A Man Chained by Vices
He is lost on a long road with no turns.
He doesn't move forward to find,
freedom from his addiction.
He doesn't look back to know
why he is shackled to his vices.
Instead, he sits still wondering when he will be struck by ecstasy again.
Chained to the sidewalk, he waits near the cold road,
helpless like a newborn child that can walk.
He looks up to an unforgiving winter.
Praying salvation wash over him.
Comedy of summer has come to my yard.
Pond Turtle seems clumsy as seen tripping
on concrete gravel. Two scrub Jays compete
for a comfy spot, bickering over tree limbs.
A Beetle Bug runs in circles on the front porch
deck, then counter-clock-wise--Practicing what?
Choreography for the Beetle Bug barn dance?
Our little dog mimics a lizard doing pushups
in sunshine on the deck, as the lizard stares
him down.
The Buck in the back yard sits in dirt to rest,
his antlers being too big to cart around
much longer. Doe stands over him tapping
her hoof, or so it looks like to me from here.
He doesn’t bleed where I see it.
His wounds live quieter than that~
in the way he paces long after
the day is done,
mind spinning like a ceiling fan
that never quite shuts off.
He carries his hurt in overthinking,
turning small moments into puzzles
he feels responsible for solving.
He carries it in irritability too~
that sharp edge that appears
not because he’s angry,
but because he’s tired
of holding himself together.
Some days he moves through the house
like he’s wrapped in winter—
emotional numbness settling over him
like frost spiders on a windowpane.
I gently tap the glass,
hoping warmth will seep through.
Perfectionism becomes his armor,
each task a shield he polishes
until it gleams just right.
Relaxing feels dangerous,
like setting the armor down
might invite the world
to strike again.
But then in the softest moments~
I see the boy he once was,
the one who learned too early
to be careful with himself.
And I realize
he’s just trying to survive
in the only ways he knows.
And loving him
means noticing the wounds
that never maKE a sound.
Scamper perches on the oak’s thin wrist,
tail curled like a question mark
he hasn’t quite asked yet.
Morning light spills over him,
and he blinks as if the sun
has just whispered something
he’s not sure he’s ready to hear.
He studies an acorn
as though it contains
the blueprint of being~
turns it, weighs it,
presses his nose to its quiet shell
and wonders, Why does anything grow at all?
He pauses mid-sprint
to consider the wind:
Why does the wind come?
Why does it leave?
Why does it never stay long enough
to explain itself?
Sometimes he stares at the sky
with a seriousness
that startles the blue~
as if he’s trying to decide
whether the clouds are wandering
or simply lost.
And when dusk gathers
its purple shawl,
he sits on the fence rail,
small paws folded,
asking the last question of the day~
the one even the trees
lean in to hear:
What does a life mean
when all its moments
are this brief
and this bright?
Maybe it scared him off
we are still dating I assume
he thinks I wanted marrage
a wedding and a honeymoon
it's Gals like you who makes it harder
for Gals like me to find a man
he goes out his way to love you
you gone and scare them away
get yourself another cowboy
lady this one is mine
I treat him like I wanna
beleive me he and are just fine
get a grip and stop playing
you like messing around
keeping things frustrating
acting like some silly clown
-------------------------------------
smiling from ear to ear
they just ah gaming
two Gal's ah fussing over him
got him ah grinning.
------------------------------------
Them one sided affairs
keeping fellas in supence
you like things uncertain
Drling it just don't make sence
Get your self another cowboy
Lady this one's mine
I can treat my man like I wanna
beleive he and I are just find
you didn’t find him in the cathedral
or in the careful mouths of men
who polished their sins
like silverware
no—
you found him
in the ashtray
overflowing,
in the rent notice
taped crooked to the door,
in the last swallow
of something cheap
that burned going down
and you asked—
not kindly—
how did you treat me?
because if there was a god
he wasn’t up there counting halos
he was down here
getting his teeth kicked in
wearing your name
like a bad suit
you saw him
in the woman crying at 2 a.m.
in the man who laughed too loud
because silence was worse
in the stray dog
that wouldn’t stop following you
and still
you stepped over him
again
and again
you said
life is hard
you said
I didn’t make it this way
but you made your small part of it
you sharpened your edges
you chose where to look away
and now
the question hangs
like smoke that won’t leave the room:
how did you treat god?
did you give him a seat
or did you let him stand
out in the rain
with the rest of the broken things
be honest—
he’s still out there
waiting
and he doesn’t look anything
like what they told you.
