Short Palimpsest Poems

I made a painting of a happy little house
On a happy little hill
Under a clear azure sky
And the sun was cheerful and bright
Then I covered it with black
Then I splashed it with gray
Then I let crimson drip onto it
Then I took a knife and stabbed it over and over
Then I tore it apart
Then I burned it
Then I spat on the ashes
Then I howled in rage 
Then I curled up into a ball and cried...

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I am made from broken pieces
An assemblage of fading memories
The cracks in my mind are a penumbra
To the pulchritudinous of its art.

The surging ways of my
monachopsis are kept at bay by
The mellifluous voices that I have 
miraculously been surrounded with.

My ethereal scars have given
Their labyrinthine paths over to the
Palimpsest that is my life
The writings of a new era.

I will make broken beautiful....

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Trilling Tray (Limerick)

                                  Parrots have men in the palm of their hands
                         Through the pirated palimpsest that is from man's land
                         There is no point getting into panic about the tall story
                                     Touch me if it is a wild and wacky story
                         But if it is worthwhile to the core, (then) hold my hands....

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Beneath the graffiti littered by the years
and the fatigue signed by a thousand cares
Through the scratchings of so many tears
that were summoned or caught you unawares
Under the mottles by done days quarried   
and the shadows writ by a jealous sun  
where disappointments linger unburied  
and age is making its relentless run

My tired eyes can still trace your first face 
by the thievery of time irreducible...

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In Her Heart

She lived a normal life
A nice home
A clean floor
And a typewriter she never used
Then her dream became a story
That she thought had to be told
The typewriter came to life
She wrote word after word
Her palimpsest covered her floor
Still she kept on telling her story
Writing on ream after ream of paper
But even if her story was never finished
If no one ever had the chance to read it
In her heart she was still an author...

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A Palimpsest

I'm slowly becoming a ghost
Speaking softly and never getting to finish a thought
Fading into shadows and doubt
And memories recalled as non stories

It wasnt always like this
I was the one with the most
Time, Circumstance, loss and defeat have taken toll and the bell rings for the end of another round

A Palimpsest. Written on parchment thin as the skin around an old man's eyes
That's my corrupted compendium, the tragic game show I host
I'm slowly becoming a ghost...

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Written: June 19, 2023

Bitesize No 67 Poetry Contest                         Sponsored by: Line Gauthier

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You serenade me with a chorus of butterflies.
of serendipitous whispers that flutter and rise.
A memory palimpsest engraved through time.
Each ripple is a chapter, each whisper a rhyme.
My delight soared dulcetly, like a bird in flight.
In the cynosure of bright stars and an auric sight....

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