Amy Lee's long, dark hair was worn like velvet shadow. She wore a dress of lantern grey, blue and green as she approached the lantern and the microphone panel.
She inhaled and breathed like fire of all the refreshed repression she had been administered. Halloween? Heh. Life!
Her thoughts were of that nature that her idols of darkness would one day rape her belly naked of its jubilant features of virgin antiques. And with that, does she linger? No, she trembles a bellowing roaring cry of "My Heart is Broken" and "Wake Me Up Inside", for she was now Evanescence, something more than a god....! A goddess of light, imagining.
Can this be a whisper? Can this be a whisper in the depths of Hades, neath her befriended Afterlife?
No. It is a warning; a message. Thou shall not be caught...DEAD...without...percussions.
Thou shall NOT be my witness, my maker, my sleeper, my undeserved bringer to me to Life.
This Hades Pluto, tempting her in her life, her wake, and in her dreams.
Bring ME to Life, Your Reaper, Charon--Fate--
For WE are VIR-GUNS, too!
The stench of freedom gone,
Trapped in a cage on water,
Chained to mirrors of their own fate,
Condemned to a slow death - with their own neighbours
Slowly roasting in a human sized oven,
Contrasting to the cold waters beneath -
A new home for those who choose to rest in peace
Trapped like sardines packed in a can,
No hope, no oxygen, no way out,
Bodies become one,
As their flesh seek help,
As their blood leaks out,
Their mouths a drought,
Voices caught by deathly sounds,
Echoes of whips travel around,
A warning - a preview of what is to come when they reach land
The water retreats in a long, slow sigh
Exposing the ribbons that cling to the stone
Lush and dark, a secret held tight
by the pressure of depths they have always known
I reach for a strand, let it coil round my wrist
a velvet tension, a shudder of green
It binds with a softness I wasn’t prepared to feel
Like a ghost of a touch in the spaces between
The scent is sharp, brine and the cold
A heavy scent that fills up the chest
But the pulse in my throat is a warning, a thrum
that some things should stay in their restless rest
I pull my hand back from the swaying vine
From the way it curls, so supple and deep
The sea is still humming a name I can’t speak
and the memories are promises I’m not ready to keep
after Privilege of Being by Robert Haas
A tipping point of too many
are talking harshly. Down below,
demon-dead in the unstirred inferno
and perdition of animal thirsting
are coiling one another's tails in response.
They are honeyed vermillion and covered
in trim the texture of hot picamar.
They espy up all the time
at the graceless rapture—
it must sound to them like cold butter
dancing across a cast iron skillet.
Then one voice—she is about to shout—
takes the man's rigid hand and says,
listen to me, and he does.
Or is it the man caressing loose
the gravelly noose of anger?
Anyway, they do,
they listen to each other:
two minds with matured mediums,
hungry to be heard, to be fed by the frisson
of recognition, their skin sizzling with it—
brutal words turned into kindness
by well-intended touches,
and the gossiping, nosy dead are derelict
and growing deaf. They hate it.
They scream a chivvy about injustice
that breaks no skin, but frays the veil
between
what's bone and broth—
a warning, a dirge, a hiss of envy
worse than silence.
The first time I met the ocean,
it roared in welcome,
a vast and restless beast—
powerful, endless, untamed.
Yet the sand held it still,
defiant, unbowed, unbroken.
Life and death, locked in a dance,
whispering promises I did not yet understand.
The air was thick with salt and sun,
golden waves swallowing the sky.
A tuk-tuk rattled near the shore,
its driver, a grinning guide to secrets
woven in the wind.
He spoke of the beach, its hidden alleys,
its shadowed souls.
Then he showed me her—
a woman alone, hunched in sorrow,
staring past the edge of the world.
The sea mirrored her silence,
rolling endlessly forward, pulling back.
A ghost of someone loved once,
now lost to the needle’s cruel embrace.
Her husband had been buried in waves or earth—
it no longer mattered.
The sun draped its last light upon her,
a warning, a farewell,
or maybe just a promise
that it would rise again tomorrow.
The first time I met the ocean,
it roared in welcome,
a vast and restless beast—
powerful, endless, untamed.
Yet the sand held it still,
defiant, unbowed, unbroken.
Life and death, locked in a dance,
whispering promises I did not yet understand.
The air was thick with salt and sun,
golden waves swallowing the sky.
A tuk-tuk rattled near the shore,
its driver, a grinning guide to secrets
woven in the wind.
He spoke of the beach, its hidden alleys,
its shadowed souls.
Then he showed me her—
a woman alone, hunched in sorrow,
staring past the edge of the world.
The sea mirrored her silence,
rolling endlessly forward, pulling back.
A ghost of someone loved once,
now lost to the needle’s cruel embrace.
Her husband had been buried in waves or earth—
it no longer mattered.
