Long Hollow eyed Poems
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Desire and want are on the far side.
A lifetime to crisscross black waters.
Say goodbye from your porcelain boat with a rudder of bones
Set sextant for shores of honey and gold.
Offer a diamond-studded prayer to Poseidon.
Sails filling with faith and tattered hope.
Tides can be cruel, or tides can be kind.
Rarely are they indifferent.
Currents are jesters that tickle the will, then smash the mind.
You'll soon yearn for tiny treasures long ignored and loves left behind.
Say, what did you find when you finally arrived?
On the far side -the furthest side.
Did you find what you needed: peace of mind?
After you scraped off barnacles and leeches.
Did you manage to sift the dream?
From the sirens and seagull screeches.
Now you've had your fill of the nymphs and the thrills.
Yearning to go back to old flames that you fled from.
The porcelain ship is cracked -weighted with gold
You shallowly pray to the God of infinite chances.
But he's finally run thin on custom-made patches.
You've gained no humility or wisdom.
So, you continually curse him.
Now you're stranded by your mind, tormented by time.
What did you extract from this great expansion?
From the journey of mirrors and hollow-eyed enchantments...
Now, brace for the pangs of the coming contraction.
Hellacious howls tickle and titillate
the trompeleil scene
in the pastel Court of Kings.
Flamboyancy rings as the
fluttering coo of a rapiers dance in the hands of fops,
through the high ceilinged corriders of castle in the chill air
buzzing past the ears
of the mischievous lillipitians, yearning,
egging on yearlings with antiquated filigreed foils.
Ludicrousity runs riot
trolloping in fandango-clicks of hooker-red
across the quilt-stitched batten puffed blazers
of Dukes and Pimpernels pompously prancing
before beatific, porcelain, wig-topped dolls
rouged and hollow-eyed.
Chroniclers cavort in the manner of angry bees
on spindle-pins, their stocking encased legs
pawing at pedagogs who gawk slack jawed.
Only the puncture of flesh-framed torsos
brings an end to the melee.
*Melee, generally refers to disorganized close combat
involving a group of fighters.
Something's changed, I don't recall this door.
The mat that once read 'welcome'...now gone.
Am I lost in the night, or had I forgotten some slight..
had my address been quelled by another time?
The new curtains in the bay window seem nice,
though..not the deep blue highlighted sash you fell for.
And on that foreign floor, a sweet Labrador lies napping.
Not the lightning fast hound rescued from the shelter.
My key's jingle, so hollow in sound, questions me now..
whether I know left from right, right from wrong..
Two boots waited, under an unfamiliar porchlight,
neither I recollect as my own..
every sunset I knew seemed to've gone.
I stepped back from a stranger's stair, perhaps deceived by my own eyes..
retracing my tired steps from the long day, to the oak in the yard,
was it always that tall?
Surely the messages you left would offer a solution from this lunacy,
a chance at a door opening, inviting me, lovingly from this nightmarish scene.
But they had all disappeared.., save one.
Staring hollow eyed into the dimming display's abyss, I read the last will..
your last thought retraced..in taps' mournful horn.
The air in my lungs abandoned me, my shoulders suddenly
weighing so heavy, in a torn and bloodied uniform.
Somehow the night sky was no longer mine to share..
absent your side, shaking my head in my hands..
my God, how could it be?
The door and locks changed, the porchlight rearranged,
the blue curtains went too,
The scratch of toe nail's click clack.. nowhere to be found,
even the dog was removed.
Turning away from the lawn to the long sidewalk, oblivion my companion,
I laughed out loud at the fool and folly and future that lie in store.
There's a fine line between truly belonging.., and only being,
bitter lesson learned at a strange door..
Finally saddeningly, maddeningly.. it dawned,
why everything was tipped on its face.
Your last message, echo'd in my broken mind..,
'you've been replaced'.
Another candle-lit eve
brimming with flowers and stuffed things
tin tears and puffy prayers
fiery speeches from cherry-tongued preachers
all the while the hollow-eyed ogre smirks.
Waves of:
blame
the gun
ratatatat
blame
the man
ratatatat
blame
society
ratatatat
blame
our faulty, faded genes...
ratatatat
Nothing ever gets done,
they're Numb to the origins of carnage and blood.
Thinking it will never happen to us.
But there's a pair of snake eyes
in the back of every school bus.
Do not deny there were always clear signs.
There are always signs
Please pay attention to the signs!
I don’t know if we were the first,
other's had sailed away.
There were rumors of settlements.
Years later, pleading petitions to the king,
then silence.
Months of turmoil and torment
upon the merciless seas.
Our ship almost a wreck,
the pox and plague
having whittled us down,
to a motley band of hollow eyed scavengers.
Then Land sited!
