Horizon holds hope
tomorrow, crowds out the scene
clouds rehearse elsewhere—
sunshine has packed for the road
leaving warm coats on the hook.
The mirage shimmers
beckoning us nearer still
distance swallows steps
closer is, further away
the mirage has played its game.
Footprints trace failure
back to where old hope began
mud obscures the route
the horizon keeps its word—
always staying over there.
Evening inspects shoes
muddles, each odd pair—
the map folds itself
learns to leave the porch light on
for what was never coming.
Evening shuts up shop
footprints wander back, alone
the horizon stays
still selling tomorrow's light
to those who come to its stall.
grass slick slippery
garlanded with dew's glint beads
taunts weary sleepers
to reach out without thinking
beyond sinking stepping stones
dawn light ogles through
a grey, hopscotch-scattered sky
crunching clouds aside
to find a way through chaos
beyond sinking stepping stones
treetops break the skin
of bedraggled drowned-out mists
frogs croak waterlogged—
no shores for sleepwalking gulls
beyond sinking stepping stones
horizon dissolves
unhitched from any compass
worn edges are blurred—
direction is strewn with ash
beyond sinking stepping stones
echoes lose their source,
I am confused, miasmal
moored meanings unspooled—
I grab for something solid,
beyond sinking stepping stones
in off-ramp byways
of shiftless realities
I crawl through muddles
clambering to find a way
beyond sinking stepping stones
Two plus two equals four...unless it doesn’t.
Every young student learns the rules… as taught them.
Higher education muddles it all…with complex theorems.
He visited Simon's mother-in-law, who had a fever.
Did he do so because she was kin of his disciple?
The elderly needed care. He knew this as a healer.
Wasn't their psyche more than their physique what made them ill?
A lesion in reason and logic rots the mind, like rust.
Depression, delirium, dementia, and rifts in moods
Loss of autonomy, grief, loneliness, and lack of trust
Optimism fades like a waning moon, and pessimism broods.
He knew these puddled muddles. Was he a psychoanalyst?
How was he able to read each mind like a telepath?
Wasn't he, for-bye, a universal philanthropist?
Was he not the zenith of extraterrestrial math?
Innocence, like crystal clear streams, flooded from his person.
Wasn't he, after all, the Almighty God's precious son?
grey clouds
like shrouds
hover
cover
wind speed
like steed
fright'ning
lightning
thunder
sunder
cryin'
welkin
raindrops
fat plops
muddles
puddles
pit pat
rhythm that
awakes
damp shakes
earth drenched
thirst quenched
God's free
AC
All that glistens is not gold,
Of that, you can be sure
The wedding ring I'm wearing
Does it have a gold mark?
I don't know anymore.
Fake is the in word
We now ask, what is real?
Real looks wrong
Fake looks right
It has a look and feel
Of real
Sadly it isn't
Natural is hard to find
It isn't natural
Fake is not kind,
It is all pretence
That muddles up your mind.
Water tastes like water,
It is not champagne
Although fake champagne,
It can taste like water
In this phony name game.
Faux fur was: I think,
A fake that I understand
I disagree with animal slaughter
For the benefit of man
My skin belongs to me
It is genuine, real
I don't need another skin
From an animal kill.
Fake has a funny taste to me
I find comfort in authenticity
It makes my heart ache
And brings tears to my eyes
When I can't see the reality
That the fakeness hides.
The roots of a family tree run deep for they were planted long ago.
generation upon generation have nurtured and watched that family grow
into a tree whose strength and beauty is impossible deny.
into a tree whose myriad of branches now reach high up to the sky,
There is also no denying how the formation of that tree
has been shaped by many blessings…and much adversity.
There is joy within the tree…happiness in every branch and leaf…
no matter if they’ve grown for years…or if their time upon the tree was brief.
There is sorrow within the tree…for representing every grief…
there is a branch that has been broken…there is a fallen leaf.
When a branch has broken off..or a leaf has fallen from the tree…
It may be difficult to remain hopeful…it may be difficult to see
how that family tree will ever be the same without the portion they brought to it…
and even though it’s heart is broken…the tree somehow muddles through it…
For a family soon discovers…
how new growth on the tree is conceived…
cultivated from the remnants of its broken branches…
nurtured from what remains of its fallen leaves.
