I've attempted to dissect “graveyard” as a compound,
Not in the back, nor in the front, nowhere to be found.
I delved into deep and hard,
Without doubt it’s not a yard!
For nomenclature I'd rename it as a “graveground”.
Given yet another thorough thought to this remark,
“Graveground” as parallel to joyful “playground” sounds dark,
My deep delving disregard,
Reattach “grave” back to “yard” -
For nomenclature we rename “playground” to “playpark”.
February 20, 2023
Sponsor: Constance La France
Contest: Graveyard
There is one constant in this world, it’s all around for us to see.
It can show you each one of your failures, or a future that will never be.
Every aspect will be affected, sometimes good and sometimes bad.
This constant will always remind us of a life that we once had.
How long can any of us suffer, how many tears can we cry?
Will heartstrings reattach, should we even really try?
Can one moment full of passion ever fix the price of light?
Is true love worth the exit, or will it just fade into the night?
To have love unbridled with loss, is like a cloud absent of rain.
You can’t have one without the other, and the cost is always pain.
Is it better to have loved and lost if it rips your world apart?
If your quest is for the truth, then just ask a broken heart.
Inner Conflict Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Unseeking Seeker
8/19/22
Witchy Witchy is so twitchy
Her colorful broom is also glitchy
They are a team
on Hallows mean
We see them flying high in the midnight sky
And the children scream “We are going to die!”
But wait, says the cat.
Who knows where it’s at.
She is not that bad, just married to a cad.
Hold up! Yells a small warlock. That is my dad!
So, the fight is on.
To the death, and the cat is gone.
The warlock yells, "Down here Mum!"
And witchy witchy heads south to get herself some
Delicious girls
With dark brown curls.
Ugh! They taste awful! She says to her son.
I know, he replies. But I thought it would be fun.
And the girls reattach the limbs she spit out.
They hurry home to tell everyone about…
Witchy witchy and her broom which was twitchy glitchy.
I see the fingernails of a nine-year-old boy
at the end of my hands
They make me laugh.
How did he get them away from me?
And how did he reattach them?
Poem
Poet
They don’t always match
It is not exact
I mean, opposites attract
Every brand new batch
Of poems can detract
From the original, not intact
The idea that did hatch
May not become tact
The meaning now abstract
But I guess that is the catch
When you make a pact,
Or rather a devil’s contract
To somehow patch
The little compact
Of inspiration, from which you distract
Yourself from your detach
That cut you off mid act
You try to reenact
And reattach
Disregarding the fact
That you were the one to subtract
Actual creativity to snatch
At the chance to transact
Quality to make an impact
But it all went down the latch
I guess all it did was counteract
Your initial goal, inexact
From the world, you unattach
And live on in redact
With no one to interact
Forever to be a mismatch
Written on December 3, 2020
tryst of the moon and the stars
- oh how far
off, when the greed of war
spoils with feldspar.
eruptions of not the loins
but clashes of steel —
political coins
care not how one feels.
a lightning grip on lovers,
mocking, celebrating their aloneness.
the dark hovers
over the waters of Loch Ness.
spouse weeps.
tears constantly fill
the freshwater deep.
the warmonger monster would’st kill.
any great and honorable name
that can be caught in the web —
her man would never be the same,
adrift in the ebb.
she tries to reattach limbs,
pry open his hopeful eyes,
fish for him with sermons and hymns
but he believes in Nessie-lies.
tryst of the moon and stars
-oh how far
off, when the greed of war
spoils with feldspar.
1/13/2021
Is there a thread that binds and ties…
an artist to his soul
Does it thin or thickly mend,
to come apart or tightly hold
Is it there to patch the deepest tear,
with the essence of its form
Does its very nature reattach,
when in fury it is torn
Will it stitch a quilt of memories,
from a past that’s ripped and frayed
Can it hem the truth within arms reach
—when again we’ve lost our way
(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)
Into the phantom darkness
My soul flew ahead
Paving the way for my flesh self
Who had no choice
But to reattach my shadow
And retrieve my
Darling darling soul
After her ordeal and rescue she was offered too much prettiness
Too fast, too much empathy, too much concern, too much kindness.
She ran back to her abuser, trying to reattach her depressed self to him,
Trying to rectify what she had begun to think was normal, promising love.
