Long Tarnishes Poems
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Seems my handwriting will never improve,
Yearlong efforts, letters still oblong.
Not quite right, but we pretend it’s not all bad,
I fixate on each line, a prerequisite approach.
So next and then that line and its spacing, proper
striving for excellence, sentence, cursed to find
some semblance, a distant echo. Earshot.
Eardrum. POP!
Outward rang disdain, my reality indifferent,
Marks resembling a bell curve in chicken sketch,
It distorts my outlook, tarnishes self-image.
I try with practice sheets laid out,
Only to be reminded of the horrors I scrawl within.
Devastating, humiliating,
Suppressing nausea,
Sick of this, hating my own thoughts,
Ruining half-decent poems or ideas.
Regardless of merit or talent shown,
sent into the fire.
scribe on restroom walls
its contrived and
makes me writhe.
I discard writing tools,
My creative well runs dry, deceased,
Gone, past tense, already done in.
Progress slower than a snail,
with kidney failures
Skull soon exposed.
I’ll tear at my scalp,
Writing used to be fun.
You'll say, 'shut my trap'.
The torment I hold towards
every pen, pencil, or marker on any shelf.
Chasing after graphite,
specific utensils, lead grade, ink, acrylic,
I want them gone, obliterated,
Every trace, every hint.
EXTINGUISHED EVERY PEICE OF
. . .
Sorry, I get carried away...
This heretic! The disappointment,
Frail and brittle behind every attempt.
All result in zero, void, null, nil.
Here I sit, head in hands,
My task forever incomplete,
More setbacks, my drive
and desire to compete.
Now I understand why progress is elusive, unseen.
Hard-scoped when each step shown seems hopeless
rooted in the waste of regression.
I would be remiss if my speech lacked spirit.
Results: Inconclusive
Next topic: I digress,
I relinquish anima,
Lay to rest a thousand eyes’ constraints,
Seeking arrangements through attainment.
If there's space to graze, then seize the day.
Something bountiful in the invisible,
Nature's beauty in the winds of change,
Wrinkles on sheets of belief,
A moment for molecules deem insignificant,
Nested in the fabric of space-time,
An embarrassment that's all mine,
It is really all fine.
Signed, A construct for mortality.
Why am I lonely with you dear
where did the magic disappear
when you don't call
doesn't bother me at all
when were together
it feels if we rather
be somewhere else
with someone else
there is no thrill
your eyes tell
the magic between us is gone
what was so right now seems so wrong
Try as we might
no sparks of delight
just excuses to excuse
the gold tarnishes to blues
together we are a bore
the nights are such a snore
why am I so lonely with you
We need a shake up
even a break up
looks like for us it's over
time to be adults and act sober
no goodbyes
it was a good try
lets both escape
before this turns into hate
we can always be friends
let this end to begin
somewhere else with someone new
no more being lonely for me or for you...
Who tends a vase
while flowers wilt and rot within?
Who turns to polish glass or pot
when contents should remove to bin?
When stench ascends,
and nostrils turn aside and clench
because of staining sin,
it tarnishes the gold within
meant only for His glory.
Why obsess this cracked and fragile pot,
the look, the pout, the in the out.
Why preen the outer fashion seen
and not the inner beauty
of a spirit washed and clean.
The beauty of the body,
made to display the soul,
becomes an idol temple
when treated with this goal.
To worship God's creation
mistakes creation's role.
This body goes from dust to dust
and without it we will stand
to give our final soul's account
without its helping hand.
As the tree loose its leaves in winter and hibernation draws closer
And the clock of time speeds towards the end of my life
I hope you will be patient with me
Understanding that old age slows you down
Steals your eyesight
Consumes your senses
Tarnishes your pride
Diminishes your spirit
Break your self-respect
Leaving you broken and worthless
So my dear child remember
In case I smash a saucer
Or spill tea all over the kitchen floor
Here’s hoping you will be sympathetic
Remembering that old people are sensitive
And when you whisper you love me
And it looks as though I am staring into space
Remember old age has taken my hearing so don’t call me deaf
Be caring always and remember to ask me to write it down
I am sorry my child that I had to grow old
And could no longer walk along the shores of the beach with you
Holding your hands and watching you play in the sand
Time has stolen the best of me
But as the breath of life fades from me
I want you to know that you and your sisters was the best thing that ever happened to me.
