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Heather Chandler Poem
Magnolias wafting through the breeze,
mixin’ with sweet iced tea.
Porch swingin’ and guitars strummin’,
playin’ cards strewn on the table.
A Remington rifle hangs above the door,
next to a nice ten-point buck;
Air so thick you're breathin’ water.
There is nothin’ quite like a little Southern Comfort.
Kneelin' hydrangeas beg the hinting rain,
bright flashes reach over the waiting hill.
Drunk and dirty, mud caked on his boots,
the screen door moans as he stumbles into the room.
Gumbo and peach bourbon shiver on a crimson table;
The burn of liquor blazes in his cold eyes.
There is nothin’ quite like a little Southern Comfort.
Dishes dissolve into shards.
Piercin’ screams mingle with small pleas,
as strange gurgles escape her throat.
Tangled ghostly branches torn between submission and glory.
The willows whisper to each other.
But the moon never reveals what he sees.
In the mornin’ he tenderly holds her
as she scrubs crusted red stains from her mouth.
There is nothin’ quite like a little Southern Comfort.
Bright yellow daisies bowing in his hand,
he’ll mention he’s sorry— again.
She’s waitin’ on the porch—rifle off its hooks,
Brimming with madness, magic, and macabre.
The whispering willows weep and the moon hides,
as she resurrects courage with fear.
Small yellow petals swirl, adorning the freshly turned earth,
and the sky graces them all with baptism and rebirth.
There is nothin’ quite like a little Southern Comfort.
Copyright © Heather Chandler | Year Posted 2020
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Details |
Heather Chandler Poem
The dust rises and you squint your eyes,
a storm of debris swirling
you back to sand dunes,
rocket launches, and IEDs.
Sounds become muffled
under all the yelling,
and I look to see if I can
see the enemy, too.
He must be nearby,
because your agitation grows,
tangibly filling the room
with wide eyes darting,
flushed skin,
and demands for immediate
assessments of perceived threats.
Grid-like coordinates
mulled over—scanning trips to the grocery store,
and why am I fifteen minutes late?
Constant explosions surround us,
and I start to lose my way.
Eyes fixed on me,
because no other enemy can be found,
I seek shelter inside a poem.
Copyright © Heather Chandler | Year Posted 2020
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Details |
Heather Chandler Poem
He was off again managing
Someone else’s chaos
when she stood looking up
at impossible elegance,
rounded into ruby perfection,
dangling from the twisted branches.
There’s a pull from the forbidden
that’s hard to deny.
She knew the moment he
told her “No,” she wouldn’t listen.
Her entire existence was mysterious,
vague, and purposeless--
fashioned from leftovers.
What’s she here for anyway?
To clean up after him?
Fix their dinner? Wash the dishes?
He is off conquering beasts,
like some god.
She remains an accessory.
Nothing stirs up rebellion
quite like the feeling
of being powerless.
That’s when another guy came
sliding over to her,
alluring in his phallic majesty,
dark eyes acknowledging her own,
whispering she could be anything.
Seduced by curiosity, she reached up.
This is when all hell broke loose.
Pandora’s box spilled with the juice
dribbling down her chin.
Blood, agony, and death
escorted by knowledge,
potency, and power.
Her defiance would punish
her daughters.
It would also empower them.
Copyright © Heather Chandler | Year Posted 2020
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Details |
Heather Chandler Poem
She watched him pluck the strings.
His fingers up and down the frets
of her spine,
pulling out notes and moans
from deep within the cavity
of her hollowed-out chest.
Apollo’s golden lyre lulling the muses
beyond their sensibilities.
Grooves of passion causing a riff
and changing his tune.
Needing space like air.
The Pied Piper’s pitch filling
the acoustics in the room.
The arpeggio scaffolding and bending,
burning the bridge and lacing
the capo around her neck,
causing her to fall flat.
Vibrato measured
in octaves and picked over.
Metronomic dissonance clashing
through their progression
Until the blue notes scaled her back
into a solo improvisation.
Copyright © Heather Chandler | Year Posted 2020
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