Long Miscarriage Poems
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We live together
Yet we live miles apart
The blackness of addiction
Damaging my soul’s heart.
He works during the day
I work through the night
I believe in my dreams
He believes I’ve no right.
He’s two different people
Sharing the same lies
An intoxicating nightmare
You can see in his eyes.
In the sober state
He denies what he knows
But intoxicated beyond logic
Like a volcano he blows.
Heaving cruel words
He stumbles here and there
Mindless to the pain
He induces without care.
The distance between us
Grows every day
Making me question
Why I bother to stay.
Still I remember
The man I once knew
Handsome and compassionate
He was my dream come true.
His eyes once shined
A mischievous green
And his intimate touch
Made me feel like a queen.
It’s been eight long years
Since our first blind date
But the addiction he harbors
Has sealed our fate.
We live together
Yet we live miles apart
The blackness of co-dependence
Only a victim can chart.
Note:
For 12 years I was married to a very abusive alcoholic--and finally after a miscarriage as
a result of the abuse--I left. A year later I was set up on a blind date with a man I
thought was my dream come true. Handsome, hardworking, compassionate, and downright sexy!
I fell head over heels in love with him--a divorcee like myself--and 3 years later moved
in with him on his hobby farm. He said I made him feel like a king--and I felt like his
queen--this poem tells my story......
Though the necks
sighting of Ichabod Crane
humungous horror
helplessly harassing,
hellish hyena howling,
hideously hounding,
headless Halloween
hair raising happening,
regarding haunting
horseman spectre,
not due to arrive
(in gremlin, golem, and
goblin crawling theaters
everywhere in outer limits
of twilight zone),
come October thirty first
two thousand, and nineteen
divination trap
pings can never
be implemented overly
soon - to satiate subhuman
scary sightings,
sans mine ineluctable
supernatural drive
biz ease, this (gopher broke,
phantasmagoric over seer
grown wunderkind,
passionately rousing spooks,
where this droning
necromancer named
Matthew Scott Harris),
asper undertaking
luckless ghostly endeavors
also oft times finds
meat hoo experiencing
aborted, cancelled and retried
aim mush carriage
(i.e. thwarted, ejected,
and clobbered miscarriage)
off base when out fielding
paranormal activities,
qua catcher catch can
pseudo boxing
exaggerated shadows
striking mine attenuated,
elongated, and invoked
Hades monstrous silhouettes,
viz jugular vein bleeding
(heart liberal)
burnt umber umbra
pitching one dimensional
brokered, bricked,
and bracketed
wall size grotesqueries
detailing bloodless battles
silently creaking within republic
of my imagination.
Zero Core cultural values
must not vary between multicultures.
In wider circles
and deepening points,
When ZeroSum synergetic cultures
become stressed by survival issues,
we each and all begin to feel claustrophobic,
crowded in,
overpopulated with squeezed inside
and threatening outside voices
speaking in alarming paranoid
and terrorist,
ancient prey and predator, voices
Morbidly fascinated with stealing from,
and slaughtering
and eating our young,
malnourishing their future opportunities
to know intense emotional integrity climax
measured as resiliently thriving together.
Potential therapeutic attachment needs
are risks
with concomitant integrity growth potential,
naturally and spiritually
secular and sacred multiculturally attaching values,
positive integrity
more than negatively repeating history-fading dissonance.
Such deeply critical events
are deeply personal
and yet nutritionally political
health and cooperative economic wealth
and ecological resilience
and theological resonance
turning and tipping universal cooperative points
toward 20-20 enlightening revolutions
in multi-sensory awareness.
Each and every ZeroSoul
includes DNA regenerative potential
to cooperatively support the rebirth
or miscarriage
of Earth's win/win original health climate,
to invest in each and every EarthTribe health-governing vocation,
to integrate causal diagnosis and effective treatment
of acute local
and global
climate illness
risks
Are also co-arising opportunity
to notice,
Zero-Core resilient health values
must not run away from multicultural integrity.
I make my own pickles but they're no good.
When it comes to eating them, no one should.
They're even worse than the ones Aunt Bee made.
If you ever eat one, you'd better be afraid.
They taste like kerosene even though they're dill.