Bastille
Many years ago
They stormed the Bastille
Two hundred and one lost their lives
The tennis court oath however survived
Jacques had his heart with the masses
Necker could not be dismissed so easily
The storming of the Bastille was to be
The birth of a nation for all men free
And free men they were
Running naked through the streets
What they lacked in cake
The made up with in red wine
The Republique was born
A democracy in infancy
Would grow through trials and tribulations
To become a multicultural great nation
Lone angry men filled with such hate
I welcome you to Bastilles’ gate
Of medieval prisons long ago
It is there, you I shall throw
You kill in the name of a God
A God you do not know
Love has escaped from your very soul
Only hate tarnishes your bitter heart
The ghosts of Bastille are mocking
The coward who is filled with such animosity
There never shall be an escape
The soul of the dead shall eternally taunt you
A criminal with no compassion
You have only given us our determination
To battle for the peace of this great nation
You bring us tears; alas we shall turn them to wine
Naked through the streets we shall always dance!
The Devil’s Soliloquy in Grey
The mists do not rise by chance; they obey. They are the exhaled breath of my boredom, Curling around the jagged peaks of the Balinoks, Choking the valleys in perpetual twilight. I sit upon the high throne of Ravenloft, A needle of black stone piercing an anemic sky, And I look down upon the chessboard of Barovia. The peasants below, shivering in their hovels, Call me "The Devil" when they think the wind isn't listening. Fools. The wind is mine, too.
I remember the warmth of the sun, vaguely, Like a story told by a grandfather I never knew. I traded it for this: cold stone, eternal hunger, And the awful clarity of endless time. I traded a brother’s blood for a crown that never tarnishes, A pact sealed in the amber shadows of a forgotten temple. Now, I am the Ancient. I am the Land. My veins are the rivers, running deep and cold; My eyes are the wolves that watch from the timberline; My spies are the bats hanging like leather fruit in the eaves.
And then, there is Her. The maddening, beautiful cycle. Tatyana. By any name, the same soul, the same doomed visage, The one bright jewel I cannot keep in this sepulchral jewelry box. She returns to me through the generations, A tantalizing phantom just beyond the stained glass. Does she know, this time, in her village beneath the shadow? Does she feel my gaze like a physical weight upon her shoulder? I will burn the world to hold her again, And I will weep blood when she inevitably falls, Only to wait for the wheel to turn once more.
And now, you. The interlopers. Little heroes, stumbling through the Svalich Woods, Armed with holy symbols that feel lukewarm in this godless place, And swords that will dull against my skin. You are fresh meat for the grinder, a pleasant diversion. Come, let me test the mettle of your souls. Let me see if you break with a snap, or bend with a whimper. Accept my invitation. Dine in my halls. Play my game until the amusement fades.
Look up at the spires. Know your insignificance. You are a flickering candle in a hurricane. I am the storm that never ends.
I found this little book
inside my heart, much
to my surprise – in a place
secure, for faithful, searching
eyes...apparently having long
been there – a safe-space of refuge,
free from sighs – an inner garden:
no perennial blooms, that perk and
rest, as sunlight and moons lift our
spirits like April Blooms, till
the winter's chills, though a
tolerable season of icy glooms –
some, of our specie
more inclined to adjust and
make best – put on skis, and
flip with fond zest...not willing
to succumb to our earth's seeming
recurring duress –
A place one finds nurture
and spiritual delight – free from
daily cares replete with despairs;
where the book came from –
God alone knows, and perhaps
none of my affairs; yet, filling me
with a sense, it was mine
to someday find – and then,
read to others, a blessed mission
to truthfully boast and share; I opened
it up...and low and behold,
sealed on the first page, was a
heart of gleaming gold. Solid gold,
seeming shiny and new.
