Sunday Whirl 109: Escaping the Void

http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2013/05/19/a-bakers-dozen-wordle-109/

Escaping the Void

blazing yet dark pulsating slab of nebulous

breath - your opaque and bleak touch,

wants to hover over...

(hover hover hover hover hover)

“me”

cut and crush my spirit -

I with my ex*ten*ded hand - the vision of

“STOP”

I produce a full force, a well lit

\   \     \   l   /     /   /

\   \     \   /     /   /

>bright white<

\ TORCH /

\of hope/

\   that   /

pushes

[ you ]

back

timing is everything,

I in triumphant stance

rise through the negative,

into positive space.

©JP/davh

 

nebulous, bleak, cut, vision, timing, touch, hover

crush, opaque, blazing, torch, slab, breath

[Blocked]

[Blocked]

Without a window to view into that sheltered hut

that holds your heart I can not see where the day begins

or ends, where waves might ebb and flow.

There on the highest library shelf even beyond even

my reach with the ladder, your words are held, bound in leather,

written in dark brooding India Ink, with fountain pen...

Or so I imagine - in some far off locale where even

in the summer it is cool because the ancient canopy of the trees

protects you from all manor of weather

Or maybe you are on some sandy, wind beaten shore

where coral is found in bits and pieces - gifts from the ocean floor

after being coughed up by storms

Grey clouds that can be seen for miles, lasting for days,

then when the sun arrives there is the thick haze of low clouds

being burned away -  rays then crisp your skin...

Without a door I cannot knock, tell you who I am or where

I’ve been or why I might have wanted to be your friend - but years

ago like you, there was another

Whose eyes closed and refused to see - that loyalty

once turned away - is then a gift no longer free. And life goes on -

that living stage, where all must eventually take a final bow

For the scene once spent calls for the lights to dim,

and for the curtains to draw - Perhaps there is an echo of applause

for the words once were rent?

I suppose it matters not, these words tossed

like wind swept seeds - to know that without a window or a door,

your soul as was theirs, is beyond my humble reach...

©JP/davh

WWP 157: IDylist: Yang and Yin, Count Me In

http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com/2013/05/15/prompt-157-zen-and-the-soul-of-body-maintenance/

(P4)  IDylist: Yang and Yin, Count Me In

Some say firsts are best,

and they keep records too, of those

amazing achievements as if that ‘one’ and

only that ‘one’ had full value, to be compared to

every other experience one could ever have.

But I, I as Id knew better...

forget the matchmaker who

might extract a fee -

or the meaningful blind date

that was if anything second rate.

Sometimes you just have to

leave love in the hands of fate,

an answer to a  prayer?

Attending the affair - just to meet and greet

and then out of nowhere - dance to romance...

So it may not have been love

at first glance, and you had

to once again take a chance  -

open your heart that was almost spoken for,

broken for, that sailor boy who used you as a toy...

She fit with him so well, that all could tell

they would last - enchanting each day

as brand new, compromise, support and glue -

Marriage is a partnership full of laughter

that is just one part of our happy ever after...

©JP/davh   *Id are the instincts closely connected with the body

The forth in the series:

aMUSEd, IDentifying Her Heart, [Au]gmented, IDylist, Yang and Yin, Count Me In

Wind Beating, Whispered Voices, Tattooed Packaged Dishes

http://margoroby.com/2013/05/14/poetry-tryouts-metaphor-your-poems/

Wind Beating, Whispered Voices,Tattooed Packaged Dishes...

my words are like the wind blown sands on the beach

there one moment drawn with staff, then tugged by tides

to where no man’s eyes can view them, those that by my hand still hide...

my words are like the beating rain of the storm

demanding to be heard, read, understood engraved beneath images

that are carved in stone meant to be everlasting...

my words are the gentle whisper of lullaby to the newborn babe

the hearts harp strings plucked out of angelic clouds to ease those inexplicable

and undefinable visions into comforting dreams...

my words are the voices of the unknown, those who

lost their voices from terror, or are with joy too shocked to speak -

saying I will remember, learn and keep and keep and keep...

my words are symbols little tattoos on the skin of paper,

as well as cymbals orchestrated to wake up the living dead -

see me, hear me, touch me, read me...

my words are tied up in brown paper packages

tied up with bows, unwrap them and be pleasantly surprised,

challenged or even despised...just taste...one...

  

my words are the dishes at a feast

each one to be savored for their different and unique flavor -

sandwiched between yesterday and tomorrow...

