She is eighteen and tattoos are the latest rage." I'd like a tattoo please" she asks. I see a young girl in a messy ponytail and wonder if she'll pick something gaudy, then I will have to oblige.
The boldness of youth
can appear so uncouth
yet reveal so much truth.
"I want a tattoo of a winter vine. One that won't fade with time" As the machine begins to “buzz” the armature bar hits the coil and I begin to work. Stretched on her upper arm I notice the discoloration of skin, a slow petering bruise.
Eyes color of snake
she is all heartache
I take a break...
"Why did you choose a vine?" I ask, as the coil tattoo gun soothes her ears. "Last memory of my mom is from a trip to the winery. She told me the sap sinks into the roots and the vine falls asleep until the next year.
the tendril climbs
this is her time
not mine
From her handbag, fifty old crumpled dollar bills. " How much do I owe?" she asks. I say " No charge." She smiles and then leaves, as if on cue...
Categories:
petering, anxiety, childhood, death, love
Form: Haibun
A desire sets off
towards a place far inland whose spires
lift like raised pikes on the horizon.
There is always a "somewhere" hanging
in the sky above your head,
an El Dorado, a glistening pot,
a floodlit dream plastered like a billboard
on a roadside hoarding promising
a better life on Paradise Island Estate.
But you never get there,
petering out on the side of a highway,
running low on fuel or finding
that you really don't want to go
to that place where you
first set out to go. A lifetime on
you should have known
the answer has always been waiting
back here, sitting at the far end
of a U turn, after the long haul home.
Categories:
petering, home,
Form: Free verse
Time passes,
I look in retrospect
on a life petering out.
Memories rack my brain,
there under the pine tree
we stand embraced
in perfect harmony,
our names chiselled
on the tree's trunk,
our love in unison
our passion fulfilled.
Time passes
like the monotonous tick tock
of an old wall clock
rigorous and unrelenting
obdurate and harsh.
Our feelings are chiselled
in a book of love.
Life's a continuum,
like a smooth sand dune
until some heavy breeze
ruffles the surface,
then the calm and back
to the velvety smoothness
of our devotion and love.
Time passes,
steadily and pitiless,
sharing, dividing, consolidating
all that we had construed,
until my last entry is there:
rest in peace my sweet.
Soon we'll be together again
as I wane and wither;
soon our names will be chiselled
on a flat cold stone
soon I'll rest too
forever with my love.
Categories:
petering, how i feel, love,
Form: Free verse
Grey,
Is the colour,
That follows me.
A trail in the rain
When you walk behind.
But ahead it gathers
Muted and stiff,
I do not feel the
Red on white of pain,
Not the sharp arrow,
The galloping horse, the red eye.
I am the dull thump of boots,
Steady, then petering out,
Dropping off the edge
And effacing the self.
No will of my own. No will of my own.
Categories:
petering, depression, imagery,
Form: Free verse
Without reason rhyme would not be sublime.
Un-metered runs of tale-tossed words, un-timed
would reasonably scatter like broken chimes,
petering-out upon the parchment page of springtime.
Without season time could not unwind
in measured meter with unearthly reason kind,
scattering broken bits like brittle finds
across the fragrant fields of summer time.
Without lessons man would not advance lifetimes,
measuring his earthly mettle in the after time
treasuring the gifts of life with autumn’s wine,
His reason is not ours to know, though it seems kind.
Without rhyme or reason, we search for the Prime,
the holy gift of love and peace exsisting before time.
Now, as we enjoy the gifts of winter most pristine,
we praise all that’s holy for the gift of life's time.
Poet: Debbie Guzzi
Contest: Put Your Best Rhyme Forward
Categories:
petering, faith, hope, life,
Form: Monorhyme
A poet
dresses the naked
word,
with emotions. Such as the air
in this empty room sops the hand
and satisfaction it gives. Still,
the pen he has used
flows again and the page cherishes
that in its roots—
and produces blooms on the bed
of spring. Ah, the spirits are splattering
on the tasteful styles, but the
mails on your phone
are comme il faut the summer sheets
of petering dust. A note from him
is among them, unread. I watch
at the poet. It is so vain not to peruse—
that I opt instead to read his soul.
Categories:
petering, friendship, life, love, on
Form: Free verse