Rays of radiation scorch my feathers
Ultraviolet bakes me from within
Each time, I feel my breath inch closer
But the reds marks never shake me
A young man tried to scale this once
The son of Bravery and Patience
Beating rays of gleaming off-yellow
Robbed him of vision and benign skin
But you, the chain link of armor
Aids my fragile skin of low melanin
With lips of soft lotion, you whisper
Blanketing me with your soft encouragement
Cold dark eyes of determination
You curse, then grip my ivory blade for me
"She'd like a duel."
The sunlight laughs, kicks his feet to the horizon
You place one last touch to me, clearing hair from my face
It makes my bosom flutter, I rise like helium
Knife placed to the jugular of the sol
Oh, my Icarus, you know better than to do this
Basking in clusters of cancer with visual appeal
Lips curl into a smile as the wound deepens
The tsar of life recoiling at my demand
It turns its head in shame and takes back its remarks
Light concentrated in its irises turns a dark violet
And as you rush to embrace me and take me into your arms
"Night is upon us," you cry, cradling me close to your heart
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The fluorescent buzz hums
like a choir of tired angels.
I hold a plastic-wrapped loaf of bread
and think about miracles~
how mine don’t quite materialize.
My hands, soft from keyboards,
have never split a sea
or pressed into a wound
without recoiling.
I flinch at the sight of blood and
the weight of my own shadow.
The clerk sighs,
counting pennies like regrets.
I want to tell her that
the Kingdom is hers,
but my voice cracks
into something small
and human.
At home, my love
is measured in teaspoons~
just enough to sweeten,
never overflowing.
I keep my rage
neatly folded,
my mercy rationed
like discount wine.
God must get so tired
of my arithmetic.
Dare to dream Ashes nightmares it seems reawoken
Token words spoken after scares & flares teams broken
Dafter peacocking then rocking no blocking just shocking
Mocking laughter of the ghost of Christmas future knocking
Host boast from coast to coast toast as England roast
Boiling..recoiling..toiling & broiling this is our last post
Our iridescent flaming proper copper haired laird
Incandescent flairs no taming his despairs we all shared
Luminescent cares blaming Bazball heirs ill prepared scared
Stoic brawler our defiant mauler on a leaking reeking trawler
Too reliant on our brilliant defiant resilient glowering giant
Big Ben set up camp crippled by his men again & ripples of cramp
Overpowering pain courses through every vein towering skipper & champ
Heart on his sleeve…makes us believe in a reprieve heroic Firestarter
Immensity of intensity.. O Captain my Captain..our smarter martyr
Darkness settles across the sky,
Bats flitting, begin to fly,
A howling wolf, set apart and aloof,
Eyes from the window cry.
Heroes secure in their proof,
The Vampyer, under castle roof,
Longing for past Love's tender ways,
Recoiling from lance and charger's hoof.
The drooling hound in restless pursuit bays,
The shining glory of all wakened days,
Vlad no longer rules the night or draws a fight,
For his recalcitrant sins, he bloody pays!
His mind a silent sentinel
Ever alert
Sifting the debris
Of forgotten duties
Its allegiance unquestioned
Yet cautious of the angst of authority.
It does not speak its mind
For it roams outside the gates
Touches the edges of thought
Without recoiling
A day may come
When the sentinel
Will no longer remain silent
Learning slowly
That thoughts
Generated in silence
Should not remain so
I can see them.
Even after almost being impaled.
Still.
I could die without even knowing.
Instead, I don’t.
I saw them outside today.
Hot tea does that to you.
Makes everything burning hot.
Recoiling.
As if they’re coming for me.
Sipping.
An old premonition.
I can see.
The people that were supposed to be here-
But sometimes appointments have to be rescheduled.
Downhill.
I can see them.
Ominous as hot tea.
I could have driven to work to take my mind off things.
The things that are like ghosts, and also like a pile of laundry.
If laundry could kill me, I would never go home.
That’s what death is.
I decided to sleep in my car in the parking lot.
An old premonition…
Gets tiring to keep track of.
Did I put on the parking brake?
And lock the doors?
I would laugh, but then I’d start over.
And that’s what outside does to me.
Carries me to my car.
Never go home.
So the premonition goes.
I know I have a big heart
Because I can feel how often it cracks.
It's fragile like glass,
But bounces back,
Broken, then fixed,
Then broken, then fixed,
Recoiling like elastic
And snapping back into place.
But elastic gets weak,
And eventually, wears out.
Glass, though constantly breaking,
Can be sealed back together.
I hope I am like glass
And not like elastic.
