When the seed of fear is planted in minds,
It germinates in brains as a tormentor—
Sometimes sown by a whisper,
a shadow,
a lie repeated twice.
When illusion becomes reality,
And starts by making the heart
skip a beat,
then more of its beats,
then all of its beat.
It creates monsters in our eyes in the dark,
Born from our own imaginations.
And it can make them fly,
swirl,
drawl,
crawl,
and do anything—
Make our hairs stand on end,
Our feet walk on eggshells,
on a slippery slope.
It can crimp us into a shrimp.
When it creeps into our grip,
It brings a nice gift of heebie-jeebies—
That send us on a purposeless,
directionless meander,
Like a chicken with head just severed
and left unrestrained.
Fear teaches our hands to fight,
And reaches our legs to take flight,
But it’s never patient to judge us right,
Even when fear is out of sight.
When the seed of fear is well tendered,
Fear can even make us no longer
fear fear.
When its taproot has eaten deep
into the hypothalamus,
Then the mind is already gnawed by monsters
That, time and again, we created
out of nothing.
A-gony
N-ow
G-ets
E-xciting
L-ife
M-aking
A-nyone's
G-rief
L-ook
U-nknown
Y-elling
A-t
N-othing
©bfa051825
Monocrostic (Birthday of Angel Magluyan)
Inspired by Ronnie James Dio song
"Rainbow in the dark".
............................................
Again, shadows dance tonight—
this time, a grim tear swims down my cheek
as the light became less dim when the
thunder struck—
the cold scolds my hold, and I lost my grip,
reminding me I am free, like the lightning.
But morning light fades into the dark;
the night has totally consumed it.
I become lonely, like a rainbow
left to shiver in a dark sky.
The ghosts of my wife and children whisper
from somewhere above the roof—
their chill cry, as they succumbed to my rage,
reverberates from a broken mirror
I left in the dark tunnel of my conscience.
I am a lie, and I am shy that I know why.
My world is lived without words,
so I only mime to a fake rhyme.
Yet the morning light is lost in the distance,
with only a single star left in the dark sky.
I am like a shadow in a crowd;
my torment is like an echo in an empty room.
A wind blasted tree,
not lightning struck,
but raped
by a heartless wind.
Just the one tree
on a bare-assed hill,
It stands pallid and naked,
its bark striped away
by raging teeth.
I pick up a stick from the ground,
it’s a severed branch
as stiff as an artificial limb,
tap the storm-shorn trunk,
note that the tree
is not hollow yet.
If lightning had split it,
it would have echoed
a deeper, deadlier silence.
Within the wood
is a narrowly constricted throat,
it is still able to speak
through that elongated windpipe.
What did I hear?
I heard a caged wind
being strangled to death,
and death, it had a ghost-white face,
that’s what I heard,
that's what I thought I saw
through wide, and astonished eyes.
The Empty Page
It sat there at my student desk
In wait of task to tend.
Write a poem, the teacher urged,
Your thoughts to paper, penned.
Intently, I perused the sheet,
Pale white and yet unmarked.
It lay there teasing my first move,
“Don’t leave me unremarked.”
This paper, college ruled and prim,
Well-bleached and full of aughts,
Stared blankly back at me to help,
With all my labored thoughts.
I searched the room for any clues
Of how I was to learn.
The clock was running faster now,
No time to wait and yearn.
I sat there squeamish and unnerved,
Too weak to brandish pen.
It was my first time close to death,
Too late for where and when.
Surely, all the class can see
My torment and refrain.
I’d rather have a spelling bee.
I’m circling ‘round the drain.
In looking back these many years,
My eyes were outward bent.
The chalkboard hung erased to black.
My mind, abridged, was spent.
But time has made its mark on me,
Halfway granting one old wish -
To find that poem in myself,
And give to Mr. Nish.
Robert Farrell Waltrip
She Reigns
Tis not today which thee will fail, Harken! Harken! My harnessed veil.
Venom may sweep your gaze away. Travesty! Dare not to look my way.
O, no, but come now, lovers. Give my course gesture no bother.
Tis only, only grace bereaved, against thy spirits stripped. Bare of safety, many lips
split and garments torn from dead seas and mounts! Once there were lands of the devout.
Here, Your Majesty, inviteth thee, all who burn. Settle thine self in her welcome reserve.
This, be one and yon only command; Your Queen says, DANCE!
Yes, yes…tis exceptionally grand. I grant you favor, Greet ye to balance.
Your Quenn, sits pleased and induced to laughter.
Considering it again, it’s shaking me from inside
Shall I do it? please enlight
Shall I escape from the torment of the soul
As it seems eternal as a whole
This life isn’t as bright
I expected it like a fog light
Escaping the world would give eternal torment of the soul
As in hell I would be baked and rolled
Was this I made for?
An example of survival of the fittest, the Darwin’s lore
Ink pours from my pen like blood from an open wound.
