Many are knocking on Gods hidden door
trying to escape brimstone floors
Some views are narrower than peepholes
while others see through open windows
Lifes a beach with many sandy shores
that go deeper than any ocean floor
My advice is to go with life's liquid flow
& enjoy the boat with all its rows
The mind is the center of this earthly core
& all of its rocky ores
Brave the waters & mold your will into the hardest steel
because life hardens feelings on a massive scale
Mass appeal blinds many to what lies in store
to what's housed behind attractive doors
I tell you this series of dreams are more than real
but many lack the awareness of their lucid feel
Categories:
peepholes, deep, philosophy, universe, wisdom,
Form: Rhyme
the lake is withering. look at this earth. midnight is as the last day of a carnival. dressed in sad birth and sad death, children play with the pointed toad. falling from the flash flood of spiders. banks claim the brush each summer. high school ladders have no step upward. a tour of the reservation is thirty minutes.
mystical practices of the shaman lay powerless when the post office is closed.
peace wades into the sludge. nobody purchases a ticket. no bus stages here. the volcano has relinquished hope and turns dormant. in the graveyard, class influences dirt or grass. peepholes are bars, hearsay is business. everybody looks. a voyage passes undiscovered. missing pieces from preceding years sit on the same stool. stacked in the same closet.
Categories:
peepholes, childhood, imagery,
Form: Prose Poetry
I find that if I cut a lens-size whole
in a cardboard box then place that box
over my head the stars
arrange themselves
into, not the named constellations,
but ordinary oddments once lost then found
and eventually junked.
I find that if I see a dead raccoon
on the road I will automatically
recite the El Maleh Rachamim,
(the Jewish prayer for the dead),
maybe it’s the pajamas they wear,
they only wear half-pajamas, but then
I am only half-Jewish.
I find that most concentration camps
are left open, and you never know
which abandoned factory once was one.
Finding stuff keeps my mind from wandering
just long enough to find a hole in the sky
where lost things have fallen through.
Categories:
peepholes, poverty,
Form: Free verse
Yet again the door is being knocked
For ages it’s been closed
Who is there?
The Sun looks down
Breeze Halts!
Tulips raise their heads
But the Cascade___still singing like an indifferent Bee
Knock___ knock___ Knock!
How persistent the knocking is!!
But who is there?
Its light from the peepholes
Enlightens the valley
Fills the Tulips with Joy
Old Cider tree opens its eyes
Sheds away with one jerk of its head
All the dead leaves
Pale, sick and dried
Concealing for a while
Image of the orange sitting sun in the cascade!
At once, Gigantic Mountain roars in panic,
The sun closes its eyes,
Breeze hides away in a dark cave,
Tulips are now harming themselves in despair,
For the light is fading
I can hear sound of the feet going away
There is but No more knocking…
It’s dark now!
Tiny little moon is waiting for the stars to shine
The valley is silent
But the cascade and distant wolves
And somewhere far behind the Forbidden Forest
The door is still closed…
Categories:
peepholes, age, beauty, betrayal, conflict,
Form: Free verse
TOLKIEN’S ROSE PETALS
Battle of Somme:
blood mixed with dirt,
forms
a corpulent pool,
bones
and flesh on the banks.
dim
reflection of friends
fizzles. . .
the brotherhood dead.
through two peepholes
of Tolkien’s mask
ethereal vision of mustard gas.
demons loom,
but God’s there too,
his cross never more
t - angible.
Lúthien and Beren wed
and
a hobbit is born.
trench fever preserves
the elfish language.
and friendship, like rose petals
remain
pressed between pages.
8/18/2019
Categories:
peepholes, death, war, writing,
Form: Free verse
Do Not Open the Door-
Merely because someone or something is on the other side.
There is no—Back to the Future...
NO redo’s’—cannot always simply just close the door.
Once it is open, nothing stays the same.
Nothing is forever…but there are no take backs also.
Take caution in who and what you let through the door…
Think for yourself… trust yourself…
You must stay your course and not wavier…
When the doorbell dings…Pause a moment and think.
Peepholes are good—peek--see—think…
Don't open the door to strangers and things…
Trust your gut…what you know…
Remember those your mama warned you about…
You can always stand quiet---let them leave…they will
Proceed with caution and care--Be very careful before you
Unlock the deadbolt -- unlatch the chain… Turn the knob…
Is it your Density or your Demise…
Knocking on the other side---
…back to the future… 10-21-2015…the movie…
Copyright © fonda anne….mooreofme....mamao
Categories:
peepholes, america, care, change, courage,
Form: Free verse
Hearts beating on a lonely drum
while birds capture the essence on their wings -
soaring to new heights
new beginnings
an era of dawn.
Pulses playing an alternative beat
harmonies reflecting in the shards of our souls -
splintering into needles of pain
an era of day.
Fingertips tracing a forgotten route
directing the mind on a journey of evolution -
a process of spiritual change
an era of dusk.