The sun draped its last light upon her,
a warning, a farewell,
or maybe just a promise
that it would rise again tomorrow.
she moves in whispers,
a shadow draped in midnight silk,
trailing poison kisses in the dark--
a promise, a warning, a lullaby of death.
her fingers weave unseen threads,
spun from sugared lies and honeyed venom,
each thread a pulse, a heartbeat,
a trembling thing waiting to break.
men call her beautiful,
never knowing beauty has teeth,
has patience,
has hunger that does not beg but takes.
she does not chase--
only waits,
watching the foolish draw near,
feeling the tremble in their veins
as the silken noose tightens.
one whisper, one sigh, one kiss--
then silence.
Insufficient Funds
By: Miracle Man
11/1/2024
At birth God opens, a new life, bank account,
and we don’t know what is placed in reserve.
Each day then becomes a check that we write,
and life becomes the place that we will serve.
We don't know what existing balance is,
for only God has access to each book.
At times in life when we’re facing dire straits,
and we pray that God is taking a look.
As we age we sense that our funds grow low,
is cash on deposit for checks we write?
Then without warning a statement will come,
account closed do to your funds being slight.
In a bright yellow, the big bus stands still,
Its lights flash a warning, a sign of care.
Giggles and waves from tiny hands inside,
A moment to pause, where safety’s embraced.
Red lights flash, and the bus is waiting,
You’re in a rush, but safety calls loud.
Around the bend, a cop might be watching,
One moment’s haste, and you face the consequence.
The ticket’s not just a fine, but a lesson,
Every stop sign guards lives we hold dear.
In their small hands, trust is given, so slow down,
In that brief pause, we see the cost of rushing.
Police might be near, keeping an eye,
What seems easy is wrong when caution’s ignored.
So slow down, remember, these kids count on us,
Let kindness guide your actions, respect the bus.
Take A Look Onto The Sky,
It's Your Birthday's Reason Why!
God Set The Sky Ablaze,
A Rainbow He Had Made, ... Today!
And The Time Was Early In The Morning,
JUne 5, The Day Reporting Of
It Came Without A Warning A Super Type Of Powerful Love
High Above The Clouds And Trees,
Gracious Colors Free To See.
Take A Look Onto The Sky,
It's Your Birthday's Reason Why
Like Birtheay Candle Beams,
Your Life Has Been A Light To Me!
Take A Look Onto The Sky!
Kicked away, the dead weight of a tomb.
Agape, bug-eyes; and gullet, of guards.
Dawn, with its playful bouquet, first in.
Nature resounds as power walks out.
Women and men, still mourning that morning.
Fear, great joy, alarm, trembling, astonishment.
Overwhelmed, disbelief, perplexed, terrified,
Confused, amazed, grief-stricken, doubting.
Disciples felt the weight of agony at the crucifixion
and the scope of human emotions on Resurrection Day.
Reactions abound…at a life lived a mere
2023 years ago. Jesus name known -
blessed, cursed, doubted, believed upon.
The whirling world cannot stop The Word - selah.
The Word breathed out of the grave -
a warning…a hope
3/25/2023
non-rhyming couplet
Jealousy in senior citizens
Is an ugly thing
It’s childish, it’s petty,
It has a negative ring
For elderly women, make no mistake
In certain surroundings
There’s quite an outbreak
And don’t they look silly
With their petulant smiles
As they pose and they preen
Like noxious reptiles!
The venom they spew, why, it’s unladylike
Overheard was this gentleman:
“Girl, take a hike!”
We don’t want you around,
Say the popular guys
But they simply can’t help it
They draw them like flies
So here is a warning, a word to the wise
If old ladies don’t watch it
They may recognize
That they haven’t a clue
How to compete for the prize.
Let them be jealous, let them talk trash
They only look foolish
But they’re due for a crash
‘Cause nobody likes them
We think they’re absurd
Their ugliest nature
Is more than inferred
Drop the act, ladies, give it a rest
The men are all saying
You’re the worst kind of pest
The warning
The sparrows are flying frantically about something
is going on in their world
should I take it as a warning a tsunami is on its way
to the coast or an earthquake.
Animals sense things we have forgotten or think we have.
When roses chaff in a vase, it could be the end of love
or the woman in the room is angry with her lover.
It could also be the beginning of the end of the world
as we walk around knowing nothing
Except, a certain feeling of foreboding dismissed as ire
too many whiskies the night before.
Then, when the sky falls down to earth in lovers embrace
Their union is our extermination.
A big turd's journey nears it's end.
On the sheets it shalt not descend.
Now heed the warning I have said.
Please do not poop on the bed.
I know the pressure seems great.
And your bowel's contents nears its final fate...
but I must ask you to keep this in your head.
No matter what, do not poop on the bed!
Tina was a prostitute
a lady of the night
By day she whiled the hours away
staying out of sight
Though she had repeat business
she earned no royalties
for bending over at the waist
~ or sinking to her knees
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