Long Smothered Poems
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The walls are closing in.
The walls are closing in.
Yet broken hearts will die much quicker
Crush me from within. (THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING)
There is no escape.
There is no escape.
I feel drastic, torn and troubled,
hopeless in this state. (YOU DON'T KNOW HOW THIS FEELS)
We don’t mess with fate.
We don’t mess with fate.
Someday we’ll be six feet under,
smothered in this hate. (DON'T MAKE ME BEG)
You can’t understand.
You’ll never understand.
Now you leave me lonesome,
frightened....
PLEASE!!!!.... just hold my hand. (I LOVE YOU)
I never said I’m sorry.
I never said I’m sorry.
But I’m not one for compromise
if you won't say you love me...
So say it to this gun. (RIGHT NOW DAMMIT!!!)
Say it to my gun.
I dare you look me in the eyes,
and tell me I'm the one.
Hobgoblin in the gutter under canopy of midnight,
magic brew of muti without rein.
Shadow figure torchon, darting half-light dare.
Spine chilling droplets wobble slowly down drains,
rusty copper mouthwash at the edge of jagged chutes.
Eerie urban soundscapes frame,
a sneeze or smothered cough.
Drone of vagrant motors probe, the flyby ink-black abyss.
Youthful laughter echoes over back streets,
as nearby lamp posts cast their bloodshot rays.
Night owls chinwag over Onion Bhaji,
raucous babble buried in a saffron whiff.
Strains of ragtime jazz and sleek arpeggios,
shrine or vinyl monument ahoy.
Hobo’s lonely whistle on an empty pier.
Urban jungle cast-off ghostly lurch,/
Burakumin patsy in high dudgeon.
Spooky timelines relish every moment of suspense,
swallowing the hush with ghoulish glee.
Quasimodo bell ring vaults a broomstick,
setter of alarm and wanton panic.
City wall clock twiddles on its hourly thumb,
scene plotter’s endless play denouement,
wee small hour dialogue without a script,
waiting for the dawn to take it’s baton.
How I knew one fine day
that you were the one?
I searched inside myself, asking...
"Is this indeed true love?
Do I feel the magic of her charms?"
Is her embrace as soft as velvet?"
I asked myself
"Do I feel vulnerable with her? Do I feel...
the squeeze of her hand whenever I hold it?
Is she but God's greatest gift to me?"
You are, my dearest. Your first touch
was a slice of heaven; a telling sign
you captured a piece of my soul..
I wondered...
"Does she reignite my smothered passions?
Does she give me a shoulder to lead on?
Am I lifted up when I fall like timber?"
I asked myself
"Does she break me free when
I find myself caught in the jaws
of life's booby-trap? Does she
show me the way out of dead ends?"
The answer to every question
was yes, my lovely Helen; that's how
I knew you were my soulmate,
the answer to my prayers
Date writted: 01/02/2021
The Face of Hope
The face of hope never masquerades in forlorn visages
Towering above spiraling pits in the dark midnight of essence
Breaks disingenuous chains of nightmare’s clutches
In bleak mansions of the dark moon to warm their hearths
Refusing to prostitute possibility
With poignancy that probes lost footsteps trying to hold onto
Perfect moments of saline life support
Steps in to shine with opportunities’ bright smile
Refuses to accept the suicide of love
On rocks of the torn heart’s tragedy
Or see unscalable opaque obstacles
Or wear the mask of homeless helplessness
Discarding pity’s piercing banshee sneer
Fate’s cynical demand to fulfill obtuse fate
The face of hope refuses to wear desolate –
Or a God forsaken destiny -
Bereft of moonlight squeezing between
Abandoned footprints of dreams
Smothered by smog
A single shaft of illumination – a cloak protecting fragile insight
Never bewitched by night’s dead space,
Wearing victory’s luminosity of enduring promise,
Vanquishing a taunting laughter of ridicule
To break down anxiety’s imagined walls
Surrounding the paradise of foolishness
With dawning reveries of one bright star.
Abiding in eternal covenant
The face of hope never masquerades in forlorn visages.
5-6-21
Contest: This or That
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
It was pleasant every time we went to grandpa and grandmas.
We woke up in the morning with the smell of fresh baked bread.
Wouldn't cause much for all of us and grandpa to pause
whatever we were doing and ran when, "It's ready." was said.
Slices of bread smothered with butter and jelly souls were fed.
Grandma would fill the wringer washing machine
with cold water from a hose hooked up to the house,
I enjoyed watching it agitate getting the clothes clean.
We hung them out in the backyard on the clothesline and rouse
the sunshine to dry giving them a fresh air scent especially my blouse.
Now that I'm older with my own family I try to keep those traditions.
I use a bread machine instead of using my hands to knead bread.
One of the few things I lend and provide myself to be ambitions.
On sunny days, I'll hang my clothes out on the clothesline instead.
These small things became quite real to me, I will never dread.
