Drawing a Blank

Drawing a Blank

Drunken-lotus when I wrote this

I’m chokin’ on my brokenness

hopein’ against hopelessness

woke and I was scopin’ this

 

truth in our reality, ponderin’

where should I be, wonderin’

calamity, astonishment

at query of accomplishments

 

this verse is dumbfounded and

this verse is dumbfounded and

I curse this unfounded and

Herculean logician canned

 

Olympian delusions

many eons and no solutions

egocentric push got me listenin’

to Kendrick’s Kush and Corinthians

 

cramming solutions to the feat

in the fetal position, repeated

achievement unsaid and unlocked

dragging myself out of bed when I block

 

all the straggling self-hate that says

 

this poem is a lie to self

this poem says goodbye to health

throw him evil-eye yourself

this poem is a cry for help

 

help, help, help, help

 

I added melodrama here

so you could save what’s left

 

even the Dali Lama fears

nature of life bereft

 

an empty diorama, years

neglected and distressed

** *

Written for imaginary garden with real toads Literary Excursions with Kerry ~ Metafiction.

Electric Lemonade

Electric Lemonade

Cobalt blue,

hollow, cool,

like our intent,

pooling where we spent

 

lingering, luminous pale,

shimmering midnight ocean foam,

shivering, eyes roam till we connect

synchronize, blush, genuflect,

analyze, flush with respect to the

backbeat of our pulse,

our vibe rides the same tide,

 

our notion cuts through oceans

of cacophonic commotion,

our motion, linked,

intuitive emotion,

 

we sink to the depths

of unmentionable dimensions

where the only apprehension is if

one of us misreads the queues,

shifting the hue to red or

what’s been read before,

 

your head backspins,

eyes headed towards the door,

arched eyebrow sending subliminals like

 

“What you waitin’ for?”

Essential Stargazing

Essential Stargazing

I stare up at rivers of stars

trillions of billions of miles

eons into shadowy pasts

possibly null, lifeless void

or maybe, billowing, countless

lonely souls like you and me

gazing back at us

 

eternities apart

from one another

unlike you and me

though close by comparison

in action of thought

never quite close enough.

** *

Written for imaginary garden with real toads Flash 55.

anything but blue

bebop

Image source: Google

anything but blue

you swept into my life

with an artist’s palette knife

slicing my grey in two

 

my painted canvas sang

pastel colors’ bold harangue

in anything but blue

 

you found me on blind chance

random dance of happenstance

accidentally on-cue

 

twirling on twilight

transmuting our moonlight

to anything but blue

 

you showed me seasons of our joyful heart

and I breathed you deeply within me

if I had reason why we fell apart

I could freefall from where you pinned me

 

where did you go

when leaving me undone?

cruel indigo

our nights obscure my sun

 

when did you know

you would flee our harmony?

how was our artistry

discarded so artlessly?

 

I still sing out your name

sullen embers of our flame

for the love that we once knew

 

water-colored tears shed

scattered prismed wake misread

as anything but blue

Julia

***

Bowling for Fireflies

bjphil

Bowling for Fireflies

Dad looked cool as hell throwing his first strike, shocking absolutely no one. I expected no different as I tried emulating his movements during my turn. I got a split and left a pin on the spare.

Then it was Lil Phil’s turn.

The lightest ball they had seemed to weigh more than his tiny ass. We watched him struggle, wind up, throw the bowling ball like a shot put, and fall flat on his ass. The ball sounded like it would go through the floor when it landed about a foot from Phil’s Pocket-Herculean toss, before creeping towards the pins at an obscenely leisurely pace.

 

spring becomes summer

sunlight stretched to horizon

I shall keep this day

 

Dad and I fell over each other laughing hysterically in spite of ourselves. After a moment, Phil started laughing too. The ball was almost halfway to the pins as we helped the little guy to his feet. Phil was grinning; always with that grin that seemed to know where mom hid the last of the cookies. Dad reassured Phil that one day he would be bigger and strong enough to handle a bowling ball instead of it handling him. The ball was nearing the end of its journey as I playfully ruffled his hair.

