Long Thickening Poems
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the bridge isn't stone.
not iron latticework humming with trains.
not even that splintered wood plank
across the creek just beyond my childhood home.
It's quieter~
a slant of afternoon sun catching dust motes
in the attic of my mind.
I climb the stairs~
why did I say that?
why didn't I go?
if only...
each step groans with the weight of *what if*~
the handrail feels slick with polished regret.
halfway across, I pause.
below, the river churns with versions of myself:
the one who stayed,
the one who left too soon,
the one clutching certainty like a fraying rope.
the far shore gleams clear, impossibly calm.
I know what waits there~
wisdom, smooth as river stone.
but the bridge only goes one way.
I can't carry today's shoes back to yesterday's mud.
can't shout warnings through the thickening fog
of memory.
so I stand, breathing the damp air
of almost-understanding.
I watch the current swirl the past into patterns
that almost make sense.
Almost.
the bridge remains aching and empty
leading only to the place where I finally see
the shape of the hole my choices left behind.
Under a trellis of vines, quite evergreen
This elegant, old lady sits on a wooden porch,
Her veined fingers twist in graceful motion
Kneading hued threads from silken yarn;
As weaves of cross-stitch unfurl through dusk :
How in gentle calm, a floral pattern expands
Thickening its pattern through intricate craftwork ...
I watch grandmother extend those elbows
To connect the dots while loops of artistry
Begin to take shape, her eyes glimmering
Upon moonlit wind: I cuddle this kerchief, now
A prized token of her bridal gift...my heirloom.
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~ New Poem ~ 2/28/2019
Cross Contest of Carolyn Devonshire
In each room, the walls were thickening
with a silence, so harsh and sickening
once there were smiles and heartfelt hope
that soon faded, with promises they broke.
No one could fight, no one was right
except for those still in the light.
It fell away, out of their sight
quick as the day turned into night.
Once a host, he became a ghost
no message was sent in the post
just months long silence became his science
until he returned to find that it was too late.
Too late to repair what once was there
when they were drowning, he did not care.
Lies and betrayal, to him were not crimes
he lied with such ease, a thousand different times.
But it wasn’t just him who knew how to betray
even the righteous could be led astray
as she watched them all struggle to reach the next day
it took her four months, it was almost May.
But she was so busy, it would’ve wasted her time
something so precious, she still had her shine
and all of her plans she could’ve stacked to the ceiling
no, her concern was not how they were feeling.
It is not true that they wore the halos
mistakes get made when happiness fades
but was that the fate they deserved?
To be lied to and ghosted, discarded and broken
left with no choice but to restart
a life that they’d made, in one they could’ve stayed
had it not been for such a cold, soulless depart.
From the house that still lives in each of their minds
a house that still lives, although it has died.
The image reveals to its audience, four light slices of tall, stale bread
Being held upright alongside five glasses of warm, thickening honey
Filled to the very rim, coagulating as the bread stales due to time’s extended hold
A long table embracing these entities, blurry life buzzes in the backdrop
Neighboring me close, waiting to pervade me
Stands Opportunity, ambrosial in sight and smell—sticky in persistence
Opportunity is multitudinous, overflowing, enticing—though often overwhelming
Days pass and Opportunity lingers in different shades
Bright orange in corroding inspiration, spread around and behind
Even dark shades of its power peak out of the glasses waiting to break
Waiting to release its freedoms upon me—to freshen, moisten my stale existence
I continue to stand in equal portions, life outside a mere haze
Distorted shapes afar…tranquil colors of whites, silvers and greens
They giggle, for as time passes, Opportunity is still good
Not I—no; I must stand wait forever on this wooden surface
Drying and aching for the moisture I cannot dream to touch
Though perhaps if life outside becomes clearer, a hand will reach for us,
And I will be drenched in the generous overflow…a nourishment for all I know
For Giorgio A. V.'s Contest : Ekphrasis Contest 01
This was fun! Hope I followed the rules okay!
Nothing that God created is dull...
harmony is found in clouds, in immense space,
in earthly landscapes, in sunrises that blaze;
if nothing stupefies us, these will!
Every sunset is splendor to believer's eyes,
happy is the mother that holds her small child;
she shows the same wonder and prays aloud:
letting everybody know He controls the Heavens!
