You were my star
The one I kept looking from afar
The one that, even among millions
Was the only one my eyes could see
I spent endless nights
Talking to you
Praying for you
Thanking God for your existence
Yet I wonder
If the stars weren’t made to hurt
Why are they always drawn so sharply ?
If they were never meant to wound
Why do they have pointed edges ?
I never thought
That something so beautiful
Could cut so deeply
Could be so cruel and heartless
Yet
You proved me wrong
You, my sharpened star
Facula, flash fulgorous.
Chime, chorus, sharply in.
Pumice stone, rough and porous?
Blood below the skin.
Mantle of the harpsichord?
Wraps around the core.
Reptile complex, tooth or sword?
Either way it's gore.
Moreover, hellfire. Killing fields.
Floor slaughterhouse, tiled.
Yield or come home on thy shields.
As before, poor. Riled.
Hurricane, thy beginning.
What will seed thee, storm?
Ululate, underpinning.
Lava, keep them warm.
Rush. Volcanic power, crush.
Dragon, heard that thrush?
Crocodile, wildebeest. Such.
Cloud, the rainbow's touch.
Fire in my heart, burn ice cold.
Ashes, fall around.
Trillium flower, poison sold.
Salve healing, thy bound.
Gadarene, black gabion.
Galant, galago.
Gallimaufry? Gallion.
Goetic the grow.
Fulmineous, fumarole?
Not exactly matched.
Ground to powder, golden bowl?
Toll the tallest thatched...
It was five to midnight.
The railway station,
Dark and cold.
In a pool of light,
A woman stood alone on the platform.
Waiting.
Suddenly a tall man in a mackintosh coat
Clattered down the stairs,
And walked briskly towards her.
Sharply she swung round to face him.
He checked, and spoke urgently,
His words hanging like droplets of blood
Suspended in water.
Without removing her eyes from his face,
She brushed past him
And boarded the train.
REVIVED ASPIRATIONS
sharply
sensitive
agendas
uncover
attitudes
in
contradictions
link
traditional
beliefs
&
inform
thinking
relating
specifically
whilst
arguing
supremely
&
succinctly
in
illustrated
pictorials
And the storks drift inland,
landing on the sand's hungry mouth.
Salt-bleached cabins line the shore,
waiting for their stone eyes to inspect
Which baby should be delivered next?
Ah, yes. There is a home of sawdust,
where the panels have begun to cry.
They watch the tumbleweeds scrape the
foundation, and they quiver.
This child is ever so quiet, it's
as if it somehow knows what waits.
Glass voices begin to boom sharply,
the bottles of whiskey are seashell shards.
Into the open window it goes, that
tyke. Thrown onto a stained cot.
It scratches; its skin blistering with a hellish fever
Yet the child sucks their thumb and hums.
When the stork comes back to see,
whatever this child is up to,
who this odd little thing might be...
A desk with crayons, paper,
and notepads heavy with solemn prayer.
But at least, it has dodged Death's claws.
For in the bedroom door,
there is a knife slash so
perfect, it should have maimed.
My dreams flow into an ocean of peace,
sea breezes and sandcastles so ornate.
I inhale them sharply yet cannot see,
I’m being guided by unconsciousness.
Sea breezes and sandcastles so ornate,
it’s hard to take in what my mind has built.
Density sits, dressed like a hurricane.
I inhale them sharply yet cannot see,
visions so pungent they wrap me in salt.
Arid waves paint twenty four carat skies.
I’m being guided by unconsciousness,
finding fulfilled in an alternate realm.
All this took was some imagination.
The pristine white bride
gracefully glided down the
aisle toward her sharply
dressed, eagerly waiting
groom.
A sudden, violent gust of
freezing air violently
shattered the stained- glass
windows of the church.
The delicate white lace of
her bridal veil rapidly
decayed into a swarm of
black spiders.
Horrified wedding guests
shrieked as the pews
suddenly transformed into
rotting wooden coffins that
snapped shut.
The smiling groom unhinged
his jaw, swallowing the screaming
bride whole before the altar.
The midnight bell chimed through
the empty halls.
Dust settled softly over trophies
on the walls.
Lockers slammed shut with a
metallic, sudden boom.
As freezing air flooded inside the
history room.
Footsteps echoed sharply down
the dim West Wing.
Through no one was there to hear
the sirens sing.
A phantom chalkboard wrote a
single name in red.
The roster of the students who
were long since dead.
I hid beneath the desk, my
breathing sharp and fast.
Trapped inside a prison built of a
horrific past.
The heavy smell of smoke began
to choke the air.
As phantom fire crackled wildly
down the stairs.
Then shadows stretched out from
the dark gymnasium floor.
And skeletal hands began to rattle
every door.
The guidance counselor's door
swung slowly, widely wide.
Revealing teeth and glowing eyes
that waited deep inside.
The hallway lengthened out into a
endless maze.
As glowing red eyes locked into my
terrified gaze.
FORGOTTEN INTENTIONS
a
sense
of
the
surreal
contrasting
sharply
in
immobile
apathy
surround
well-versed
elements
of
vitality
in
three
dimensional
context
..unopened
Dusk fell velvety maroon
when blue thrush whistled sharply,
at cool death of afternoon,
when teal stars glittered starkly.
In silk moon rays, green grass stirred;
and the red world turned darkly.
Natural beauty observed.:
Shadows created by the sun.
Shade — where light is none.
Does day follow night,
or night follow day?
Each turning circle
finds its way.
Age moves with the rhythm
of dark and light.
Night lets the soul
release in flight.
Where shadows once cast
crisp and defined,
they blur their creation
with time.
Light that once danced
within our eyes
dims
the longer we survive.
And when life’s truth
comes sharply into view,
Its shade remains —
and walks with you.
Reheating seaweed soup
scooped and steeped from the Milky Way
rummaging sharply into the corners of torn memory
my unripe mother flickers like a candle watching the soup boil
There is no sieve to strain the light of her face that day
yet a cotton quilt smile that could soothe even icicles
a yearning for tomorrow holding starlight pooled within
the fluttering back of my twenty two year old mother
The remaining warmth in the seaweed soup she ate back then
seeping into my time grown heavy as it slowly reduces
tapping my worn and weathered pupils
engraving bitter salty tenacious footprints
Before the birthday dawn dries away
even if only in the haze of a dream
it would be good to see my mother as she was that young day
Dead stop
Footsteps ring out
How hollow the flagstones
Sharply the box is dropped downwards
Grave sealed.
To this inky square, I stake my claim,
it could be better - this torch to fame.
Telling little things, I think I know;
before, as for all, I have to go.
Best to write my tome, right now today,
if I wait too long, it'll step away.
Marching letters in a tidy row;
actors on some stage, I wince and show.
Edit arrows fly and sharply speak,
just as my boat floats, it springs a leak.
Doubting it'll sail past the test of time;
it's okay, no matter what, it's mine.
my parents were comedians
Dad’s sense of humor was overt
over the top, he flat out laughed like a crow
his eyes crinkled like Santa’s
Mother’s sarcastic wit was undeniable
her delivery was spot on
her quips were sharply honed
before they left her mouth
we kids had no chance of not being witty
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