Long Winced Poems
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You cried and begged him to stay
As I winced from my soul
Stifling a cry, too – only my tears
Were from his treatment of you
You were silent in the days after he’d gone
Looking past me instead of at me
Seeing something I could not, a ghost perhaps
Of the time when you both laughed
Your hope, I could see, was lost in the past
Where dread and darkness caressed
Shadows of your heart and soul, your love
Which shed tears of loss that lingered on
Hues of gray mingled with your tears
Touching me with the need I could feel
A poverty so deep and rich it begged for
A breath of color to brighten your thoughts
Whispers of pain mingled with dismay at your condition
Flowed rich with grief, mourning for this
Man who was filled with rage, racked with storms
Breaking more than bones, but hearts and homes
You shine, like a dawn light, with insight and faith
Grace that clings to the source of your love
A power higher than the one that left you lost and alone
Silent as the sun – begging for mercy to come
He left you and I didn’t cry for him at all, was almost happy
He was gone and I could see you shine like the sun
With your kindness and joy, your flavors of sweetness assuring
My heart that he had left you with more love than loss
I, being the child of this marriage, this passion that vanished
Was the only one, it seemed, to truly accept the fierce
Piercing truth that told everyone we knew we were better off
Because he had never been the good man you deserved
He had been a cold, hard, heartless man of cynicism
He had been dark and prayerless, like a stone
Who only knew to reach out to you with a yelling wave
Of distrust, disdain, discouragement
For me, his leaving was a blessing to be thankful for
You seemed sad, but I was glad
When he left, there was finally a peace to feel, relief
Where there had only been a battleground
I didn't fill out any paperwork.
There was no memo, no consent form.
Just a nameless morning when the mirror refused
to acknowledge anything above my collarbone.
After that, people entered me carrying grief
in cardboard boxes. Pressed buttons
for floors that didn't exist.
A man from 4D requested the roof,
as if it were still an option.
On Thursday, a child in a yellow parka
whispered a song
I recognized from my sleep paralysis years.
It all arrived sticky and wrong
though I tried to hum along,
my cables winced.
By Sunday I was hosting more
than traffic. Something moved
inside the machinery, something
older than ballast or balance,
and it wouldn't stop licking the grease
from its own teeth.
It told me to smile more.
I jammed the doors.
hummingbird—
someone's mouth
in my throat
My grandma was a steeple jack,
Of heights she had no fear.
The crowds would gather round to watch.
They came from far and near,
To see her swing and pirouette,
Doff her hat and wave.
And gasped and cheered each time she feigned
A slip and then a save.
Roof-toppers winced and bit their lips,
Tight rope walkers screamed.
Treetop loggers looked away
At the daring they were seeing.
Women gasped and children shrieked,
Fearful she would fall,
But at full ascent a massive roar
As she stood upon the ball!
She blew a kiss to the those below
As she turned around with ease,
Then there atop removed her scarf
And cast it to the breeze
But the crowd went wild as before their eyes
They viewed her final feat…
Into a handstand Grandma rose,
Then she waved and kicked her feet!
Whether flag pole, steeple, TV tower…
My grandma climbed them all.
For the freedom felt there in the clouds,
She was at their beck and call.
That grand old gal inspired me
Her legacy I've retraced.
Now I too dance upon a pole
At a club called Mary’s Place.
The boundingly large Dwarf shook his head, disapprovingly,"
discussing payment afterward is
not the Dwarven way"-he winced
his annoyed -- half displeasure liberally and spat,
while stroking his sword sized dagger.
Massaging into it; his family crest emblem
with a frightening amount of overzealousness.
The half-naked Elf-girl looked at him as if
she had just found a long lost playmate.
Her light colored brow thinly arched in a double
stamp of-agreement for her trouble.
(So much as things were, weeeak-ass lame)"
best to get your sh:)t upfront,
in case our sponsors die prematurely.
Like a bunch of Nanceycats", she added,
as she stroked playfully,
her own dagger,
blood thirstily answering the appeased Dwarf.
But with a much greater eros-accuracy,
nay, prowess.
The Bard was pontificatingly-stoned, big surprise,
so he replied to them both in theatrical fashion.
" Today I watched a Raven purposely fly to
a rooftop and land on its edge,
not the top or the middle! The f:) ing edge!
just so it could hop hop hop to the top!
I regret not walking around to see if
the smartass did the same going down
the other side, even though she has wing!
.What I'm trying to say my friends is,
I don't know!
But, let's go kick some Xantroxian ass
and take payment according to what we deserve."
Which is all of it!
The Elf genuflected, as if to oblige-
his insanity and raise him one,
boobs bouncing clumsily as she returned back up."
Let's get our nut on this one, she half begged,
with another arched brow of gleaming-wet-
imp-propriety....."Then I'm gonna bust one, the board...
