I stand on day's brink
beyond lullabies in dusk—
their echoes replaced
with budding flower questions
thriving in uncertainty
I pound the ground hard
fury rages in my chest—
why must I still wait
my voice shatters quiet skies
demanding I get replies
walls are barriers
denying my restless pleas
rules drawn, then erased—
I force doors that creak ajar
then slam shut to cage me in
I hear laughter sting
in cruel misconceptions
warmth turns into burns—
love does not embrace my reach
as my cries go unheeded
I peel off more skin
stepping into searing light—
trembling but aware
that the world out there won't bend
as it cuts and shapes my growth
the seed stirs in me
fierce, urgent, blazing, alive,
pushing through the soil—
each surge sculpts my core and frame
so I become who I am
On the Brink
In shadows deep, where sorrow’s whispers dwell,
A lone soul stood, 'neath night’s somber embrace.
The world, a blur, in twilight’s mournful spell,
Naught mattered then, save will to find his place.
On precipice of losing all held dear,
He found a strength that quelled his deepest fear.
In silence, heard his heart’s quiet plea clear,
To endure, advance, and persevere.
Through tempest wild, he trod with weary gait,
Each step a testament to resolve bright.
He learned to cherish moments, small and great,
To hold dear the things that brought him light.
From brink, he rose with heart and soul anew,
Cherishing each day, with clearer view.
Teetering I stand poised with bated breath,
Staring at the precipitous of death.
Ground beneath, slippery, shaky slimy.
I fear my state, fate and fear will collide.
A gust of doubt, a whispered wisp of fear,
Blown on ledge, all it takes to topple here.
Each moment hanging on the edge of chance,
Cast into a risky hazardous dance.
But I resolve to not relent just yet.
Though all my strength and poise is almost spent.
Each shake, teeter, totter, slip that's beaten,
Gives me hope that this can be defeated.
Just when I feel safe, sound akin again,
A sound blast shakes me off, all hopes in vain.
I slip, fall, scream, with arms flailing wildly
Tumble down, it seems for eternity.
I startle, awakened by my own scream.
Ah, that was such a vivid lucid dream!
As you watched the abuse carried out,
My soul was broken, no doubt.
A connection can never be made,
As my nurturer and protector, I was betrayed.
Setting the stage for scant regard,
Not knowing how to protect myself by putting up my guard.
No loving childhood remembrances,
No I love you or tender embraces.
I finally had to let go and grieve,
It will never be the relationship I believe.
In order to begin the healing process,
I had to step away and decompress.
This subject is too fraught for eloquent poetry
So please indulge me in a straightforward thought or three
For the first time in its modern history
Israel is on the brink of internal catastrophe
True, there's been bleeding before, sometimes severe
But to the rescue rode a Menachem Begin or a Golda Meir
Yet never before has the military been disaffected
And without it, the specter of an Israel unprotected ...
Morphing into invasions by Syria, Jordan, Hezbollah and Iran
Israeli captives marched to their doom in Tyre and Amman
Leaving Russia and China free to move in for the kill
Every holy site in Jerusalem ~ oceans of blood spilled
The world thrown into chaotic darkness, its center destroyed
All thanks to cowardly Bibi, who, fearing jail-time, turned paranoid
May his senses return immediately ~
Or may he vanish mysteriously
Light lusters through a leak-in-line squall,
design is drenched from the downpour.
Ground's thick dew began to shimmer and prism,
It's within grasp of awe.
withstand meager hooves ahead.
I board a whirlwind of vivid cortex.
teetering swelling blazes spun whirling.
Tidal light wave caught me in its vortex,
warmth is generated by red loading.
squinting, cold in green
turn to a frail blue bastion
twirl to deep azure
Written: April 2nd, 2022
Checked by HMS.COM
A combination of forms Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet
I stand on the brink of tomorrow’s joys
Listening to the whispering of a gentle mist
Kissing the breezes as they come my way,
Mulling over how I spent this awesome day,
Wondering how much was clamoring noise
Echoing through a preoccupied mind I missed,
And trying to recall why I came here to stay
Mulling over how I spent this awesome day.
I peer over the edge at tomorrow’s ploys
In my mind reviewing this remarkable list
Of plans laid over, huge lumps of pliable clay,
Mulling over how I spent this awesome day,
Teetering on the brink, clutching my poise,
Between today and tomorrow an unseen twist
In my attitude, so casual, come-what-may
Mulling over how I spent this awesome day.