Don't eat my pickles, they've been known to kill.
A woman wanted some rat poison but she used my pickles instead.
In less than five minutes, every rat in her house was dead.
A man just took a bite of one of my pickles and he's gone blind.
If the dumbass had listened to me, he wouldn't be in this bind.
A lady wasted her money when she bought a baby carriage.
She ate one of my pickles and then she had a miscarriage.
If you come to my house, you'd better listen to me on the double.
Don't you dare eat one of my pickles or you will be in trouble.
(This is a fictional poem.)
Some losses are too difficult to comprehend and cope with but we always hope that we can overcome them with love and support and hope and faith.
Piano on fire
By Michelle Morris
08/05/2020
Chorus
You set your piano on fire,
Trying to burn the memories;
But all you burned was your music,
And all that's left are your tears.
(End Chorus)
You lost him and felt
Like you'd lost it all;
Couldn't find the music again -
It had left your soul.
You lost him and it
Seemed you lost a
Piece of your mind...
Feeling to join him
In death
Was a gift so kind.
But we found you in time,
We stopped it for now...
The look in your eyes
Told us you were
Already in hell.
But hell is a dungeon
Of our own making;
The guilt; the shame;
The constant pacing...
Of a soul not at rest
Within itself...
You didn't sleep for nights;
The drinking didn't help.
Chorus
We tried to convince you,
There was more to life,
Than sitting around in the dark,
With a burned piano for a friend.
We tried to help you
Get through it all;
But only you could
Really make the call
- to live; to fight
- to dream, to love...
Only you could
Witness your soul
Free like a dove...
Free from all that
Heavy baggage;
Realising you're not
To blame for his
Miscarriage.
Chorus
We hope you find your music again;
To replace the burned piano friend.
We hope your soul will soar again...
We hope you'll
Find strength
And hope and
Peace again.
© Michelle Morris, 2020
Two women fighting over last cart
Unsophisticated, brawling, stubborn,
Short. Up rolls a knight, armor shining bright,
“Why d’ost thou fight til the death o’er singular
shining carriage? Mine has wings...fly ‘way,
take thee for thy miscarriage.
i shall tarry for one of my own.”
Their heads, ready to roll, explode, quibbling,
quizzical like two German Shepherds —
ears antennae’d for radar, heads cocked
ready to shoot, surprised, surrendering
to the prize — shoulders like majestic highs
walk into the sunset reprise.
The sun sparkles like diamonds
On the suited knight, night’s been saved
from a ridiculous fight.
What other maelstrom resides in the honey jar?
3/13/2020
BEYOND THE BABY'S SMILE
For years she didn’t find time to settle down,
pursuing a rising career was the priority for her.
The seed of the plant called family of her own
didn’t germinate, but in her it was always there.
Its time came when she found for her the right man,
it didn’t take for her long to turn instinctively into
a dreaming wife who listened to the music that began
with the sign of a flower to bloom between the two.
For them fate however decided that was not to be
for the budding life was lost in disastrous miscarriage.
The dreams drowned in tears her misty eyes could see,
in the gloomy emptiness her life turned a blank page.
She found in the touch of flowing time a great healer
that restored the essence of the woman she had lost.
When she conceived again, felt a life growing within her
she prayed, let God gift her the one she loved the most.
The joy of expectant mother melted the past shadow,
when the child arrived it turned into living ecstasy,
the limits of which the mother’s mind didn’t know,
for beyond the baby’s smile nothing she could see.
July 23, 2018.
WRITTEN IN DRUGS OF RAIN
Unscrupulous vulture-like officials standing inside skyscrapers;
they croon softly, but wield their pretentious tongues like blades--
casting spells on a throng of marginalized heads
whose mouths and bellies were squeezed and dried.
The promises they speak were written in a drugged rain
blown by the wind and dispersed in grains of misconception.
Beguiled man bit the taste and was addicted without haste.
(candle of hope was trampled --toppled down to fade..)
Secretly, these greedy, flesh -eating crocodiles of today
collude under wooden tables.
Their lust for gold and silver screaming,
they fill their jars of wickedness;
voraciously they feed their minds-- harlots of desire.