I’m a bit of a sensualist.
First, let me emphasise emotional resonance,
there has to be an emotional base,
not just an appreciation of hotness.
Then, there’s a sense of longing and mystery—
that male unknowableness.
Don’t forget the hard strength of those rough male edges,
you know, the feeling that he’s kind of sculpted from
a marble and you just want to run your hands over.
And this jet-black hair, the curves and the spiky bits,
casual, careless, not fussy or particular,
and his warm firm and Implacable hands.
Oh, God. Gimmie some.
“Sensuality is connected to desire, ya?” I asked the room (Sunny and Lisa are there, studying).
“It sure is,” Sunny said, flippantly, “and you just need that hot boyfriend of yours to spank it out of you.”
“No,” I winced, shaking my head no, “that’s not true.”
“Ooo! I love this song” Lisa said, as ‘try’ by BETWEEN FRIENDS began to play on our Echos.
.
.
Songs for this:
this is what falling in love feels like by JVKE
golden hour by JVKE
.
.
Our cast
Sunny, (suitemate) 21, a (pre-med) molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major, is a cowgirl from Nebraska (seriously, she has a quarter horse and barrel races). She’s an outspoken fem-facing ladies-lady.
Lisa, (roommate) 21, my bff and a high society princess, who grew up in a 50th floor Central Park South high-rise. A (pre-med) molecular biophysics and biochemistry major.
Your author, a simple, multinational, upper-crust, trust-fund baby from Athens, Georgia who's also a molecular biophysics and biochemistry major (pre-med).
If he had boarded the frail proud lady,
My ancestor would have been a hysteric.
It would have been nothing new to him, though —
Boarding such a mighty vessel
With an unsinkable testimonial.
He had been on board Noah’s ark
For more than 40 days and 40 nights —
The first-ever lockdown in the first-ever
Flood pandemic.
He would have consulted an oracle before boarding
Lady Titanic,
To ascertain the position of the sinking stars,
And of course the position of the damned iceberg —
That monstrously frigid, vengeful, whitish monster,
Sitting like a proud humongous harlot on
The wavy vestibule of the docile North Atlantic.
He would have winced loudly from the cruel cold of
A bland and unforgiving April.
The Atlantic would have seemed so small to him,
Having floated on many oceans-in-one during
Uncle Noah’s wayward flood.
Things would have been different.
He would have sent off a dove and a raven
Before The Titanic set sail, to survey the grottos of the Atlantic.
The birds would have returned with news of the ocean,
Bringing tales wrapped in olive leaves, of any old
Scrimmage between the waves
And the iron foot of the jealous iceberg.
That would have been BREAKING NEWS,
Written BOLDLY in RED,
The colour of sea-danger, sea-terror . . . .
Things would have been different!
Perhaps The Titanic would have plied the reverse side of
The Atlantic . . . You know! . . . The less slippery side.
Less frenetic and less troublesome, and with no icebergs,
No matter how frigid the weather, in that flustered April,
Which my ancestor would have primarily called The Fourth Moon.
Yes! . . .
Sailing stealthily behind the Atlantic; the other side of it less travelled,
Cautious of the envy of the destroyer known euphemistically as Iceberg.
True . . . !
Like visiting the moon via the reverse side . . . ! Where the craters are
Perpetually on night shift . . . .
And things would have been different.
Lest I forget: a Greek ancestor would have brewed coffee with seawater.
And if greenish bubbles bobbed about, he would rather have hailed a barque.
"Life is so unpredictable. What we expect may not happen. Life deludes us with a happy beginning but can end up bizarre" - By Poet
‘Twas the night before Christmas, a time eagerly awaited,
Had plans many in store to make the Christmas eve bright
That morning, with rising thrill, I woke up early before dawn
A gentle breeze whizzed past me, telling all would be right.
I had to set up the Christmas tree, do many errands
Sure, it would be a lovely day with blessings on my way
But sad it turned to be a doom’s day
With misfortunes in succession coming to slay
Going to the kitchen to light the gas stove,
To make a cup of morning tea
To warm up in that early hours of the day
I found the gas cylinder completely empty.
As an alternative, tried to plug on the electric stove
Ouch! I got the shock of a violent kick,
And in my effort to balance myself,
I leaned back upsetting a tumbler of milk.
The glass tumbler broke into several pieces
And the milk got strewn on me and all over
Messing up my dress, the floor and the kitchen rug
Making me lose all my composure.
I picked up the umpteen shards of glass
A job I did with utmost care
Again it took an hour, cleaning up the floor
And also washing the rug, a messy affair!