On lazy days and boring nights
Kdrama shows I lay my sight
Every second spent feels so right
Than talking to someone not worth my fight
Shows maybe are just shows
Yes it won't care for me 'til my white hair grows
Some scenes maybe heart-breaking
Romantic comedies excite me through
Full attention each episode draws
Unlike a man who's giving me crumbs
Over time my heart goes numb.
The tears I still shed over him
Are blocking my sunrise view
A f*cking monster of emotions
I must process to get through
A soul I once respected
Suddenly becomes one I fear
Missing someone is just love
With nowhere else to appear
Perhaps the love was real
But the shame was louder
Fear doesn’t hold responsibility
For emotions to ponder
Yet my hope doesn’t disappear
Simply because I tell it to
The weight of this accountability
Is not mine since I quietly grew
God damn it. He has turned me
Into a f*cking avoidant
I stopped trusting how I feel
and empathy becomes intermittent
All of these conversations
I will never have
There is nothing left to say
Will reply asap...
My flower wanted to be his own plant,
But he would not be had he not been planted.
My flower would get frustrated by the realisation that he was in the process of blossoming —
He would need someone to hold the hose over him when the clouds had prioritised another,
Prioritised them so much that they
Seemed like salty sea.
That is, when he is finally accompanied by the others,
Outside on the big wide soil.
For the time being, he resides in his pot,
Like a baby in their cot,
Using it as comfort,
Yet crying out to leave.
He moves through the quiet corridors slowly--
Moonlight brushing over him like a second skin.
Most of his wants have worn down with the centuries…
But one stubborn dream keeps refusing to die.
Wind slips along the old stone halls,
each echo brushing the quiet hurt he hides,
burdened by grief and the long shadow of old wounds,
his once-warm heart has slowly worn down over the years.
He threads the misted woods,
Searching for what time silently took.
No fire to warm him and no hand to hold
only unbroken night and the bite of ruin.
Ravenloft grips him in its shadowed corridors,
its stones keeping the memory of old vows.
A quiet hold, a mantle of darkness,
and still he drifts,
threading the quiet stone halls of the old stronghold.
written 11212025_DMK
the bumblebee was frantically trying to get out of my studio
He was a baby bee, beautifully fuzzy, black and yellow
I looked for a cup, because why not save him?
He is one of God’s creatures too, is he not?
I put the cup over him, glad he did not fly up.
because I am short.
I slid a thin piece of cardboard under him and held it tightly
then I took the cup and the cardboard outside and released the bee
Good grief! He almost flew back inside!
Why would he do that?
What would make him want to do that?
For a second I thought he had flown back inside.
As I returned to my studio I listened for the frantic buzzing.
Luckily, he seemed to be gone.
Had he found his mommy and daddy?
Had he returned to a cone flower? It was interesting to ponder.
I felt smug that I had saved a life.
hide and seek squirrel is a pleasure to watch if you must know
oak trees fight over him, he is clever, and has humor that glows
it’s my turn they holler to him as he begins his game play.
Shh! He shushes them. You will give my hiding place away!
… Oh Yes…. Your Stinks Too!!!
We all know at least one…
The person who self-aggrandises, intent on making others think, feel, and look less than… while falsely building themselves up to be more than…
They remind me of the story, The Emperor's New Clothes. The king obliviously marched around town and down the street with smug self-assurance. Not only does he believe his clothing is grand, people should fawn all over him… his doesn't stink.
He needs a child, a voice that's heard, to say… “he thinks he's all that and a bag of chips… BUT, his stinks!!!
We all need that child's voice to state the reality around us.
No matter who a person is or does, how much wealth they have, how well-known and famous, how envied…
No one can escape, everybody's stinks!
Sherry Barton
May 10, 2024
She heard his voice, a melody so pure,
A spark ignited, a feeling unsure.
His words were kind which made her smile,
And her heart grew fonder, mile by mile.
when her love became too much to hide,
She spoke her heart with the eyes of pride;
But silence settled and his words were clear,
A tender truth she never wished to hear.
He liked another; beauty, bright and fair,
While she felt lost in her own dull despair.
Yet in her heart, she never placed the blame,
His choice was his, she whispered with no shame.
But getting over him, Ah! it's a battle steep,
His voice, his smile, they haunt her even in sleep.
She still thinks of him, though it’s tough,
Everything for her, it’s all too much;
She knows it’s foolish, clinging to a dream,
But love’s a river, flowing with no scheme.
Oneday may be she’ll find her way,
And love will come, perhaps someday.
Though love was lost, she won’t forget,
She’ll hold her heart, no more regret.
For in the end, what will remain,
Is the strength she found through all the pain.
What just came over him
and why now
Perhaps he’d stopped taking a pulse
that froze long ago somehow
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