Did you hear the trees cry?
Wincing with pain as the saws bit.
Again,
And again,
And again.
Wailing as branches broke.
Sobbing great clouds of leaves.
In the end,
Sawdust laid where the massacre began.
The smell attacking my nose,
Of live wood laid low.
A neat stack of firewood.
The yard open,
Countenance to the sun.
Squirrels quickly found another route.
Birds chirped.
Yet I grieved the loss of every inch.
Cut to allow safe passage.
For a woman who no longer strides.
The stumps will remain,
Used for seats or a table.
I cried with the trees,
For time that has past to dust.
One glorious, sun-drenched, thirsty December day,
I sat, numbed with the agedness of a visitor, and
Fumed eloquently with joy for the benefit of the
Seine – the ointment of Paris.
Somewhere along the gritty line laid bare by sere weeds
Of winter,
A restless tranter eulogised:
“Ce est Paris!”
From the whistling, grating metro to the navel of
Elevated Eiffel, the tall, metallic maiden,
I saw frantic beauty.
I inhaled the peace of the atrium, sighting
Our Dame....
“Ce est Paris!”
The voice, girly, and with the earnestness
Of chivalrous youth, came again, cold and soft,
Just the way of a sprightly winter.
Turning, I saw Paris in full nakedness of her beauty, like
A priceless fresco hanging from the sky.
“Do you need company?” The tranter anglicised her French.
In one gulp I swallowed the pride of Paris.
“Hmmm!” I grunted, wincing loudly from brio,
Counting my woes should I plod away to the red light areas,
“Give me Shakespeare and Company”.
*Please note:
I'm not in the throes of sadness. Just a write for another poetry site.
~~~~~~~~~~
My eyes are half closed for I fear to see
what worry and anxiety have made of me.
All day I've been twisted out of shape,
wincing at my disheveled appearance.
Life has taken a toll with its interference.
My mirrored face is a prism, a color spectrum,
reflections that indicate the paths I've traveled.
It's no wonder I look completely unraveled
and seem to be moving in opposite directions.
I'm an abstract work of art, hastily brushed
with my own hand when I'm feeling rushed.
Blue when sadness tears my world in two,
Cadmium yellow on days when I feel mellow.
When heated anger tints my soul, my cheeks
flush with shades of red and buff. It's been weeks
since I've felt bold enough to paint with oils.
Misfortune leaves me feeling like used tin foil.
I must pull myself back together and gather
my thoughts. Untwist the ropes that tether me.
Too many worries have crisscrossed my face
and spying eyes I've come to intensely despise.
He staggers,
where once he counted steps
he now counts unsteady footfalls.
Life has become a minor earthquake
an aftershock still trembling
at the core of a wincing mind.
Many years ago, auntie had a stroke,
she careened to a halt,
yet carried on, speaking from deep within
a drainpipe language.
He was doing well, it was just the shakes,
a hesitancy in his gait.
He stopped drinking,
stopped falling down self-made trapdoors,
grasped for firmer handholds.
However, he knew
that he was a paper straw
and it sucked.
I set the table; I did not.
The pourer did. The poor did not.
The seats are cold; merlot is warm.
The pourer asks; there are replies,
sips, guzzles, sighs, manners.
I am satisfied as each one’s drunk.
The pourer leaps from spot to spot,
wincing, squinting, craving approval.
I smile; I nod; with each intonation, accent,
sound of a lady and a gentleman.
The table is set quite elaborate; each course,
choice: salad, pork, dessert.
The hour becomes late;
drunkenness from each glass poured.
I am satisfied by the pourer; rich
with the scent of merlot and more.
He’s the only one left of my friends.
The seats are cold; he is warm.
VOGON BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
They were here, in their creative funk
Writing and speaking poetry as if drunk
Recognised as verses in their own way
They kept chanting, hoping we’d obey
But as always, so awful to see and hear
Expecting those affected to shed a tear
A poem directed at us, time and again
Never interpreting our wincing as pain
One might just have seen some feeling
But it was disgusting, leaving us reeling
It kept going on and on, never ending
As a jerky delivery, not heart rending
Personal readings thought to be alright
Not as bad as on Vogon Poetry Night
The last of the lights turned out,
drinks and hors d’oeuvres put away,
restaurant returned to its every-day self,
only a few candles in glass lanterns
now left on the bare pine tables.
She sits at one of the tables, and,
wincing, kicks off her shoes, removes
her cocktail apron and name tag,
leans on her elbows, inhaling the
cinnamon steam from her hot toddy.
Exhausted, with her piled-up hair
slightly disheveled, she relaxes.
The bride and groom are off
on their honeymoon to Santorini,
guests and most staff home to sleep.
The neon glow from outside
bathes her in a pink and blue haze
making her look less like a waitress
and more like a girl expecting a date
or actress waiting for her audition.
