a man of towering stature,
mercurial temperament
well-known, his avarice
for absolute power,
a dreadful reputation
for intimidating underlings
in brutal fashion,
unsits the current king,
takes control
of the kingdom.
there's not iron gate
he cannot get past
the strongest of towers,
he could tumble down
his favor cannot be won
by a silver coin.
who has the the courage
to challenge his authority?
he mutes the loudest,
makes whispers
out of their screams,
he fearlessly
takes on giants
he puts away crowns
too heavy for his head
yet, his shadow fills
any room he walks into,
it makes
the proudest bow low,
still, he can never touch
anyone's light,
or steal the love
foreign to him
Life’s unsung tunes fade away
into nothingness with the menagerie of mirage
disappearing in the realm of death.
Trudging on the desolate deserted pathway
the fragile footprints collapse in his kingdom
where the cosmic monarch of the end,
the ruler of the last breath,
carves his throne from the sands of time.
With the arcane image of terror concealed
like the sordid silhouettes of lethal menace
the king rules without mercy or malice,
lurks in the shadow of dark danger
into the quintessence of placid life,
and waits at the pause of every heartbeat,
encased within the freight frame,
configured from the vicious void
of timeless inevitability.
Killing with kindness from a dark place
Improvising love forcing a smile on face
Needling white words meant to assure
Greetings heard but not felt not pure
Onyx heart that never skips a beat
From missing spark of love not tenderly
Tears hide behind white winged words
Even narcissist fake kind to be heard
Raping spirits of the blue beautiful ones
Raging you fear it the love of gold sun
Only yesterday gives you any jaded joy
Remembering the good filling a void
Salty as kiss of abyss meant to destroy
(Repost of a former poem, “If I Could Change The Past,” written 2016)
September eleven, two-thousand-one-
dark age of homeland terror had begun.
If only I could change this horrid past-
alleviate deep pain from grief at last.
Three thousand souls were lost forever, then:
three hundred forty-three were brave firemen,
so many whom I'd come to know before,
when they'd stop by our fire equipment store.
Our County is just sixty miles away
from New York City, South of us, and they
would often live up North in New York State,
commute each shift- but many met their fate.
One family resided on our street.
That morning, he left home- for death to meet.
So many others we will never see
who purchased goods from us so faithfully.
For those who died, whose bodies were not found,
we gifted presentation helmets bound
to loved ones for the funerals they held.
Such awful, somber days, unparalleled.
If I could change the past and turn back time,
erase that day of tragedy and crime,
my heart, with all the others, would rejoice
that these poor souls could live a life of choice.
In my life, the king of terrors is doubt
Leaving me marks of stressed countenance-pout
Robbing the joy my heart strives to shout out
With its skeptical sneer and mocking clout.
Terrorizing most, doubt breaks me apart
Attacking resilience of strong jumpstart
Letting me feel down, though I know I’m smart
With its frustrating blow and striking dart.
Behind my serene glow, doubt lurks to show
Spreading rumors of sorrow’s painful woe
Hindering winning smiles for blessings’ flow
With its gloomy news and bad tomorrow.
Against perseverance, doubt works indeed
Crushing my persistence toward fall’s breed
Stopping triumphant soar upon need’s creed
With its unbelief-seed and shame-filled greed.
Now, winning from doubt’s adversarial test
I must trust truth of best triumphant quest
Vanquishing deceit and falsity’s zest
With faith in God Who can conquer doubt’ pest.
Storm ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
Give ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ fame,
¦¦¦¦ to ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ adore.
The ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ power aloud
Over ¦¦¦ ocean and ¦¦¦ land;
¦¦¦ voice ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ lightnings ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ fearful ¦¦¦¦ and frighted ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ the terror of the sound.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ the ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ break;
The ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ tremble ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ reigns for ever ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ awful glories ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ grace imparts;
Amidst ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
(Blackout of Psalm 29 by Isaac Watts)
The shadow peers through my window every night,
I hear it before I see it,
a hush of breath against the glass.
