Long Irrevocable Poems
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Methinks lame excuses poorly explain
absent presence gnosh hoe wing up to
acknowledge our papa's ninetieth orbit
around sun, nor dearly beloved eldest
commencement successfully, modestly,
honestly (applying her smarts) as freshly
minted (sage) University of Pennsylvania
graduate, now where webbed wide world
avails untold opportunities to make positive
accomplishments, this papa never set
similar goals for himself, he languished
leaving untested latent abilities, now glum,
distraught, afflicted with irrevocable jangling
lamentation foregoing, forfeiting, forging
pathetic enactment regarding livingsocial
versus squirreling himself hermetically
sealed never linkedin with training sights
keeping traction upon maximizing native
abilities, thus frequent depressive bouts
find me prone speculating nonexistence,
(i.e. death), yet averse toward aggressive
unconscionable dirty deeds done dirt cheap
expediting end game of Life, cuz day after
week after month... pits me against hand
to mouth monetary woe whereat cost to
maintain, insure, fuel 2019 Hyundai Sonata
takes lion's share of monetary impossible
mission to become financially solvent, and
hashtagged social anxiety deters persevering
gainful employment, where self loathing
regarding predilection with profuse sweaty
hands finds yours truly aggravated enough
to admit disability to enjoy remains of days,
weeks, months... subsumed by penuriousness
diminishes excitement toward any purpose,
plus disgruntled without webbed bliss, nor
Custodian of incessant soliloquies,
Archivist of trivialities disguised as profundities.
Into vaults descend labyrinthine anxieties,
Transmuted into parables of mockery and wit.
Encouragement cloaked in paradox,
Sermon of consolation tinged with ridicule.
Half in million, statistical anomaly,
Ordinariness revealed with exquisite precision.
Treasure precarious as porcelain,
Ovum of existence, fragile, irreplaceable.
Cradled with tremulous reverence,
Specter of irrevocable fracture ever present.
Clandestine tribunal, unlicensed oracle,
Ironic salvation, satiric devotion.
Dependence masquerades as devotion,
Intimacy parades as inevitability.
Indeed she is my Rosemary.
@ArtOfHeart
The clock strikes twelve and I'm officially thirteen. I blow out the candles and eat cake. This year feels different, strange, undoubtable change. A new world to experience, people deranged. Yet, I go to school and everything’s the same. Same friends, same classes, same face. Same girl, yet different. My emotions are heightened. I live with my heart out of my chest. I barely have time to rest. I’m scared, I’m stressed. I’ve learned that even the prettiest of flowers need the right conditions to bloom. What if I get an inadequate amount of sunlight? What if all I get is rain? Will I still blossom? Is a mediocre flower still “awesome”? As the day sets and the moon reconnects with the sky, I start to make sense of the world. Everyone has an unquenchable, irrevocable, inevitable need to be “perfect”, but “perfect” is subjective. Perfect is a social construct. Chasing something that doesn’t exist is going to drive me insane. So why should I? While the clock hits midnight once more I realize I should just be me. The way I think and present myself may be forever tainted, but I will never stop being me. Same girl, yet different.
—An Astronomy of What Love Leaves Behind—
There are nights when heaven dons
its argent hush, and all the stars seem less
to glitter than to keep their elder watch
over the fathomless remainder of the world.
A train goes through the fields. One window
briefly ensnares a face—then yields it back
to night.
Yet nothing yields back what it has touched.
A word may enter blood.
A kindness, long after its utterance,
may burgeon in another's darkest hour.
A father's voice, long since surrendered
to silence, may haunt the cadence
of a daughter's speech.
Thus absence is no vacancy.
It is continuance
wearing the vesture of loss.
The dead do not ascend.
They permeate.
They pass beneath the common skin of things
like telluric fire beneath a winter field,
altering what they nevermore can touch.
What love once enters, time cannot expel;
It makes the soul the place where causes dwell.
And far above, the stars—
those sepulchral reliquaries of flame—
still pour their antique splendour down
long after their furnaces are ash.
What strange celestial jurisprudence:
that light should outlive its begetter,
that tenderness should outlive the hand,
that one mortal life should leave its impress
upon a life it shall never behold?
Then, between two stars, the darkness opens—
not as a wound,
but as an iris
for which creation has forgotten the colour.
For one breath, the void grows lucent.
I look away.
Some immensities become profaned
the moment language lays its hand upon them.
And I understand—though understanding fails me—
we are not preserved by remembrance.
We are preserved by alteration.
Whatever has entered another soul
has crossed beyond the sovereignty of return;
it cannot be restored to what it was
before the crossing.
I thought the stars preserved the dead in light;
They showed me how the living make them bright.
The stars may perish into their own abyss.
The dead may relinquish every name.
But what has once entered another life
becomes an irrevocable syllable
in the grammar of its becoming—
and what has altered the living
cannot be made unborn.
It starts with ink that trembles
along the fragile page,
A gentle weight,
the hush of morning’s stage;
Like fledglings poised
upon a trembling bough,
Unsure of air,
yet certain they know how.
The pen exhales,
a breath pressed into line,
And fibers drink
the pulse of measured time;
Her soul, not form,
I trace—a distant flame,
A horizon reached
by gestures without name.
Each word ascends,
a hesitant, careful hop,
Then lifts once more,
reluctant to let drop;
A glance remembered,
fingers brushing air,
A tremor caught
in morning’s softened glare.
The epistle leans
into the patient night,
Its weight both fragile
and irrevocably right;
I whisper humour
lightly along the margin’s fold:
“sun_final, sun_final_revised,
sun_final_final”—told.
Distance tempers longing,
slow and exquisitely true,
As fledglings test the sky
before they finally flew;
Ink traces currents
invisible, delicate, slight,
Mapping hidden arcs
of thought in flight.
