A bright sunshine dawns
Joy prances in morning light
Laughter seals the air
A cheerful, cheery moment
A memory to engrave.
A startling grey cloud
Tears drip like showers of rain
Heart pinches with pain
The world feels bleak and hollow
Sorrow whispers in the soul.
Yet after the storm
A rainbow arches above
Hope begins to shine
The heart starts to patch up slow
Life resumes its normal train.
After a plain ride
The road starts upward-sloping
But descends again
To wit the high and low tide
The twists and turns of man`s life.
The shine of summer
Fans its fragrance in the air
Wiinter`s wild winds waft,
The two sides of the same coin
The light and darkness that dance,
Day fades into night
Moonless sky succeeds sunshine
Cold is gauged with warmth
A beeline journey of life
Would be dull, dry and dreary.
The seasons all change
Joy and sorrow interweave
A tapestry made
From moments bright and shady
Each thread adds to beauty`s depth.
Let`s greet all the feels
The sweet and the bitter taste
For both make us whole
A balanced life we`re given
let`s cherish all precious breath.
He leans on me, broken, blood on his hands
I hold him steady, teach him to stand
Whispers of fear crawl under his skin
I chase them away, let him breathe again
I tell him he’s safe, I tell him he’s strong
I carry his weight when the nights are too long
He calls me his light, his anchor, his flame
never knows the storm that answers my name
I patch up the cracks, I heal every scar
I walk him through hell, I show him how far
He trusts my fire, thinks it only warms
never sees the shadow that mirrors his storms
I laugh at the dark that lingers in me
I’m his sweet heaven, I’m his gravity
I’m the demons he feared, the chaos he can’t flee
but I’m also the light…see he can’t be free of me
I
forget—
like how leaves forget their tree
once autumn called them free.
Moments slip and leave
an unsettling void
for dreams to flourish.
Uninvited, wearing
the mask of memory.
A fiction sung in earnest,
stitched in gray hours—
where dreams blend into truth.
A hushed whisper:
“Beauty is truth,”—but
I wouldn’t know
if the echoes I call "mine"
ever rang—
I am built
of broken facts,
soft edits,
and pills that patch up
what my mind kindly discards—
So I wonder, if beauty is truth—
am I still beautiful
when the scars I wear were never real.
When summer is gone
Clouds start their move with a scurry
As if to attend to some urgent work
Taking their move as a harbinger,
Birds and animals reset their homes
And preserve foods in secret stores
Get ready, the farmers, with ploughs and processed seeds
Men take out their umbrellas from lofts.
Mothers wait eagerly for children’s comeback from school.
Children look like heavy weight champions with waterproof jackets.
Youth rush to restaurants to relish hot and yummy savouries.
The poor old men try to patch up their thatched huts.
Villagers offer reverence to gods for good rain
A huge locomotion everywhere
Pitter-patter rain drops
Come down with flashes and splashes.
Placed: 1st
I do.
1. Mom always told me about the guy on a white horse
Who opens the door with a peck and little noise
Holds my hand in public and always says the best things
Lifts me over his shoulder and teases me when I act annoying
2. Someone who holds a candle to forever
Nice, smart, and has that kind of love fever
We argue sometimes about the weather
And patch up when I wear his favorite sweater
3. Now, I am standing at the altar, in a white dress and a veil
The priest begins, reciting all the things I know so well
The moon bears witness to our nuptial kiss
Friends are jolly in our endless bliss
4. Mom comes over, repeating a list of everything I need to know
With a wide grin and slicked-back hair, Dad ushers me to the marble floor
Hand in mine, he tells me he's proud
He leaves with a kiss and then the lights go out
6. He is no longer with Mom. They were once like us, stupid and in love.
Reminiscing their fractured past. Panic sets in.
You address my worry with a hand squeeze, saying, "Let's prove the world wrong."
I’m a dead muse walking, stuck in a queue
moving along slowly, spreading out too
A worm wriggles past, looking worse for wear
was caught in a hailstorm, guts everywhere
I'm a dead muse crawling, stuck fast in glue
caught up with the worm, he leaked so much goo
We're neck and neck, near the exit gate
I patch up his wounds, then use him for bait
I'm a dead muse fishing, snagging old reeds
the worm's in awful shape, each segment bleeds
I let him off the hook, just to take a rest
he looks juicy, but in truth not the best
I'm a dead muse starving, no appetite
can't find a stanza never mind a bite
And that poor li’l wiggler, I let him go
into the hailstorm, oops no, stupid crow!
By
David Kavanagh
Turn around
see the 360 degree view,
and you
in the middle --- the center
of it all.
What’s happening?
Mind is replicating
and adjusting.
Notice how it has to constantly
patch-up the improbable
in order to make
this world hard-wired
and sensible?
Again, what’s happening?
Short answer – nothing is happening.
Problem -
when you try to understand
what that reflecting mirror of the mind
is showing you
you have temporarily lose your place
in the universe of Now.