The big bellied ones whistle trying to clamp
leeches who don't only suck blood but also innocence;
but when the cluster of eggs break-- hatches
as they run so fast and release a loud.... prrrrt!
The misuse of drugs and ignorance cause
bodies to be spread in dirty smelly gutters.
The users mutilated dignity comes from a constant craving for
shots and puffs from these drugs leading to
gruesome miscarriage of suppose to be~~
--golden flowering dreams for tomorrow,
--transformers to a more unified earth,
--angels bearing an eye for justice and peace.
Manifold arrests for drugs affect the youth
and all others who grasp the illusions of euphoria.
Concerned individuals' throat drying cries, a forlorn scourge of agony...
Oh God, what sight that will be!
And now,
Shall we, knowledgeable of the effects of drug addiction, let such things happen?
Won't we drubbed such escalated catena of grief by doing something?
What can we impart?
What can we do to care?
When will we start?
©O. E. Guillermo
8:44 pm; November 13, 2014
Sponsor Debbie Guzzi
Contest Name Global Poetry
placed 3rd
The dead Titanic love
Once upon a time, a ship sank in the sea, there were lives and loves on it
That was a long time ago, maybe I was alive then
But I lost my life on the land
Now
It will never be mine, I will never be mine, yours is mine
My life has become a mess
Nature miscarried me
From the thicket, I take up my poor but spiritually rich life again
He asked for a miscarriage
I know I can live
Hope has become yours
Weeds will become blooms, I dig the flower bed
It's just imagination, reality is dreaming
Spiritual wealth belongs to a woman
Mine is a mere fraud
My house is yours
It should be family
There will be a living world of desire
Oh, so many thoughts are flying through my mind
Kind and angry wasps
Live there, and I'll write my house over to you
Children should play and laugh there
Dear woman, woman, I accept you
Live there
And I will travel the world, and I will
I will help you, I will support you
I'm William
I would like a woman, a woman
It would be my world
My muse.
I don't find it.
No results.
Life does not support me
I'm the silent dead
I cry even as a dead person and I walk and walk among the dead who live there
I walk among graves, I await my death
Although my death, my longing, has already been fulfilled
I'm dead
I want babies.
I broke it.
All efforts tabled on Nigeria;
Experiencing a fortunate miscarriage,
Feasting Aso rock- a pizzeria
But never admit it is the cause of this age.
Upon the solid manifesto,
That touches all sectors:
Picturing California's Barstow,
To cajole mandates of the electors.
Finally, all promises are working...
Nigerians are glad to vote SAI BABA.
How beautiful things are shirking!
Yet, we never cease referencing YORUBA's BONOBO.
Now, pebbles tear apart the wall to a lowland.
No sands dare last all days.
Though, the wall can not withstand
The test of time come the apartness of clays.
The crevices in the wall:
Is an awaiting lost of hope;
One day, the wall will surely fall.
Just like acrobats won't last all days on tightrope.
The time is no longer right;
The poor and his rights are wrong,
For there's no one to stand by him.
Those beautiful hearts; pure and young
Have been battered and their loves' lights dim.
Buhari's reign is like what?
Revelation said it well in his whatnot
And if that be the truth,
Should we believe, lazy are all youths?
Why do we fear actions and love words?
If we never mind, our hens can fly like birds
But we keep living in reliving,
The leadership orbiting the Africa GIANT's sun outliving...
The societies expectations--
A reason millions are invested in educations.
When shall we be tired?
To relieve those supposed to have retired.
Just like the withered leaves bring
Blessings unto tree to renew its strength.
The odd flowers introduce the spring
And relinquished fortitude to breath.
The detached withered leaves
That have been laid to rest,
Can never regain life's airfoil
Than enrich the top soil.
What are meant for backups,
Ended up been the beautiful ups.
One thing unsure is the extent of our grieves,
All are mere satisfying best.
Of course, sun shall rise and shines bright on the green lushes,
Blessing nature with its radiant nutritional solar energy.
As the aiding glimmer blushes,
It shall promote unbelievable synergy.
But if nights tarry for long,
Mornings shall come with the healing birdsong...
Youths, light the nights;
Cohorts, best their rest.