©JP/davh

[Au]gmented : WWP 156

http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com/2013/05/11/prompt-156-it-was-a-dark-and-stormy-night/

[Au]-mented

Before I was allowed to breath, before evolving as ID - I had to put up with all

the unspoken truths, they didn’t bother with lies. I hid back then in fear of discovery.

I was in pieces because she was never allowed to properly grieve for the loss

of the mother she couldn’t remember. They said nothing which was worse than lies.

I knew there was gold in them-there veins as they say, but I had to put up with them

calling her slow and stupid. Just because they were the adults and thought they knew

better. But every damn time they turned around they were pushing her away.While

putting up the appearance of being responsible, she watched them flail and fail.

When she was in grammar school I tried to help her run away - We just

headed south to where loving grandparents unknowingly waited. But a few

perfume bottles and short legs doesn’t get you off island -Though when she

was ‘rescued’ that first time they wondered how she’d gotten as far as she did.

I knew I had to be craftier the next time around. Knowing that they hardly paid

attention helped. Money saved bought a bus ticket, an old coat that they forgot

about was a good disguise, and befriending a stranger got us just a little bit further

out of reach. But not far enough. That time, returning they said that they’d listen.

But they lied again. The only benefit was getting a new mattress for her

longer legs. She got so pissed off that she scared the living shit out of the

one person she thought was supposed to be there for her, but wasn’t. The

favored sibling got to make mistakes and was forgiven...but not my girl.

I knew that we would have to be walking on egg shell and keep quiet for

years before we could be free of their hypocrisy - Do as I say not as I do.

Crap philosophy that. At least she did learn how not to act from watching

their antics - their yelling, drinking, swearing, cheating and insecurities.

If you play in the dirt, you are going to get dirt under your fingernails. If you write

with passion, maybe someone will listen. One can only be bullied for so long - where

the hell is that damn light at the end of the tunnel? Know this; The world doesn’t stop

revolving just because you are an unknown. There is gold in them-there veins!

(c) JP/davh      *Id are the instincts closely connected with the body

augmented: to make larger; enlarge in size, number, strength, or extent; increase

Au = gold on the periodic table of elements.

Pieces in this series: aMUSEd, IDentifying Her Heart, [Au]gmented

IDentifying Her Heart: WWP # 155

http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com/2013/05/08/prompt-155-a-red-letter-day/

IDentifying Her Heart

Id was a star at the festival

where the students displayed

their talents - singing, dancing,

painting, clay craft, and drawing too

or as in her own child's counterpart

position - simple, though it was

just a table with pen and paper

and a notice waiting to offer

free verse on any subject...

Id took those ideas offered and oversaw

the writing of the ideas, sentences emotive,

creatively and well formed, flowing,  -  even back

then back then over forty years ago when the locally

famous water colorist, the mother of a classmate was

so delighted and impressed that artist painted, and

gifted her own art in exchange for her customized

poem...that piece is now framed and honorably

placed in our home...

Id regretted having to take a backseat

when it came to actually living - symbiotic

relationships were like that.  Full of the unexpected,

disappointment, grief, isolation all became the blue-white

hot flame of existence that fed and engorged imagination,

retaliation, and recreation. With pen and paper still to

this day, inspired by everything the adult still learns

and plays with words and writing flows -

verse on practically any subject...

©JP/davh

*Id are the instincts closely connected with the body

The first piece to this series is titled:

'aMUSEd'

Boogie-Woogie Tuesday Blues :TT - Shake it...

http://margoroby.com/2013/05/07/poem-tryouts-shake-it-out-poem/

Boogie-Woogie Tuesday Blues

I want to shake ‘em all

Shake ‘em silly until they see sense.

~~~

i

Shake the old bones to say

Life is far from over so why aren’t you living?

Your own choices are tying you up in invisible knots

Making it harder to take forward steps...

But then you say you’ve done enough shaking and moving

And now you’ve earned the right to just be still.

ii

Shake the marbles in that addled brain

The one where you believe you are owed

The one where everything is best or worst

The one that has so many fears that they paralyze your actions

But we have finally agreed to disagree

And attempt to move forward from there...

iii

Shake the bossy bones that think they know it all

And then when the ‘shit hits the fan’ expects clear skies

And I wonder if some of the choices you’ve made

Have resulted in advancing others attitudes of ‘I don’t give a damn’

But then you say you’ve done this all before, the roll of master to pawn

And really there isn’t much to be done, except wait until the end...

~~~

I want to shake ‘em all

Senseless though, if I want to keep my own...senses.

©JP/davh