I thought of taking a quick shower
And in a hurry was moving barefoot
When suddenly I winced in pain
As a piece of glass got struck underfoot
I heard the door bell ring n’ ring
Limping, I moved to open the door
Back from his usual morning walk
Was my husband all shabby, his face with a deep scar
A cyclist had knocked him down and he fell sideways,
Into a muddy puddle injuring his legs and face,
And by the time he got onto his feet
That miscreant had vacated the space.
Nothing I could instantly think,
Other than leaning on his soiled chest
With a suppressed sob and a moan,
My body still sticky with milk by morning’s accursed test.
Sad, when the time came, there was no Christmas tree
Nor was there a gala dinner with roasted turkey,
As both of us had to limp with bruised legs and scarred face.
Never expected Christmas eve would turn so murky!
My twin was delusional, he thought he was a star
He told me people recognized him, near and far
Strangers gave him thumbs up, pretty women smiled
Within him they saw the soul of a child.
I said "Jerry, no offense, you are poor at conversation
People yawn, go away, for the dialog duration
You lack warmth, enthusiasm, any vital spark
You're not the life of the party; the contrast is stark.
Jerry said "that's all true, but once I was a handsome dude"
I winced, "I'm your twin, don't mean to be rude
Nobody looks at me twice, but for each hard-won friend
When the storm hits, on them I can depend."
The psych diagnosed Jerry with delusions of grandeur
He may be my brother, but in social life he's poor
Most crazy people think they are hated, he thinks he sees affection
Maybe that's better, but it's still the wrong direction.
After the mental hospital, we went cycling upstate
We ran into women, they looked animated, they looked great
They gave Jerry wide smiles, men cheered him too
I pinched myself - it's been years since I've sniffed glue.
What's celebrity based on, what makes a fan?
Do they look beyond appearance, at the soul of the man?
Maybe it's based on something like a good heart
A feeling for the little guy, who makes a brand-new start.
So I'll cheer for the crowd, I'll cheer for the fan
They have the right soul but they have the wrong man.
Night rain on the window pane is the night sweat of my fevered life dream. Time bloats like the reflection I try to avoid. Tears on the bedroom floor for however many minutes or hours. I crawled in here, felled like a sick elm, sickly scooped-out, hunger hollowed, word emptied. Hands...hands that feel like they don't belong to me any more. Something moves within them, puppets them: a tingle like lightning.
icicle fingers
too cold to hold a teacup -
wrists are winter twigs
Fingernails mauve-mottled, heart struggling to pump, circulation slow-crawling. Hands are too blue-numb to grip, and I'm watching the teacup slip...
white pottery shards
mosaic of tannin stars -
the carpet is stained
I found an anthology of short stories I first read years ago, before dream winced into nightmare. Opening the book, a slip of paper floats out, white-dazzly as a snowflake. My hospital admission letter, the sudden white shock of it bookmarking a favourite story.
Bedtime stories. Sweating between the sheets with Ray Bradbury, electric singing sentences pressed to my skin. The push and pull of his prose singing my body electric, giving me a word-**** I won't forget.
Ray Bradbury's everywhere, he's in the air, his words rearranging themselves into kaleidoscope patterns; strange lexicon of snowflakes, of stars. But voices are reassuring me It's just a little fever dream.
Strange how the memory sea floods me as the mind becomes ever more disconnected; the past's wisps floating like feathers through the fog. Fever flicker of faces: Sarah's, silver-shimmery through tears, her blonde hair haloed in teardrop light.
Tonight, anorexia's voice is the knife strike in a slasher movie: a killing, shrilling eardrum drilling. It's the chainsaw buzz scything corn, the shadow knife behind the Psycho curtain.
My immune system is failing, body breaking down.
waves of nausea
crashing on my body's shore -
gastroparesis
slow fast slow fast slow
stutter stop start slow stop start -
arrhythmical heart
Sibilant strobe of whispers, voices, the past's echoes, floating through fever fog...We don't think you're looking after yourself...You're a risk to yourself...I'm sectioning you under Section 2 of the Mental Health Act...
The minefield mind-trap closes on a single word: How?
How has it all come to this?
He drove a gleaming car
Stopped at a tawdry bar
Cool shades on, tan and trim
He looked the part of a movie star...
Her eyes met his; she took his dare
In his mind, he stripped her bare
He got right up and sidled over
She never blinked; maintained her stare
"Honey," he said, "I've paid for your drink."
She liked that; didn't stop to think
When he asked her for a roll in the hay
She nodded her head: "Whatever you say."
Drove to his place; went straight for the sack
Where he started in on her, a brazen attack
She wondered if this was how you play the game
He smiled at her, said: "What's your name?"
"Cathy," she said, "and I just turned sixteen."
He winced as he realized what had just been...
******
A few years passed; he got out of jail
No gleaming car for him on his new trail
Then one night, there she was on the news
He jumped up and shouted: "I know her; I do!"
~ That Cathy's a lawyer now; represents 'Me-Too'