Tried to give all my money over yonder.
Something in me had started to stir.
Not the feathers in my brain.
Not the lost stuff in the drain.
Yes, I’m as generous as a sprinkler with water to last.
Felt paper dollars crumpled in my past.
Being a part of generosity.
Means that some part of me is feeling thready.
But when I died, it was as if it was only my evil twin.
So I continued to survive without and within.
Do I regret giving all that cash to the dawn?
Until my last grimace was gone?
Being generous means to live just fine.
Even without the goldmine.
Yes, part of me died, but it was paper thin.
Just like the bills thumping within.
Might never be rich once more.
From the surgery, my head is still sore.
I think the person that died that night.
Was the greed that felt a fright.
I died ten years later to the day.
Without a penny to stay.
Got cremated.
And every penny I gave has abated.
The money spread on and throughout.
Went through the shredder eventually, I have no doubt.
Dare I sail
into the moonlight
to greet wandering shadows
that beckon in whispers
and trace paths
with luminous thready fingers
through sentinels of razor wire
who parade prescient
before glaring chasms
of untested fathoms.
Raw like apples on a tree.
Waiting on my journal to come to life.
Having too many bumble bees who don’t know much.
I enjoy the crisp bite that shatters.
Golfing across the state.
T-shirts with a picture of earth on them.
Walking around like dragonflies would,
Assuming they lost their wings.
Brush my teeth as the bristles collide.
Like the display fan in the store.
Soft sounds.
Thready around my spine.
At 4:31 am, it’s time.
To sleepwalk to the kitchen.
Go back to bed again.
Start a new one.
Raw like a paper bag in a puddle.
Crumbles in my invisible fingers…
an abloom Sunshine
the soundless, thunderous weave
the hued, thready dawn
Some might say,
it's just another day
but the days so quickly pass
age marking time far too fast;
spring was a season of mixed messages
days of rain and dampened dew
full of old memories,
walking the garden with you,
then came the buds, the blossoms, and the bloom
life rushed on,
no regrets to exhume,
the gentler days of flowering and you;
in looking back
the early days moved slowly and steady
with struggles through laughter, tears, and joy thready
but you were there ever at the ready;
lost to the days of April into May
and I am still here tears as I pray,
my eyes on the stars
wondering what happened
and where you are.
The Wrist
Bears the watch marking time
And moments sublime
Shakes the hand to impress
And flaunt success
Deftly bends to play the notes of staccato
And trills of vibrato
Takes the pain
As drugs enter the vein
Radial pulse strong and steady
Then later thready
The rhythm of life eventually ceasing
Unleashing, cut like a knife
A courteous curtain
Looked thready with fine silk
Scenting of my core
Which led linger rose in my mind
And with no fleeing ticks
But almost ding-dong devotes
Potent day and night
Shrouds,when I come in
Shields,when I come out
Dripping that cotton every moment
For not to streets cowslips
To steal me from her role
Let I vocal vomits vociferously
"Am I boastful beaming as her turban?
Oh,I love you courteous curtain
For vile of my days"
My uncle took me fishing.
He’d smoke his favorite briar
Stuffing the cherry blend in with stubby
Welsh fingers more suitable for digging coal,
Than compacting mulched tobacco leaves.
A line taut between his index finger and his thumb,
He took a thready pulse of a line strung along the pole.
He told me stories of his growing up:
Painting my grandfather’s car ruined by feathers
Blown in from a cock who’d recently been plucked.
He would hand the pole to me to relight his pipe, he said.
And fumble among the hundred pocket vest
Pockets for his Zippo lighter
I liked surreptitiously to smell
And play endlessly with clicking of its top.
A trout would tug my line, bolt arching up
Above the water’s edge and topple back to tug again.
I’d play it back and forth until I played it up on shore.
And put it in a basket made of hardened wicker weave.