When in fact, she was giving him less than that, accepting his terms.
Because she did not deserve pretty, she did not deserve kindness.
Immobilized, she knew she was a bad girl, she said and did the wrong things.
She would be lucky if he took her back. He pretended he was not going to.
She cried and screamed and begged, accepting any terms he set down.
She ran inside, and they locked the door, locking the do-gooders out.
Locking out her family and friends, who had finally gotten her to safe ground.
She never again remembered that she had once been outgoing, and fun.
She forgot about parties, and playfulness. She forgot how to laugh and smile.
She was back in the devil’s arms, where she felt she belonged,
Trying forever to resuscitate the forever-after she had expected long ago.
The one she believed in for the rest of her life, the one that kept her prisoner.
I do not think I could survive
Without the arm I use
To do the thousand things it does;
I guess this isn't news.
But somehow something's come along
That means as much to me
And getting by without it
Would comprise a tragedy.
Don't judge me, for I'm pretty sure
That many can relate.
My iPhone's like a body part
That should not separate.
So when it wasn't working
Panic flooded through my soul,
Like my right arm yanked right off
And leaving just a gaping hole.
A guy at Staples fixed it.
Like a surgeon, he did catch
What the problem was, so my "right arm"
He got to reattach.
Is there a thread that binds and ties…
an artist to his art
Is it thin or thickly woven,
will it hold or come apart
Is it there to free or strap one down,
with the memory of its form
Does its very nature reattach,
when in fury it is torn
Does it link in stark remembrance,
all that’s past and gone away
Does it keep the truth within arms reach
—when again we’ve lost our way
(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)
Large fuzzy pajamas with a hood
Used to be for toddlers.
Now I have them.
They are getting rather worn.
My zebra go-to-pajamas.
My husband ordered me another pair.
They are big enough to fit around me, thus
they are about eighteen inches too long.
If you do not know inches they are
The bottom of a man’s shoe plus
The bottom of a toddler’s shoe too long.
I am debating how to fix this.
I love the idea of having feet in them.
My zebra zip up suit does not actually have
The footie part. It is cut off at my ankles.
I think I will pretend I am a knee surgeon,
Cut them off, shorten them, and then
Reattach.
Which makes me wonder.
If I get my knees replaced,
Can we use a 3-D printer and make
me longer leg bones so I can be
Six foot tall instead of five foot two
and a fourth? If I was I would not have to add the fourth.
Is there a thread that binds and ties,
an artist to his art
Is it thin or thickly woven,
does it hold or come apart
Is it there to free or wear one down,
with the memory of its form
Does its very nature reattach,
when in fury it is torn
Does it link in stark remembrance,
all that’s past and gone away
Does it keep the truth within arms reach,
—when again we’ve lost our way
(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)
I'll apply fact to the matter as a matter of fact - Fact doesn't matter.
I'm a time traveler, through mind travel, possibilities unfathomable.
Rather call a truce instead of battling dudes, 'cause I lack the unbattleable
lyrics that other rappers produce - In other words, I'm not too good yet...
I'll only spit what my mindset happens to induce, from past, to the future, and the present.
and I'll only spit with the intention of resonating a malleable essence.
Trouble? Forget it - S***, a vibe like this is nothing to mope around with.
Sober for weeks - with love for my music and girl like this - no need to take another hit...
Success is in tact but there's still scattered parts of an emotional disaster to gather.
A staggering semi-mastery of blasphemous metempsychosic abuse through psychological
self-battery;
actually self-betterment, for the sake of adversity. Almost gradually, rapture comes back
to me
to reattach my physical being to my mind happily - that's the first time in a while...
Just an incomplete Hip-Hop verse that I figured I would post here... The Stranger.
Fabric of the universe,
has weaved all within it's nature
upon looms from spindles,spinning wheels
beginning with a single thread........
Connecting all in purposeful suit
appropriate uniformity
serving one,to serve the all
the whole now luminosity.....
Somehow...the thread becometh loosen
and pulled unraveling many,
like spinning tops in chaotic spin
disorder now a plenty....
Must reattach our common thread
and rid the hatred violent dread
swathing patchwork fabric mend
bring everlasting peace to head.......
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