I go to the window but it’s empty,
just the black lawns stretched
like a dark skin over the earth.
I feel at a loss to protect my daughter,
her small chest rising
with the oceanic rhythm of sleep.
Could it be—
but it isn’t—
a trick of light, a memory?
I don’t think that I should tell you,
but I am—please believe me,
I would never invent this kind of fear.
The air bends, as if something leans in,
as if it wants me to know
I am not alone.
I press my palm flat to the pane,
the cold glass,
the nothing beyond.
I remember my own mother’s silence,
the way she turned her face from me
when I told her of the man in the hall.
Now my child sleeps while I stand guard,
and the shadow keeps its vigil,
patient, endless,
hungry as night itself.
Running down Chicago Ave barefoot brain buzzing hymns and static, neon crucifix blinking above a bodega, the gospel of smoke and piss, all-night diner flickering with ghosts of jukeboxes past—she laughs in her sleep, god I miss her already, dreaming of Congo drums, 3AM baptisms, ash on my tongue and wind in my coat, don’t stop now daddy-o the night’s still twitching, hot-wired and like a midnight freight scream.
And I’m sliding through the alleyways slick with memory, rats preaching sermons in sewer tongues, corner kids lighting firecrackers like prayers, like warnings, boom boom into the neon womb, and I see her face again in a puddle, split by ripples, gone—heartbeat skips like a jazz snare, I talk to god in beer breath and static, say forgive me for leaving, for loving, for running with my ghosts on leash, for every wrong turn that felt right under sodium lights, wind howling confessions through busted windows, baby I ain’t slept since Clinton.
In the pitch darkness of the night
Where nightmares come to fright and haunt
I lie awake my heart in flight
In the pitch darkness of the night
Praying, pleading, for morning light
When fearsome terrors cease to taunt
In the pitch darkness of the night
Where nightmares come to fright and haunt
What are you thinking all alone, my dear
As you sit worried by your fire so bright
Do you reflect on the bad days of yore
While you stare at the red flickering flame
Is there something from your past that you fear
So you try to keep the dark out with light
As over nightmare memories you pore
And wonder who was there really to blame
One painful memory should not so sear
Which still haunts you dreadfully through the night
Striking deep within into your heart's core
With all the horror of a deadly game
Many of us share such memories sore
And suffer sleepless nights in senseless shame
The dark
dimly lit
Shivering shadows
strange scratching sounds
Amplifying
goosebumps
Hair standing on end
sleep denied
Fear buried
beneath the blankets
White faced in the morning
When I see your fantasy,
My heart is filled with ecstasy;
Roses my eyes do see.
When I set them to lie,
Over night's terrors they can't survive
But in your beauteous light do rely.
Goodnight to our sleepless souls,
Which linger not in holes;
But with endless oaths, stronger than poles:
Wherewith loving dreams can't help,
Espying the daily memories kep'.
We'd play in the downs
When the morning wears sweet-love gowns.
Indelible in the dark.
Love is stressed happiness:
That though it aches,.
Strengthens confidence of plain hearts.
Lo, Love be sickness:
To heal or let die away
Like a night turned out unto a day.
Night terrors invade my dreams late at night:
unable to breathe; I gasp, terrified.
Beyond nightmares, terrors fuel a fright:
that's so intense that on waking, I've cried.
Dead soldiers keep whispering in my head;
their constant murmur, morphing into screams.
And I say prayers to ward off the dead;
still, they manifest themselves in my dreams.
It begins with little more than a sigh:
then suddenly, I'm overwhelmed by fear.
Escalating, I feel like I will die:
and once I wake, the fear doesn't disappear.
War's unrelenting, agonizing pain;
tortures me, over and over again.
if i learnt one thing from my dream last night ~ never pick up small spiders
By
David Kavanagh
Programing a VCR and other terrors
In the old days
I used to dread
the chore
of programing my VCR
just never got the hang
of doing that
the VCR sat there
taunting me
begging me
to do it
to her
but I just never could
learn how to program
that damn machine
Na/GloPOWR/Mo prompt Day 18
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