2/19/2018
Poetry Contest: 'The Scent Of Baking Bread, The Scent Of Clean Sheets Fresh Off The Clothesline' English Quintain : a,b,a,b,b
Sponsored By: Sara Kendrick
It was yesterday when you died
At the horizon far west
And your blood smothered
The touching edges
Of the sky and the mountain
While you sank in its redness
Your funeral was fairly attended
By multitudes of mourning stars
Uniformly dressed in black
Today you resurrected
At the touching edges
Of the sky and the mountain far east
And like a child
Fresh from its mother’s womb
You were covered in blood
Which turned golden as you rose
Your resurrection comes as a sign
Of the birth of a new life
It turns our darkening dreams gold
It illuminates our paths
And makes us see the future
Awaiting beyond the horizon
Yet again you will
In the evening die
And sink in a pool of blood
At the touching edges
Of the sky and the mountain far west
And leave us longing
For another golden rise
A swirling gold wind
Speckles of dust
I thrust my neck in to feel this
I am bewildered, a smothered vine
floating into the ending
but I want to fight
Want to get up and break knuckles and limbs
to spread seeds
and say I mattered
This is the time we’ll remember and I can’t forget
that man on the corner
How we’re all allowed dreams
and those who shatter
are lessons for those who haven’t slept yet
I’m closing eyes to remember the fabric
of the depth of Godliness
The heat in my chest, the badness
And I’m weighing the contents of time to find
where I should be standing
Tightroping on the thin line before it’s enough
and my promises are voided as bluff
I’m mourning
Wailing against the sepulcher of my birth
The tomb of my purpose
And the dead leaves that surround the contents of my body
are ‘raptured’
There is no more time
We’re weeping in the instant we begin again
But they have left us
with our own salvation in our hands
and nowhere to go
No peace to find sleep
Good mourning
Figs stuffed with proscuitto and mascarpone cheese,
a plate of bacon wrapped scallops and pineapple.
French onion soup is bound to please
or garlic steamed mussels with which to grapple.
Artichoke hearts smothered in sherried cream;
pears with sugar and cinnamon in butter sauteed;
pork tenderloin medallions make a demi-glaced dream
while crisped lyonnaised potatoes are made.
Now with a sip of Pouilly-Fuisse'
tastes flush the palate like a gourmet concert.
A toast to good friends on this wonderful day
as ice wine chills to serve with dessert.
A plate of old fashioned Bananas Foster-
perhaps in the morning, eggs benedict with lobster!
A life of beauty and happiness denied, of innocence
smothered like a flame--I have always lived; but when
I am touched by your kindness, O Rose,
Now, I am free!
I was dead before I even entered into this world, a
place cruel and without feeling, cruel and without
the love and compassion I finally know in the rich
lovingkindnesses of your heart, O Rose!
They set me free.
Before I could even hope to bloom like a young flower
hanging breathless and exposed in the first, rainy
sunbeams of life a great evil--the menacing hostility
of a dark, soulless figure spilling over with
hatred--transformed me into a joyless
waste of ashes.
From that terrible moment on I fought all the ugly and horrible assaults
as his unwilling property, a child-gladiator in the arenas
of his constant abuse and
intimidation.
But when I know your forgiveness and now recognize your tender-
ness and compassion as unearned gifts meant for
me
despite my childish self-loathing
and my unworthiness
I feel the love and self-esteem denied me, taken from
me simply because it was too easy to rape from
a child whose only fault was that he was not born
white
or with money or status.
O Rose! Because you finally arrived in my life and rescued me--now I am free!
Free from my years as an abused prisoner in the arena of his constant
abuse and attacks,
able to bloom like a young flower hanging breathless
and exposed in the first, radiant sunbeams
of life again!
Up til now I have avoided a scam with my name on it,
Despite it being tailored to suit me,
Even wearing a bow tie,
Appealing to my taste buds,
With words smothered in chocolate,
And smelling like my favourite rose,
Tastefully wrapped up with $100 bills.
All that was lacking was a hint of grammar,
A modicum of common sense in sentence construction,
Some more appropriate phrases,
Evidence of an ability to spell check,
And I might have been hooked.
As one by one people I knew of were reeled in,
I was busy patting myself on the back,
And asking myself, how could they possibly fall for that,
When even my cat could see through that,
And why didn't they smell a rat,
When you could spot the misuse of grammar,
Without the use of a hammer,
And the spelling mistakes,
Could be found in the time it takes,
For me to whip up some tea cakes.
But Now,
My confidence is down somehow,
Maybe it is because when I read the papers now,
I find articles without a hint of grammar,
No common sense in sentence construction,
Few appropriate phrases,
No evidence of spelling ability,
Or attempts at spellchecking
Which leaves me sweating every time I go online,
No longer able to tell the difference between a scam,
And a leg of ham.
I kind of wish I had never learned to spell,
As even those without degree,
Would not be impressed at my tempt,
At spelling mistakes,
So scamming is out for me,
Unless I go back to school,
And study journalism until my mistakes,
Are plain to see.
In the meantime,
I feel safer, spending time with the cat,
While she teaches me how to smell a rat.