Yesterday I unscrewed the top of the
homemade huckleberry jam you gave
me before you left for Lisbon.
I took deep purple breaths to fill
my light pink lungs.
It was such a necessary experience;
the vision of you in my mind’s eye
atrophies each day, the Atlantic
between us casts foggy shades on
my eyes and the crystal clear memory
muddles like a lake after heavy rain
The anxiety of asking you a question
when I have no idea what the answer
will be, but have every notion of what
I wish it to be. It’s a 60 pound backpack
4 hours into an uphill hike, so I resign
my curiosity and just tap the Portuguese
postcard nailed to the wall beneath
the light switch every time I leave the house.
and hope that you would do the same.
My father passed a few years back, and he keeps appearing in my dreams, always on the same street and roughly the same dialogue. The poem/story has no real format. Just my feelings on it. Thanks!
Silent Street
On streets where past and present collide, holograms ride delta waves
You sidle up, gate light and easy, mid conversation
I Parse the rhetoric for glimmers of acceptance
But again benign, drivel muddles the way
The one sided blather on photography labors uncontested
Your catalogue, a thorough exhibition of you
Fitting. Buried emotions etched in celluloid
Reveling in silent shame, feeling a camaraderie
of sorts
Time is short, so silent I stay
Ears hinged for signs of accountability
A modicum of responsibility
And so I wait...
The pipe store beckons, it's almost time
Fading into the night he says We'll meet up later
I know we will. So Maybe, next time.
Till then, in silent space, I standalone. Apologies unrendered.
Some float,
move on the diameter of a whim.
A few articulate between joy and grief,
others are hinged
so that ears can hear each other.
Most are scaffolds.
One hollow bone hums in the throat,
it channels the smoky music
of sub-conscious saxophones.
A few are honeycombed for memory
and procreation.
One is a cave for old mind-muddles,
it has a window view.
All the others
are flesh garbed trombones
that slide in and out
to unlock our whoopee cushions
with their skeleton keys.
© a day ago
Why do I continue with this book
the chapters either deadly dull
or all the action occurring at once
in an overwhelming cascade of events
that muddles the mind
too complex to keep up with
impossible to sort out the storyline
rendering me confused and stupefied
A tedious and tiresome tragedy
The plot painfully predictable
yet I persevere through every page
pensive, apprehensive for the conclusion
that I’m certain will be formulaic
utterly forgettable
I’ve given up on others
under similar circumstances
returned them unfinished to the library
donated them to charity
It’s futile to have faith it will get any better
in the second half
yet I can’t bring myself to capitulate
to wave the white flag of surrender
and cast it aside
I will see this story through
to the bitter end
because it’s mine
The air is thick with words.
They flutter and beat
About my ears
Like a thousand moths.
A proliferation of pontification
And pedantic pomposities
Numbs my mind
And muddles my thoughts.
Details, details, details!
Minute subtleties and
Nuances confuse, confound.
I feel the urge to shout,
“Simple! Keep it simple!
Give up the cluttered verbiage!
Give us advantages,
Disadvantages,
The points we need
To make a decision!”
The words retreat into
A hum of beating wings.
I smile vacantly
And think of something else!
Sitting here without internet bundles,
With no electricity am using candles,
Nights are too cold without cuddles,
I'm in a life which's filled by muddles,
Future plans have turned into riddles.
I can't even tell if am broke or sad,
Whether am of sound mind or mad,
But maybe am another village lad,
Who's being mistreated like a cad,
Always chewing me daily like cud.
Doing it while knowing it's wrong,
I chose to pretend and play along,
Hoping that this won't go for long,
Because this is not where I belong,
I've visions of emerging here strong.
© Kelmwa
I've sought all concept for mitigating puzzles.
I poured my heart and soul into getting rid of muddles.
We were entwined in the tangled bushes.
When you've gone, nothing to speak about.
And there is no silver lining, but there is a gray doubt.
I was not enticed by the last beats of the falling drums.
Written June 15, 2021
All Yours (Jun 19) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
the fish in the lake
does not want to be catch caught
he won't eat the worm
Splish splash fish muddles
blown bubbles you can't eat me
I won't eat this worm
4/17/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2021
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