Can we despise steady rainfall that makes flowers grow
and not notice how they beautify emerald meadows?
We miss the wandering firebugs in thickening shadows,
along the kids' shrilling voices that scared away a crow!
A disbeliever can doubt His creations and still be amazed
at how perfect they align in the celestial, infinite spheres;
No sunset is similar to the previous one, it has uniqueness
in its stunning display of blazing colors that thrill the mind!
Denying truth is debating the evidence of a Superior Being,
and while defiance controls minds, a few admit He's the Creator,
the Eternal one presiding above everyone and everything;
not all act by reason, they won't admit that their denial is fear!
Evey sunset is splendor to believer's eyes,
howe hard is to surrender and be humble as Christ?
does vanity defy obedience, or makes them feel lost?
Stay firm in faith, be stirred by starry nights!
Innocence dies in a world that's corrupt,
addicted to sin
and thrill, of the win;
where suppressed emotions spew and erupt.
Although naught is said:
innocence is dead.
And as children prepare for reality
trading fantasy dreams for hyperbole:
time chases its shadow.
An adolescent adrenaline rush,
sets you free at last.
No longer harassed,
you are the artist, and life is your brush.
Loving all you see,
your world looks pretty.
And yet, the strain of existence takes its toll
subconsciously, weighing the worth of your soul:
time chases its shadow.
As old age creeps like a thickening fog
your tongue tastes like dirt,
and your muscles hurt:
feeling outdated as a catalog.
A frustrated youth
you searched for the truth:
it's hard to believe you were once that naive.
And although it'll soon be time for you to leave:
it's doubtful anyone will notice or grieve.
Time chases its shadow
silently, on tiptoe.
... it's payback time
for reckless meanderings of youth
laughter at another's expense
all mouth and no ears punk
now a pinball called karma
flashes a tilt sign inside my head...
A favorite hobby was banging heartstrings
until their heart chambers bled
now mine is liquefying.
Into a reservoir of regret.
It's payback time.
Self-inflicted wounds to this temple of flesh.
Now it's beginning to be a struggle
to recall
to walk
to think is to produce fog.
life is thickening and quickening
around the petals of time
it's payback time.
I once prayed for solitude
to escape from desperate masses
this bait ball called living
now as my circle steadily shrinks
I wonder what I was thinking.
It's payback time.
Dying alone is a disease of its own.
Alone is just beyond the blood horizon.
A couple of ticks until midnight.
The bait ball is whittled to one
It's payback time.
the sea with one sweep of its tides
rises towards the sky
a great shifting of the sand as it slides
away from where the sleeping lie
the thickening seam of the edge of the earth
widens, like spilled blue black ink spreads
darkens the dawn as some begin to stir
their dreams fading and loosening like the skin a snake sheds
they rise to nourish the land
they give to a beggar's hand
yet the morning is black, no view of the sun
waves rush forward, asking of anyone
who might dare who might dare
on the surface of the waters
a silver sliver of light,
although a bloodless slaughter
turned day into night
we’d not many luxuries in life
the one I remember most
was sitting by the fire
turning bread into toast
not the homogenised
standardised loaf of today
but Granny Barker’s bread
made the old fashioned way
each slice slathered with butter
which I may have seen turned
bobbing and thickening
as Mrs Bulson churned
nice salty country butter
running from the heat
and to top it off
my very special treat
gobs of brown sauce
to make the taste divine
not to everybody’s fancy
but very much to mine
lots of love but no money
lots of warm sensible care
hordes of toast and brown sauce
a mam and dad always there
the wife says I’m just a peasant
and I must say that I agree]
as I eat my special treat
somewhere where she can’t see
I stood as though reborn on mounded dirt,
which seemed so moist it strangely could assuage
the ache from bowels that howled from so much hurt.
Would ground then be my cure for pain and rage?
Enticed, I deeply pressed each foot through soil
till they took root and fixed me to a spot.
My ever-thickening trunk served well to foil
the plots of those who’d cut me. . . . they could not!
My limbs, though mighty branches, could not bend;
stubbornly I fought my transplantation.
I weathered storms that God or man might send,
sightless, living long in desolation.
Self preservation did this much for me-
old loved ones passed and I remained a tree.