Evening is here
night has arrived -
the death of a day
of love;
peepholes in the black
only hide and hold everything back...
Copyright Deon J.H. Burger 2014
Categories:
peepholes, time, today,
Form: Free verse
Hallow walls mutter the sounds apart,
The whitewash mask of a time once lost,
One side the current rushing in quite sure,
Other alone the tide that broke away,
Look through peepholes and slivers of light,
Cold air in but warm heavy breaths out,
Condensation on the latex paint washing,
Sins and crimson more regrets in past,
The living meet the long gone between,
In the yellow and bulk core left hot,
Drilling through biting through punching,
Until two sides meet call it open concept,
Though conceptual does not adhere here,
Not here or there nor once upon everywhere,
Even peripheral now stare blank and close,
Because holding hands isn’t enough,
And peeling back layers of grime and plaster,
Isn’t going to be enough to merge these fates,
Under the popcorn ceiling caving in and closing out,
These six scraps might block my sight,
Even if you lock and shut and close and brick,
Brick me up and in and stuff up my mouth,
I’ll rat my way out and squirrel my way up,
Ill bite and break teeth on cinder blocks,
Nails caulked with paint chips and charm,
I’ll be there anyway it’s not a choice anymore.
Categories:
peepholes, deep,
Form: Free verse
prophets wear hand-painted signs and sit in the back of buses
advertising paradise some wear gold rings on fingers
and count money the dream returns mother nature shows me
that her kiss thrusting trust is forbidden knowledge of desire
flamenco dancers dead soldiers marching through white stone collects
cold silence in the sweat of illusion we touch the agony
words drained of their blood is a frightening proposition
of desire we speak of tiny morsels savored like wine
in the ear whispered adultery gray films moving through bones
devoid of worms sleeping in apartments frightened residents look out
through tiny peepholes as disheveled people on shoulders of roads
hold card-board signs beside skinny dogs begging passing cars
for crumpled notes with dead faces
Categories:
peepholes, corruption, money, poverty, spiritual,
Form: Free verse
Big white room,
empty and hollow,
here's your dose of reality,
take it and swallow,
no peepholes, no windows,
not even a door,
no I'm alone here,
regrets littering the floor,
pictures of moments,
that wouldn't last,
constant reminders,
of my conflicted past,
choices I made,
for reasons I can't recall,
if only I knew then,
I was flying higher just to fall,
I fell into,
this big white room,
my dreams and future,
it will consume,
scars and wounds,
left to bleed,
on my soul,
the emptiness feeds,
white nothingness,
hollow and dead,
now there's even white walls,
in my head...
...comments anyone?
Categories:
peepholes, angst, confusion, death, depression,
Form: Rhyme
Her soul --
a panorama
behind the pages --
offers casual glimpses,
through word-peepholes,
of edifice-in-construction.
Based on individual choice,
each passer-by may find
a view totally unique.
Categories:
peepholes, on writing and words
Form: Free verse
Hanging is too good for them,
Should cut their danglies off.
Use a rusty jigsaw blade,
They’d be afraid to cough.
Our great Judicial system,
with infinite foresight,
Ignores these sound suggestions,
That you and I think right.
For Judges and the legal type,
at our expense guffaw,
believing that like
God and Queen,
they are above the Law.
It is often intimated,
that despite this regal pose,
they wear peepholes bras
and stockings underneath their
Chamber robes.
No underpants to interfere,
restrict ,affect or stay
thus keeping verdicts
cool and poised
for any courtroom play.
So when Chief Justice
leans or frowns
or shuffles on his throne
Its probably suspenders
that are causing him to moan
Or just perhaps
his strapless bra,
Is chaffing on his back,
perchance his basque’s
laced up too tight,
or his g-strings up his crack.
Some trials that end surpisingly,
the verdict gone askew,
Owe more to misplaced
leather thong,
than legal point of view.
Perhaps the nuts that
need cut off,
are not from pervert kind,
but rather leading Legal ones,
No longer sound of mind.
Categories:
peepholes, funnysound, sound,
Form: Rhyme
Locked into lies...the deception it drains
gripping like iron are these chosen chains
lips spewing lust stay etched in my brain
love gets lost on hexed highways
I'm a prisoner of pleasure that turns into pain
bleeding my soul are these chosen chains
Crowns of cash sit on terrible thrones
killers keep knocking but nobody's home
paranoid eyes through peepholes they blink
faster than bullets a mortal man sinks
gold turns to garbage and sparks turn to flames
burning my soul are these chosen chains
Drive fast to damnation
pedal to the metal
no switching the station
fear's frequency fills a mind that's depraved
uncovered what's ugly...what's dark and deranged
beating my soul are these chosen chains
From blue into black those voices attack
certain lines crossed...I can never come back
subtracting the stack
turning riches to rags
drinking the devils water from a brown paper bag
shooting holes in 4ever on a south bound train
boxcar to boxcar...sing a sad country song about those chosen chains
Categories:
peepholes, sad
Form: Rhyme