The endless void in my soul that fills daily with words that suffocate my existence.
There is no cure. No pill to take that will manage the words that flood my brain like water through a broken dam.
All I can do is continue to expel the words onto paper to make room for the next flood of literature.
So until I learn to control it I will continue to splatter the blood from my pen and share with others the infection of literary feelings my mind is consumed with.
Thinking and thinking and thinking.
I want to stop going over the memories,
The looping record of agonising nothings.
That's the problem, you see?
It's not a problem to them.
A simple mistake,
So quickly forgiven, and yet,
It lingers like a pungent smell of embarrassment.
Perhaps a good action done awkward in manner,
A broken plate despite mountains of food.
It must replay.
Sleep isn't an option in this world,
Time for bed is time for a movie,
A movie, "The horror of Blank"
The timeless classic of forgotten mistakes,
Yet always remembered
he hides himself into an empty wrapper
a hollow shell that remained after the storm
where life once resided before the heavy toll
of addiction arrogance destruction hurt and
the combustive mixture of void and destruction
an all-inclusive ticket to stagnant displeasure
a homeless abode untenanted wreck
futile worthlessness vacant desolation
disconnected and detached he does not half fill
the cover where isolation has taken his place
and shielded nothingness evaporates from his mind
in which melancholy oozes lost hope
a sheathed vacuum with suction pump attached
portrays the only reminder of motion and living
he feels very little but pictures himself
as Dali´s warped melted clock
a time bomb disguised as a land mine
for good expandable measure of meaning
12 November 2023
The glass chatters, clanks, and shatters
As it hits the ground
But makes no sound
The only thing heard is the
Screams of pain
As I get hit into the glass
Blood everywhere
Pain unbearable
The ripping of flesh
Cracking of bones
Screams of pain
Yet no one hears the screams
No one to save me
From this nightmare
From that thing
Evil and putrid
Bragging of his virtue
But he’s hurting me
Ripping my skin
Breaking my bones
No one can hear my screams of pain
Why can’t they hear me?
Does virtue truly block others from seeing the torment before them?
Does it make its followers so blind they cant see the bruises?
Does it make its followers so deaf they can’t hear me begging for mercy?
In The Midst of a Maelstrom
My emotions are consuming like wildfire.
Once elated, now, my body is burning.
My mind was once my friend,
now unspeakable thoughts torment my soul.
I rage, and I shake... trembling with fear.
Questions consume me,
focused on a particular thought,
like paralysis, I am locked.
Yet, beyond the whipping hair,
and the deafening noise,
I see a glimmering light,
in the midst of a maelstrom,
Where there is faith, there is no fear.
and the seas die back,
and sheets that I tore that became my slumbering chains,
now release me from my nightmare,
and Jesus stands there, with comforting arms,
and calls my name.
I am reminded when facing a storm,
God does not give the spirit of fear.
God gives the spirit of strength,
of sound mind,
and of love.
Surrender,
and like a hurricane, walk to the center.
There, you will find him...
His majestic peace...
authority over all things.
by, Martin Braun
Glory be to God, my savior.
August 19, 2023
Must you torment me, you sultry vixen,
Beguile me with the ling’ring lust of more
Hold me quiv’ring within your heated grasp
Entrap me with the distance of your shore
Please touch gently the paleness of my need
Infuse your torrid breeze with flowered balm
Awakening a fullness, bursting forth
To join you in your solemn summer Psalm
Thus, sing sweet nature’s ever-welcome song
Dark ravens ‘mid the timpani of corn
Watch as the buzzing bees complete their chores
Fear not the roses beauty, nor it’s thorn
So come you sultry sunrise, make my day
Your rolling fields will soon be winter’s hay
©7/13/2023
Love can be so sweet, like a drop of nectar;
It fills the heart with hope and tenderness.
But love too often comes at an insidious cost:
A turbulent tide that disrupts our regress.
Vulnerability can unravel us easily;
Lovers are targets for malicious caress.
Passion runs rampant yet can rarely please us;
A double-edged sword wreaking emotional distress.
Euphoria subsides and hearts get to breaking,
Betrayal or ruin in an instant's redress.
Cupid's arrows inflict wounds not worth taking,
A balm for hurt exists not, nor does success.
Toxic entanglements, you mustn't ignore them--
Fraught with peril, as pitfalls beyond measure!
Risking it all? One should only abhor them;
Naught but pain, anxiety, and melancholy's pleasure.
Going to hell is a brimful of torment,
like you don't want to stay longer than a moment.
With all the heat scorching your skin,
sure, it's the worst place you've ever been.
It is like dying a million times everyday,
but in this prison, you have no choice than to stay.
With all the screams of wanting to be spared,
your fated soul is more than scared.
It is like being shattered thousands of times,
like being ripped of all your reasons and rhymes.
What you can only do is to endure
the shredding blades of endless torture.
March 10, 2023
Hell Poetry Contest (10th place)
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
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