The hot drink gone, she redons shoes
and fetches her coat and purse
from the kitchen, leaving the cup.
Georgio, the boss, calls “Get some sleep.
You’ll need it tomorrow.” She sighs.
.
her archive 'hind hern
stepping closer into mine
her wincing now smiles
Mere faith in oneself
is not enough to build strength,
confidence makes one thrive;
leave all failures on the shelf!
Fear makes a liar shrive,
he's afraid of a wavelength!
Survival is not frivolity,
rather a required amenity
to instill confidence in us;
take grit and defy doubts!
Plan ahead your long-dreamed journey,
either in outer space or on high seas;
captains are never afraid of dangers:
how thrilling can be a new discovery!
Do I have an unabating regret to promptly confess?
It lies in this wincing and baffled soul so restless!
Adventure should have evinced my true excitement;
did anyone perceive the eagerness that wasn't silent?
Watch out,
the corners of our eyes are in danger
of being nakedly exposed.
Evening dropped out of the sky
a lot quicker today.
A slap-dashing gush of last minutes,
as shoppers charged around each other.
The season demands good cheer and
a tightly wrapped hysertia.
The shop lights pull us in,
but out here where the cars
are edging in and out,
rear mirrors
and on-board computers
are our only life rafts.
We dodge the rushing shadows,
still wincing from the too happy laughter,
backing away ever so carefully
and as hurriedly as we dare,
into the electronically
flickering night.
Swimming in the ocean
a wincing couple pinches
Little creature on my leg
not more than six or seven inches
I looked again, to my surprise
Hello! - a trilobite!
Two pincers jutting from its head
tiny, fearsome sight
I scolded it: 'You are extinct'
'Now go away and I won't tell
You'll get to live another day.'
He stayed... So, I swatted him
to prehistoric hell ~
THE STUPID ONE-CELL DUMBBELL
I stared into the mirror, wincing at my own reflection,
through eyes fogged by cataract.
Saw a black tint spreading around my eyes
and face like a wrinkled piece of linen
Where is the bubbly girl of seventeen?
I asked myself.
How flamboyant and flaunting I was,
now enveloped in silence.
Do anyone remember my younger version-
the little birdie that tweeted endless?
Beneath the shell of this withering cortex,
I still have a heart young as ever,
not yet shriveled, but succulent
full of love and warmth;
a sleeping guitar, capable of music,
if trained hands move over my taut strings.
So please don't take me as a wretched hag,
and push me into a state of silent non-being
or throw me like the chip of a broken mirror,
making me feel so inconsequential!
I sneaked in the house late last night
Couldn't risk turning on the light
Tripped over a chair and took flight
I felt the smite I felt the smite
A bruise appeared upon my thigh
Although from drinking, I was high
Without having an alibi
I'd have to lie I'd have to lie
I tried to keep my self-esteem
Covered it with expensive cream
But touching the spot made me scream
A faulty scheme A faulty scheme
Wife heard and asked, "What happened here?"
I said, "Sorry to wake you, dear."
She didn't believe me, I fear
I smelled of beer I smelled of beer
My suff'ring was not convincing
She used curse words without mincing
When washing dishes and rinsing
I am wincing I am wincing
I'll never pull that stunt again
Wife threatened me with ball and chain
Inside our house, the shrew does reign
She is insane She is insane
Paintings, or surreal, today's tattoos
form complex, phenomenal works of art.
And unlike traditional blacks or blues,
artists blend pigments that pop from the start.
It's worth a little clenching and wincing
to gain that light-and-shadow interplay.
Art, so realistic and convincing,
tats are on another level today.
No longer fading away to a bruise,
futuristic shades ink modern pieces.
And tattoo artists today free their muse
to create magnificent masterpieces.
Today, body tattoos are more refined;
human canvases crave to be unique.
Exhibiting inks that will blow your mind,
their skin hosts the artist's latest technique.
My eyes are half closed for I fear to see
what worry and anxiety have made of me.
All day I have been twisted out of shape,
wincing at my disheveled appearance.
Life has taken a toll with its interference.
My mirrored face is a prism, a color spectrum,
frazzled reflections of the paths I've traveled.
It's no wonder I look completely unraveled
and seem to be moving in opposite directions.
I'm an abstract work of art, hastily brushed
with my own hand when I'm feeling rushed.
Blue when sadness tears my world in two,
Cadmium yellow on days when I feel mellow.
When anger tints darkness on my soul, my cheeks
are flushed with shades of pink. It's been weeks
since I've felt bold enough to paint with oils.
Misfortune leaves me feeling like used tin foil
or memories that should be buried in the soil.
I have need to gather all of my frazzled thoughts
and loosen them from the ropes that tether me.
Too many worries have wrinkled my facial parts
and from spying eyes that I despise, I need to be free.
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