Of course, I already knew, that
gold never tarnishes, just
the metals with which it is
mixed – and who would have
thought, on a book's first page
one would find, such a precious
thing affixed – a book of hope –
a book for all life? I pondered
thus refining even more – how
tarnishing mixtures gold needed
if to strengthen into shapes,
precious forms that endure – I thought of
my world, and my metals of strife –
thought of all my blemishes...those
I've spent seeming an eternity
from myself and others trying to hide...
and thought, maybe, I should have, all along,
not cursed them but blessed them – perhaps,
treasuring my obvious imperfections, as well
as my golden side.
I have waited for so long to share this impromptu song, I have created it myself, the day when I heard that my mother was dead; I am still trying to process it, but I cannot see where the story fits;I was twelve and my brother was fifteen, three years separate us apart and the day she died my entire world came apart.
She was all that I had to keep me for being, sad and the call that she made when she was on that date was the biggest mistake that she had ever made. It was easy for them to trace the call and find her location abroad, I didn’t know that was the last time I was going to speak to her or I would have told her that I loved her and my heart would be at ease.
Everything happens so fast and here I am exiled in the dark, living in a strange country estrange from the royal family, and the people that I love so dear cannot take the time to celebrate my signature line with me. Everyone is busy and they cannot adjust their schedule to join me.
Here I am all alone celebrating the games anniversary without a crown; I wish my mother was around she would have driven out all the fear and smile; she was so bold and I loved having her around, but now I am a grown man but every time I think about her it makes my spirit sad my heart starts yearning for thee.
I have tried not to think about it, and I kept wondering why Paparazzi did it, I have a strong inclination to open up the case to put the conspire to bed and reveal the truth of how my mother died .
Was the accident meant for her or was it meant for the company that was with her, it was arrange and the probe was not in vain but the act of adultery in broad day light would have ended in a sacrifice. I still cannot see were the story fits, pull the puzzle apart and shine the light into the dark.
I can still see the procession moving along and my brother and I walking behind the horse driven casket; how much that memory haunts me and tarnishes my childhood prosperity .If I had to make one wish that would be to see her alive again and I would thank her for making that heartfelt sacrifice.
I have composed this Impromptu song and I want the royal family to sing it with me, to erase Dina's painful memory.
I have never gotten over it and mercy has spared me from going over the cliff. Tell my father to come and see me and have biscuits and tea with me.
Apparent normalcy of seeing Simon crouched on bathroom tiles,
engrossed in energetic chewing, fails to filter my distress.
From outer body standpoint, hovered below ceiling's heat lamp,
I monitor the horror of my daughter's distraught face.
Ginger fringed, four foot five island stands on tiles first splat tarnishes.
Her scrunched hand shields centre of her face.
Vibrant sauce slides between her fingers, rivulets lead from between knuckles.
Confusion holds her captive. Velvet blond temples wince.
Metallic stiff hand draws away from her altered face.
Gaping space menaces a moustache of tomato soup.
Escaping stalactites extend from her feather faint face.
Rubbery bulb thousand times kissed
bread crumb sprinkled nose tip Rudolphs its ridiculous absence.
Coolest nochalance, Simon casts defiant dollar coin eyes at me.
In typical satisfied snack imbibed style, athletic tongue traverses his tame feline ferocity.
Miniature tiger teeth with clinician care cleaned, reminisce their red.
Placidly pleased by his sudden dismounted diplomacy, primal Simon forgot it.
Sun snoozing couch cushion
visited by vengeful psychotic.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Gory story. Feeds my fiction addiction.
3rd June 2020
Written: May 06, 2026, for contest sponsored by Brian Strand
10th place contest winner
****************
If you wish for
your joy to wander on—
treasure it as a precious gem,
a quiet secret,
Cosmos cannot clone.
Guard it
akin to flame
trembling in the wind,
an elfin, sacred brightness
that warms everything
It touches.
Hold it close
when the days grow loud;
don’t expose it
to careless hands
or let routine
rub away its luster.
Don’t let it fade
into the ordinary—
Love is not common
unless we deem it so.
And if it tarnishes,
as all precious things do,
polish it gently
with tenderness,
with patience,
with the soft persistence
of someone who remembers
Why did they pick this heart?
It will gleam again,
bright as the first day
You held it—
brighter, even,
for having survived the storm.
For love,
when cherished,
does not merely endure—
it deepens,
it sweetens,
its radiance swells
than the moment
It began.