The face in the crowd
Walking through time
The church on the hill
That day
Etched forever in silent loathing
No word, no reason, long, long, gone
Fifteen years
The face, older
In the crowd
She wanted to scream at him
Just say something
She began to follow him
Watching as he walked into the graveyard
Stopping beside the solitary grave
Touching the headstone
Finally disappearing
She approached the grave
Reading the inscription on it
The name stood out
She kept staring at it
Recoiling in disbelief
The name and date
Fifteen years ago
The wedding day
It didn’t make sense
She began to study the name
Touching the engraving just to make sure
Looking around, searching for him
Her head spinning
Nothing made sense
Finally falling to her knees
The face in the crowd
The face in the crowd
Walking through time.
Came back for no good reason, other than making a splash
Recoiling in horror, when my demons emit a flash
Anointed by unholy chrism, absolves me from the trash
Can oil ever be sacred, when not making ready cash
So would heaven be enough, if eternal less one day
It's said hell lasts forever, burning plasma if we stray
I belong in purgatory, in its orbit i'll stay
Even a rogue event horizon, couldn't drag me away
Innards will remain hidden, til grotesquely overblown
A hungry mouth sets up residence, seeking a new home
Put two and two together, you see the vision i've sown
A metaphorical language, this tongue I call my own
In the end love conquers all, even love tainted by hate
I loath its taste in my mouth, pity I’m hooked on the bait
Ambush Hunter
Raining, periodic glimpses
of eyes glinting, stripes disclosing
a tiger prowling through the forest:
peering, listening, smelling,
drooling, stalking, circling, pausing.
Thunder, lightning revealing
the tiger slinking in the tall grass;
crouching, recoiling, springing;
exposing the big cat running,
prey seeing, panicking, fleeing.
Panoramic vision flashing,
tiger leaping, clawing, biting;
animal stumbling, tumbling,
asphyxiating, dying;
tiger tearing, licking, eating.
Cul-de-Sac
Quick steps slow to hesitate
The sudden curve of a straight white line
Into the mists of detour
Lined with haunting facades
Of blurred addresses
And faded street signs
Where echoes of curiosity bluster -
Magic or madness -
In proverbs of warning about blind alleys -
Mayhem or mystic -
Bending the lane
Like the nautilus inner ear
A flat arc where light searches
For the sacred
Past faceless abodes lining this curlicue
With a come-on to remain
Yet the heart knows to follow
The flamboyant contours,
Like angel’s wings,
Into the loop – not a dead end
But a recoiling boomerang
Leaving knots of doubt behind
Arms open wide to inquisitive's marathon
Then ride the hairpin rail out of gossamer inkiness
Leaving behind the rags of repetition
Into a rosy borning road.
2-21-23
Contest: This or That
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Theme chosen – Cul-de-Sac
Suckled on time's lifetime of pure sadness
where through my life's years were various wars
the men who died were killed by the madness
those who survived have scattered across shores
this darkness of hate comes without warning
inside men's hearts, a cauldron is boiling
men create dispair, women are mourning
while hate seeks power, peace is recoiling
my soul has yearned for a life filled with peace
the wars of my years are over black oil
the reasons are many, war will not cease
I cry for those who suffer this turmoil
born in a time beyond understanding
my wish for peace is not so demanding
1/21/23
contest How Do You Feel
sponsor Mystic Rose Rose
Most of his mature life
had been a process of recoiling
and mending.
Until late
he had not suspected
that this prolonged retreat
had been his lot.
He thought he was building bricks,
constructing a living edifice
while in realty he was engaged
in an epic dismantling.
He thought he had made inroads,
woven together great journeys,
drawing to himself many pathways
toward a destination or purpose.
Yet of late, he felt
that his life had been a slow withdrawing,
a giving way
disguised as steps forward.
Despite this new understanding
he sensed a strange vindication,
as if it were more noble to give way
and draw back.
The battle at last lost,
the surrender acknowledged;
today he whistles a tune
that the thorn bushes sing
when a homeless wind
rattles through them.
The image could not be more clear:
the blowout from a diaper,
recoiling from my precious child
as though she were a viper.
Olfactory assault enough
to bring you to your knees,
the onesie soiled, arms raised, she cries
for you to help her, please.
Shaking, sweating, retching and forlorn,
gagging in the sink, “Who gave our daughter corn?”
—————
For the “Form I - Imagism - New Poem” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
Written on 03/07/2022
My head hangs low above the sink,
Ha, no, unlikely what you think!
True, there were times excessive drink
Did see the gut, recoiling, shrink.
Nay, far more happy time and place
Would best describe the here and now,
But weeds have overrun the fields;
It’s time to put the hand to plow.
’Tis head that’s needing to be shorn,
A humming scythe across the glade,
Or shearing sheep on frosty morn.
My tool of choice: the zero blade.
No victory until I die,
The onslaught merely staved, pushed back,
And when again the threat draws nigh,
My trusty blade will mount attack.
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