbing into an already tear stained floor
A fool has nothing to lose but his life
And tonight, there’s not much between me
And the knife
That would take me there
And as blood drips to the end of my golden hair
Maybe I will find home
And maybe my dream will let me murder the man
Who stole it from me
Screw it.
An expansive view of tumbling sand and lasting memories
make seagulls swoop in broad paintbrush strokes
over brothers bonded by baseball and a broken home.
Within a sandcastle, two boys taste salt on their tongues,
a savory blend of pinky promises, dolphin sightings
and an acute ache for adventure.
Innocence crashes between truths untold and manhood. Whether a plethora
of clouds settle in their sight or brown eyes squint in midday sunlight,
their bare feet roam through foamy waters.
Down the beach, over conch shells and starfish, freedom thrills.
With curiosity and cartwheels, spry minds and lanky limbs,
youth salvages its adventurous spirit.
Four hands assemble a paper sailboat, not seaworthy, of course,
but fine for fistfuls of fantasy with a deck wide enough to hold their dreams.
Sandcastles and sailboats, cartwheels crashing in waves, daydreams falling
asleep under charmed stars, wide eyes seeking sand crabs -
these moments salvage each boy’s adventurous spirit in swept
paintbrush strokes and shadows of silver-lined clouds in the sand.
We categorize innocence, oceans, promises, adventure, dreams of boys
and paper sailboats. We try to soak up an expansive sea.
I hung a painting on my wall and tried to unalphabetize it all.
Life is messy and beautiful. Without the taste of salt on my tongue,
I could only live vicariously through the art.
Rhonda J Saunders, written 11/15/15
for Eve's Oil Painting's 1-2-3 Contest
Inspired by painting #1
He's a wonder maker-
grapes and figs
and fistfuls of rosemary sprigs
given to guests in a still stormy sky
A welder to solder a sculpture on Sunday
done and attached in a blink of an eye
He'll make you the perfect stiff black cup of coffee
and slave over round perfect pancakes in morning
A master of truth, even when it is painful
-a trait quite remarkably just like her father-
He knows an old camera like a black and white friend
and teaches her fingers to these images rend
To climb every boulder, he'll search out the woods
a grindstone to shoulders, a zesting for life.
He'll ask you the books that you've read in a while
He'll serious talk you, then break like a smile.
All in the ease of a Sunday.
She's a wonder maker-
tetris and tea
'till the night smacks the dawn, into her, into me
with an eagerness which supercedes even sleep
She's long and lean in a match to the Dobermans
off on her way to the dog park to play
But then she's in flames with the hair on her head,
vintage scarf, quite Pucci, on a brilliant Sunday
She's ready to jet set to London or Paris
She'll work like a tiger to brittle your shell
a thousand odd pieces she'll help you pick up
and you'll let her, just for the fact that she knows you so well.
Each song that she hears, that she loves, becomes hers
and she won't let you rest 'till you turn to agree
She twirls him in kitchens and takes him 'round dancing
to the tune in her head, to her own melody.
All in the ease of a Sunday.
(Thy lovely lasses unwittingly
unstintingly unexpectedly
taught me selflessness)
Every Holiday time each year,
a rocketing increase asper
doling out Uriah Heap ping
largesse imposed upon each
citizen banker (coerced, forced,
induced to buy baubles,
bibelot, curios, et cetera striving
to outspend a competing
shopper, which faux grand
handedness, and crass exhibition
generating mega sales (as Tale
of Two Cities, or more)
earns management stripes viz
embracing the Christmas spirit
(via blithely deftly, frenziedly,
et cetera) per avidly boasting,
coarsely displaying, eagerly
flaunting, et cetera prices paid
for the latest curiosity, doodad,
gewgaws (whereby un
avoidable advertisements), flood
mass communication airways,
causeways, driveways, et cetera
to plug reduced priceline sans
gaud dee, knickknacks, gimcracks,
encompass companies blitzkrieg
for those, who disparage being
labeled Scrooge plunk down
every red cent, and empty
their pockets, purses, wallets
to snag the title of topnotch spender
no matter no need exists to snatch
every last kickshaw, novelty ornamental
tchotchkes, (which modus operandi,
(visited upon the populace, a tidal wave
vis a vis figurative manifestation,
laceration, inundation, whereby tenet,
maxim, credo, et cetera broadcast
to general public amply expending
fistfuls of dollars fulfilling
Great Expectations
(for family, friends, relatives)
buy giving liberally,
cat man had enough forced isolation
sabbatical dreams after quarantine
entered his hermit cage in seclusion
I need time out from lockdown he promised
they told me of the psycho cat’s demise
but cats have nine lives so I can spend one
and I may use it on my free accord
face my own mask and fearless persona
fantasize about chosen solitude
beat the rat race and feline adventure
the label I hide on the wine bottle
is a wise decal of aspirations
decanting the truth into fine crystal
bodes a farewell from forced captivity
while I look at the ceiling of limits
eerie floorboard creaks near the white sand beach
sanded pine wood pining for ocean’s roar
no more footprints I can walk on my hands
balance harmony and despair for good
when he woke up deluded in night sweat
pyjama purring and soaked wet with delight
claws clenched around fistfuls of withdrawal
clattering teeth grinding out last resolve
he took a swig from his wild genie’s flask
rolled a stone in front of his caveats
crept deep into his cave and growled
untamed will had been abandoned for good
and he dwelled in emotions and chuckled
social distance is not bad after all
I just don’t want to be told what to do
it’s in my genes I’m made for concealment
contagion won’t harm be for I’m myself
26th September 2020
Collaborate With Me contest
Sponsor Kim Rodrigues
Her shadow pierces the verdant threads
Secluded within the expanse of changing seasons
Existing within the swaying breeze that trickles
Crimson sparks flicker like fireflies along the winding ripple
Notes of bright bergamot and dark berries intoxicate her senses
Along the path of foliage and bowed willows
A bursting beam awakens her eyes that shimmer
Energy flowing as her arms weightlessly wither
A harmony of birds chirping and broken twigs
Whistling gently within the gusty evening wind
A rustling crunch of presence echoes a world of wonder
A wild vine cascades, a lush waterfall of green
Among the oak trees of widened arcs and drooping limbs
Beneath the speckles of sun seared warmth that drizzle her being
Fistfuls of rain glisten the depths of the forest, just before twilight
Quenching the thirst of her sun worn skin
The sun dips along the horizon, scattering a pale lemon vision
Casting a brilliance of blushed coral magic and weaved pink ribbons
Silent hills vanish into the starriest of nights
A solitude envelopes as the red orange moonbeam casts its radiant light
The path once dwelled into the darkness of natures silent shadows
Now the guiding spotlight, flowing like a tidal wave that flourishes
A place unknown where stillness majestically flows
A solitude that wraps her tightly within the serene midnight glow