And this is yet one more thing
not to think about.
Why did you cheat on me?
Where did I go wrong?
Wasn't I trying to improve?
Wasn't I learning to live?
Wasn't I working to achieve my dreams?
Where was I at fault?
That you brought me to a sudden hault.
Why are you making me sad?
Enough of pain I have had.
I wanted to live my dreams,
No, not now, was your scream.
I waited, I stopped for day and nights,
Still I lost most of the battles and fights.
I cried for hours,
And waited for relief showers.
You did not pay heed,
You did not care for my need.
Why are you so cruel everytime?
I cannot disagree that you are mine.
Dear life, please help me.
Come on let's patch up,
Please help me to get up.
You could fix up my shattered windows
Patch up the holes in the walls
Find a way to make the incessant creaking
Of the floorboards–hush
Make the faucets stop their aching
Drip…drip…drip…
New shingles
New doors
New cupboards and cabinets
Make my old bones feel new again–
What I really want
Is to be set ablaze
Ashes to ashes
All my flaws and failures
Gone with the strike of a match
Then and only then–
Pick up your hammer
We would French Burgundy sip,
Hands of intimate ones grip,
Up the flaps of trousers zip,
Together documents clip,
Through borrowed newspapers flip,
Buckets into rivers dip,
Good waiters in hotels tip,
Open promised parcels rip,
Penniless The Costly skip,
Ideas we think okay quip;
Across Big Waters things ship
We would from seen danger slip,
Try not to over stones trip,
In the bud the hurting nip,
Roofs patch up that waters drip
For the quite clearly familiar
Not a single thing peculiar.
In the heat we burn for Pepsi
dangle feet from crick docks
Traipse with garage ice
to cheap motels,
watch a tv that's chained to a wall,
go home thinner then we came.
Poor possessions, pay-checked and broke
by Monday. Trailer bred,
no stock, just scrawny chickens,
free range ornery strays,
front yards overgrown
with ever grounded flamingo's.
In the cold we work on beat-up trucks
hoody-up, slap oily knuckles together
patch-up holes in our walls.
Go tree coons, play around
separate, divorce, but never leave.
Break open bar fight bottles,
chug-a-lug through the night
by a space heater’s eerie light.
We are not your kind,
we got a right to be low,
slow to show our sickness
our nearness to workaday dirt.
You who drive by radios in your head
masking your hollow conditions,
you keep on down that dusty road
go find your own damn
tumbleweed roots.
True love makes your heart bleed through its weeping cuts
and makes you want to patch up the holes with affection
It makes you wish you never existed
to have to go through moral dilemmas every day
it makes you want to scream with all of your might
with the energy that your soulmate gave you
it isn't true unless it makes you wish you were alive and dead at the same time
you're so in sync it could marvel at synchronized swimmers
swimming in deep pools of passion
It isn't true love unless it causes you pain
and immense joy at the same time
It makes lying in bed looking at the stars so fun
something that you would get tired of in a few seconds if you were alone
It makes you have a perfect puzzle piece for your broken soul
but sometimes perfection isn't everything
And when you have to leave
the memories that you carried will keep playing on like a movie
through the sad, happy, and intense parts
making you wish you never had to leave
They'll always be a part of you,
whether you decide to move on or stay the same mellowing in your sorrow.
It took some time, but
eventually the denim
(after much scrubbing)
of my workaday soul
cleaned-up as if stone washed.
Valuable lessons
were tucked into new pockets,
the clucking hens
of a nagging conscience
were at last silenced.
I’m spinning myself dry today,
hanging up my smoking guns.
Her face still riddles me through,
but I patch up just fine,
and know now how to zip her
out of my mind.
Please do not stress Mother dearest
As i do not want to add to your woes
But the dog has just come in covered
in ticks and fleas
And my sister and I have both knits and
scrapped knees respectively
So many troubles and this won't be the
last to try and comb over or sweep under
the already threadbare underlay or
cardboard box dinning table
Yet just more ammunition and stick's of
rock to be labeled and taunted by other's
with
Exactly just how much of laugh are you
having and enjoying at our expense
I've barely 23 cent's left after i've
settled my rent to patch up the
holes in the front door from the
bailiff's constantly knocking down
my door
But nevermind me what really strings
and breaks my heart are seeing my
children's faces bony and haunt
Like ghost's me do haunt knowing
hug's won't alone keep them warm
when the winter cold night's draw in
But those very kid's despite all of
this and apparently having nothing
are both happy and content at the
same time
Because 1 thing they know for sure
is that there are far worse fates than
being poor
So long as they know Mother loves
them
He dreams of thin chickens pecking at a dirt floor.
A big brown teapot is stuffed with scraps of poetry;
words waiting to be led out like bawling cattle
into the haze and dust.
As he does every day, he seeks some less worked earth
to plant words into, hopes they will mature into
filler, grout, and spackle to patch up his wormwood.
Mostly they scatter on a dry wind
until night reclaims them.
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