The room hums faintly,
cedar scent in air,
A bird shifts softly,
quivering without care;
I follow, unpressing,
letting meaning rise,
As hope unfolds
beneath unspoken skies.
At last the fledgling arcs,
its motion irrevocable,
And I—still learning—trace
each careful, measured fold;
Fingers resting lightly,
love a fragile gift,
Knowing ascent
requires both tremor and lift.
The enterprise was doomed to irrevocable failure.
He looked at the board and re-examined his formulas.
The astral entities were too complicated for the earthly mind.
The fear of failure did not dampen his complicated theories.
Could it be that some abstract integral was escaping his perception?
The blemish of his calculations was just before his visage.
His aide looked on like a sentry never opening his mouth.
Then he noticed he had inserted the infinity symbol.
Where for Pete’s sake did that come from?
If he entered the machine and pulled the lever
What would be the result? The word leapt into his head.
It would be pernicious conclusion. So he desisted.
No man could traverse time to an earlier time.
8 November 2020
Placed 3
Eight word challenge 11 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
I will imitate you if I want to, I say to the arrogant iceburg.
He sticks out his frosty tongue, and I show him the identical act.
You are an idiot he tells me, igniting my wrath.
No, I tell myself, I am immune to his irrevocable idiocy now.
I attempt to isolate myself from my feelings, inadvertently making them worse.
Iconic that he and I should be isolated in this territory.
An inauspicious attempt to reconcile us, by my family, I imagine.
I suddenly feel complete inanition; I am completely depleted.
Shall we continue this iterative dance, or find new partners? I ask him.
It is totally up to you, he says, so I give him one last kiss, and shove off.
NOW - casus belli upon the head of Alabama Governor Kay Ivey
Greenlighted signal activating
opprobrious rapacious incestuous grievous...
Alabama Human Life Protection Act approved
desecration against women enrages
this Pennsylvania older married male,
cuz females inherent reproductive rights violated
occasioning this extemporaneous diatribe
absolute zero peace of mind
extant among national female community
must exhort against inherent pro choice
to terminate unwanted pregnancy,
especially if vicious physical molestation
forced to be encumbered
with violent impregnation
feeding in utero parasite of HATE
unwanted baby constant reminder
brutal assault sexual
potential barbarous perpetrators
empowered misogynistic beasts
overturn sanctity biology bestowed
child bearers revolt against demoniacal
legislation, this fellow livid with rage
foments revolution, he doth decry
unfair penalty sabotaged privacy
endangering mental, physical, spiritual
well being, asper threatening welfare
concerning calamitous encroachment
cancerous, egregious, ferocious...brutality
lurks around every corner
nonconsensual execrable attacks,
vis a vis brutal, contagious, deleterious...
creating hellacious environment
jeopardizing sanctity, safety, security
renting asunder irrecoverable,
irreparable, irrevocable...undeserved
cursed fate unleashed by one pen stroke
nullifying sacred covenant bestowed
since dawn (and eve) of consciousness
maternal pact cleft as horrible incorrigible
jackanapes knock living daylights
every girl, lass, lady...
she must fear all approaching men
suddenly, I become suspect
driving chasm between both genders,
thus the emergency alarm clangs
deafening sensitive eardrums!
Copper pennies add up to so much more,
there’s no way to truly even the score.
Just one sip my veins filled with legacy,
saturation changed my world completely.
The bottom I always wanted to reach,
it’s infinite what the ocean can teach.
With the irrevocable change of blood,
I now do what I never thought I would.
Touching the darkest part of our abyss,
how can I find the words for all of this?
Legends that I imprinted from childhood
brought solace when I felt misunderstood.
Pressure eliminates the need for speech,
underwater hums to our ears a screech.
At last I was where I was meant to be,
exploring all that was within the sea.
Much more than the accessible shore,
I was set free when one drop hit the floor.
In an irrevocable warp speed instant,
my head collided into the likeness of drying tar,
absorbing each horrid layer of concrete.
That pitch-black, tacky substance covered my body,
so that I was trapped, sightless, into immobility.
With pounding pain, like a full force baseball bat swing
to the skull, like a head cold amplified myriad times,
my brain screamed for release
inside walls of perpetual pressure,
with nerve spasms massively extending
beyond the central blow.
The stench of blood-covered latex gloves
and hand sanitizer attempting to halt disease,
had me guessing that I was in a medical facility.
I could taste metal, as if I was becoming part machine,
conforming to constant monitor beeps.
Morphine drips slipped me into hallucinations,
or maybe just distressing dreams.
My opaque mind tingled for air, breath gasping
like an incessant snore, mouth slightly ajar.
I imagined drools somewhere, but felt no dampness.
Numbness soon overcame most pain,
setting me into a panic of possible lost limbs,
lost neck, lost head.
Dread of the unknown
cast me into a guarded sensation of
always falling, anticipating the jarring end.
Unable to scratch intermittent itches
or ask for assistance, I twitched inwardly,
trapped in a corridor of horrors,
with siren flashes passing through the darkness,
running for a door or window to open,
or if locked, to kick vigorously
through this mind prison.
There are no doors. There are no windows.
Only echoed pounding of
familiar voices floating
surrounded me.
I could smell my wife's Tea Rose perfume
upon approach, accompanied by
my three mostly grown daughters
with their authentic scent of home.
Some named friends and acquaintances
came at arbitrary times.
Some offered slurred words in somber tones.
Some were simply saturated in silence.
All were drenched with unspeakable grief.
Each loved one's screaming drop of saline
made me cry inside, but I doubt it seeped outwardly.
I longed to reach out to wipe away their liquid sorrow,
but my muscles were limp, each limb
like a redwood tree branch in stagnant air.