The fabled Americas! Those yonder shores
must be that fearful, paradise of legend.
We had overcome!
The Captain led his weary folk ashore,
but being the ships cat I stayed
to find the last remaining rat.
That night I dreamed
that the ship up-anchored all by itself.
The men dashed back to the shore
to save the vessel, but I, the last sailor,
rigged the tattered sails
and flew before the wind back to England,
but not before I had fired my pistols
into the yelling, stranded, and doomed crew.
‘Not yet America,’ I thought – ‘not yet.’
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Above the village,
serrated towers bite the sky~
Castle Ravenloft sits,
contorted and hollow-eyed.
Its towers lean like broken fingers,
clutching at clouds that won’t disperse.
Below, Barovia exhales smoke.
Chimneys cough.
Windows glow dull yellow~
like the eyes of something
watching from the trees.
Streets remember feet
that no longer walk them.
The Count’s shadow
stretches long,
though the sun never rises
high enough to cast one.
His mist comes creeping~
not like a thief, but like a god
who knows it owns the air.
It curls around ankles,
licks the sweat from brows.
It slithers between houses,
licks at doorways,
whispers promises
it has no intention of keeping.
The castle does not loom.
It waits.
Stone fingers curled
around the valley’s throat,
patient as a noose.
In Barovia, the bread is always stale.
The wine tastes of copper.
Children learn not to answer
when the wind calls their name.
And every night,
without fail,
the fog rolls in—
thick, hungry,
a second sky pressing down,
reminding them:
You are not lost.
You are exactly where he put you.
"In memory of Eliza and Emily"
Twelve Years a Slave, Eliza Berry's life marked by cruelty, a tragedy of slavery.
She rose to lower heights as she plucked the cotton with
her bare hands
Stooped over she pulled the cotton from the bolls, fine cotton
that it was !
Twelve years of slave-hood, her daughter taken for her beauty
was separated from her youth...
Haggard, hollow-eyed and filled with sorrow she worked soberly
for she would not be sold, she was not for sale !
Eliza wept tears of grief but, there was nothing she could do,
her daughter had been taken away from her.
Come back—don’t leave me—come back, mama, was her last cry
until distance intervened and then all was finally wholly lost.
Foot Note: Eliza never saw or heard of Emily. In the cotton field, always and everywhere she was talking to her. Only when absorbed in that illusion or asleep, did she ever have a moment’s comfort, afterwards.
Coal hearted caretaker
never could accept or give love
has a collection of wounded women
placed them in his half-dead heart museum.
He painted over one with his oil-colored tongue.
Stuffed her into a silent taxidermy bird.
He turned some into paper mâché mobiles.
Fingered them into a sad sort of yellowing.
They, void of any hope, were left for dead.
Forever spinning in the end of his selfish head.
Others sit hollow-eyed, clay pot women.
Left on a dusty shelf, chipped and rotting.
Mostly from disrespect and neglect.
Another is in the foyer for the unsmiling,
Colossal bronze busts, monuments to this volcanic prick of destruction.
The final conquest was glass blown.
He melted her spirit into a glowing poem.
A masterpiece born from a seed of sadism.
Hung it in a forgotten corner of his mind.
Framed it in his blood and karmic dust...
Someday he'll have to pay back these endless debts.
And become a forgotten etching in a derelict museum.
The West is slipping away.
On the East side of this living space
light slips its shadowy leash,
paints a last frameless image
upon a bare wall.
Moving closer
I study a shape as it shifts slightly
while an unseen sun
shoulders the earth again.
If I squint it might be the face
of a friend. I look for fever,
the hollow-eyed recognition of death -
no it’s not her death mask
this is before the last breath arrived
a momentary representation
before her fade out.
I had assumed it was light
playing upon a surface
but see that the East has leached out again,
and it can cross the world
and travel time
arriving always before
the impatient night.
The winter stared at me, hollow-eyed and grim,
flakes of snow draped the earth in silence.
My lips quivered, teeth rattling their cold refrain,
and they danced—not with legs, but with their whole bodies.
Then my head went numb, my thoughts unwound,
consciousness slipped beyond the veil.
I soared like the angels—we all grew wings,
new arrivals, lost among strangers.
Before a great gate, we were set apart,
memory severed, the past a whisper.
The snow had risen~an unbroken white peak,
and the trees stood crowned in frost’s embrace.
My eyes grew misty, each tear frozen mid-fall,
my mind still locked in winter’s grasp.
Like thieves vaulting from shattered glass,
memories took flight, then scattered like dew on rooftops.
I searched for myself in pools of melted snow,
but my past had fled like a startled horse.
No trace remained~no pain, no triumphs,
only the wait to whine or wine and dine.
Yet even if a cup were placed in my hands,
the taste of good wine lay lost upon the wind.