Some men fish for fishing's sake and others to make fishermen. (2/7/02)
Part of the masses, another blue-bottle blip
ocean-sweeping ~ sailing blue-massive
oscillo-roaming-wind
spinning a dizzy-spherical war ~
The appetite to be sated where a new current
ushers constant unpredictability on its menu:
gleaming silver thrashes on its thready hang
Each usual sting, brings on a singular cringe
so predictable are its shivers of alas-morass
entrenched within a genetic-evolutionary psyche…
Luffing, she swells on the blue-flowing-feel
another turn, she is riding with the armada
Dining, diving, leaving divining to the wind,
yet wielding its surprising, wispy, sublimity ~
(11/30/20 For 'it is what it is or is it' contest)
I heard the squelch of death again,
it happened in yoga when I was Zen;
coming quickly and I was not ready,
then, I was quite dizzy and unsteady.
I felt myself fading and everything was dark,
floating in an abyss once more like a lark;
and I was laying in a place like a park,
and my brain hurt with a migraine.
I heard talking every now and then,
and I wanted so much to complain;
to tell the floating people I was heady,
and that my heart beat felt quite thready.
But my words were a slurred question mark,
'till after ten hours I felt some kind of spark;
and realized that to Heaven I did not embark-
the doctor said from yoga, please refrain!
______________________________
September 16, 2019
Poetry/Rhyme/I Heard Death Calling
Copyright Protected, ID 19- 1181-408-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
NA in the contest, Welcome To My Random World, Judged 9/20/2019
Submitted to the contest, NA- A Rerun 3
sponsor, John Hamilton
Sixth Place
CHRISTMAS EVE
He lay abed
That most tranquil of nights
Aghast at moon and stars
Dad had painted for his delight
In one charmed corner
A spider was swinging
From his thready design
Outside strolling carolers singing
Then he rubbed his eyes
In wonder and awe
Blinked the pair twice
To clear what he saw
For a mist had developed
About his dark room
And from it bright light
From out of the gloom
Winged angels from glory
Appeared neath a star
And came flock-tending shepherds
From countries afar
3 kings richly dressed
Rode up on their camels
To a manger scene
With various animals
And the star
Shown down on a bed of hay
Where Mary and her new born
Babe did lay
The lad sat up in bed
Struck warm to the core
With a wondrous blessing
He’d not sensed before
He dropped to his knees
Thanking heaven above –
Toys Santa forgot -
Prayed world peace divine love
Dave Austin
MORNING GLIMPSES
showering
sudden daddy
those impossibly thready legs
morning coffee
cat intrudes
sugar in its fur
out the kitchen window
snow lingers
on one flat rooftop
coffee and
wonderful morning quiet
shattered! by rock
Defibrillator, I have to set..
Cardiac monitor, I need to attached..
Intravenous lines, workingly patent..
Emergency drugs, positioned on standby...
His color turning to pale then bluish..
His breathing starts to become shallow..
His limbs become to loose and cold..
His pulse thready and weak..
On high alert!
On high alert!
Is it the end of his life?
Or is already the beginning of his death?
By: olive_eloi
2:01am
10/11/2013
-------------------***
"life too beautiful to stay stagnant, keep on moving onwards....."
Heart...
I feel you beating thready and weak..
I feel you murmuring me to stop..
I feel you throbbing softly aghast..
Heart...
Why did we trust and give in so fast?
We should have guessed things doesn't last..
We should have been careful for things casts..
Heart...
Will you get some more little rest..
So long, I do not like you again be on test..
I do not like you more on mess...
Heart...
Follow me, I'm above you..
I know which one is better for you..
I learned from past and present blues..
Indeed, I'm knowledgeable enough for the cues..
Heart..
I speak kindly to you..
Kindly mind me once..
This the mind pleading and speaking...
By: olive_eloi
sept. 16, 2013
4:48pm
Here's a tangled thready mass of dental floss
Glued on some canvas board with gesso
Each layer of the spider's snare dyed a different color
One layer dried then layered o'er another
Oh the marl-morning sour-gut history
The saw-toothed plaque-frozen mystery!
There's corn beans and sirloin on the string
Microscopic V-8 a thermal-digested chicken wing
Good bad medium days
Hidden 'neath and in filet
Here's Jackson Pollock with his dripping
Splashing abstract expressionism
Pollock though a genius failed
In splashing paint pale after pale
To realize a more thrifty less messy way
To say through teeth what he had to say
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