Written January 13, 2022
I stand on the brink of tranquility
A short distance from out-of-touch,
Surrounded by chaotic disapproval
All around me swirling in confusion,
Wondering whether truth has died--
[sacrificed on the altar of popularity]
When it was irreverently interred;
What it left for the next generation.
And did I let it die a tortuous death
Unwilling was I to shout it out loud,
Facing down jeering of the crowd?
‘Twas easier to retreat into myself,
And deny the current state of affairs.
written November 26, 2021
The anorexia is not conspicuous,
being half-submerged - just
breaking through.
She’s a powdered mirage,
her skin a hyaline sheer
drawn over a necklace
of clavicle bones.
She knows her chest
is returning to childhood,
she wants to shelter there,
to be her own child.
Her small breasts
are burgundy nipples,
buds made more prominent,
anchored as they are
to shipwrecked ribs.
Designer bling distracts.
Cameras whir, she poses,
hand paused on a hip denuded;
not resting there,
but stealthily carrying
a pinch of flesh toward a spotlight.
We collude with her,
applaud the way
she decorates a condition.
We know her emaciated beauty
is a mutual hoodwink.
We know that the closer to death
sexuality becomes,
the more rapacious our appetite;
the more we will wail,
as she slips
through our hungry eyes.
On the Brink
Many do reach this point,
Death’s an option . . .
Not the only one though,
As illusion is here too . . .
Just wondering what this is all about:
Life, Death, Heaven, Hell, Glory, Sorrow?
Half-Empty . . . Half-Full . . . And . . .
Leprechauns with Big Buckets of Gold.
Seeking God’s solace,
Whilst finding Lucifer’s smirk and smile.
One’s soul—
The sticking point always,
And tonight is the night of
The Full Moon.
Why should I be surprised?
Maybe the Moon might know?
Looks like everyone knows anyway . . .
Looks like everyone is onboard with this event.
The Cat’s got your tongue?
Ah . . . now you’re not so sure are you?
They do say that blood drips and flows,
And that it dries cake-hard over time.
You can’t really explain and justify this one:
The blood, the stench, and death are too much.
A plea and fervent prayer are the truest options,
And remember that God is waiting and watching.
The bright-white, full moon no longer speaks . . .
And now . . . neither do you . . . but God understands.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
November 12, 2020 (Lyric)
denial of culpability
relationships gone
love forsaken
sit and write
endless words
anger unleashed
forgiveness begged
abstract concepts
random rants
filling space
why?
does anyone care?
on the brink
of insanity
peering over
the edge
slipping off
this ledge
of uncertainty
terror and dread
adrift in a sea
of anxiety
losing parts of me
no eyes to see
who will i be
unable to know
if i can ever be free
there's never stability
after teetering
on the brink
of insanity
The anorexia is not conspicuous,
being half-submerged, just
breaking through.
She’s a powdered mirage.
Her skin a hyaline shear
drawn over a necklace
of clavicle bones.
She knows her chest
is returning to childhood,
she wants to shelter there,
to be her own child.
Small breasts bob under
burgundy nipples,
buds made more prominent,
anchored as they are
to shipwrecked ribs.
Designer bling distracts.
Cameras whir, she poses,
one hand on a denuded hip,
not resting there,
but stealthily carrying
an ounce of flesh,
toward a spotlight.
We collude with her,
applaud the way
she decorates a condition.
We all know her emaciated beauty
is a mutual hoodwink.
We know that the closer to death
sexuality becomes,
the more rapacious our appetite,
the more we will wail,
as she slips
through our hungry hands.
Today I stood on the brink
And I was about to sink
Then I started to think
About life and it's links
And why do I like pink
Or why some attitudes stink
Then I looked up to a wink
Now i'm no longer on the brink
About to just drown and sink
Because I sat and started to think
4-26-17
Alexis Y.
My wife and I stroll hand in hand
As evening drops its lilac veil
When, off the river, stirs a chill,
Which sends her cuddling to my arms
With face upturned to taste my lips—
The gloaming brightens as we kiss.
For quite a while, that pose we hold:
Two lovers on the brink of night
‘Neath wisps of salmon cirrus clouds
‘Til twilight’s purple, darker hue
Impels us to return back home,
Arriving on the cusp of love.
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