Then we all turned our attention to Phil’s ball as it slowly, painstakingly nudged each and every pin out of its way; an uncanny microcosm of Phil’s unhurried, determined, free-spirited personal philosophy.

My brother had thrown a strike. The heavy ball made a mockery of him, but per usual, Phil got the last laugh.

 

starlight blinks awake

they salute the setting sun

gently, fades the dusk

 

We laughed even harder at the absurd luck as we all high-fived.

I’m certain we had other moments, but I will cherish that instant forever as my favorite mental snapshot; the three Dawson men just kickin’ it in the bowling alley, smiling, laughing, and politely debating whether rap music was actually music (Phil and I were absolutely hooked, but Dad held back, thinking it was just another fad, like disco.) We genuinely enjoyed ourselves and each other in a transcendent night at the bowling alley.

A little over one and a half score later finds Lil Phil a grown man, a devoted husband, amazing father, and wise far beyond his 38 years. But in many ways, he’s still that determined little guy throwing strikes with a grin while laughing at the idiocy of fate.

 

fireflies dance with stars

I cup them with my mind’s hands

captured memories

***

big Phil

Big Phil with his son, my nephew, “Thundercat”

Happy birthday, Big Phil, my plucky little brother.

Collecting the Toll

garak

Image source: Google

Collecting the Toll

What’s that, you say?

You’re ready to confess, are you?

 

Oh, my dear man,

you must’ve confused me

for someone else.

 

There’s no need for that stuff.

I know your vile sin all too well.

That’s why I’m here

 

smiling over your broken body, after all.

 

In fact, had you not

picked my kin to prey on,

you wouldn’t be bowed before me

praying for mercy I’m ill-fit to offer.

 

But that’s the dirty trick, isn’t it?

They’re all my kin, all worthy of

gentle respect you denied her.

 

Like you, I won’t be gentle.

 

Hell, you might’ve even gotten away

clean, virtuous and intact

had you abstained from your perverse lust

and craven need to rip through consent,

admittance neither given nor heeded,

but entry forced, vandalized,

left in pieces, droppings left by some

repugnant, lecherous litterbug.

 

And so, here we are, you and I,

together one last time

before I send you on ahead

to be judged by the Other Guy.

 

She will never be the same.

Your fate will be far worse.

 

Oh, my dear lad,

but of course I’m

going to hell too.

 

An eye for an eye,

and whatnot and so-forth.

 

But unlike you,

I have manners,

so, you first, sir.

 

And there you go again

with all that

mercy and forgiveness talk.

 

I fear that I’m fresh out of that stuff.

 

I wonder if my kin screamed out similarly

as you parted her knees

and had your way with her.

 

I imagine she lacked a vocabulary

macabre enough to adequately describe

or protest against the criminal

things you did to her,

 

but oh, how many more decibels

you’ll shatter in tenfold retribution

for her terrified shrieks

that went unanswered!

 

And suffer you will, my man!

Just as she did, just as I am suffering

at this very moment, for there is no mercy

for you, only justice, dispensed by yours truly

with a smile, and I promise you that

 

your suffering shall be put to a swift end

just as soon as my pain ends.

See how fair and just that is?

 

I should warn you though;

watching my kin weep at

what amounted to a viscous force of nature

answerable to nothing but your own ill nature

has left me in a catastrophic amount of pain.

 

This… could take a while.

** *

I know the tone is disturbing, but this poem wasn’t born in a vacuum. My friend trE wrote a harrowing poem on her blog that resonated with me and should resonate with everyone. You should check it out.

I debated sharing this one, but trE encouraged me to do just that.

via Paying The Price — a cornered gurl

A Dry Word from the Thirsty Gentleman by the Bar

flirting (2)

Image source: Classical Art Memes

A Dry Word from the Thirsty Gentleman by the Bar

I don’t want to

burden you

with overflowing

echoes of my emptiness,

 

but if your efflorescence

yearns for my warmth,

I’ll fill you with

my want

until

 

we’re both spilled,

replenished,

wrung.

 

But if

your echoed thirst

is misread

 

please enjoy this free drink.

** *

Written for dVerse’s Quadrille #32, hosted by De Jackson, aka WhimsyGizmo. The wordplay of the day is echo.

When most of us think of the word echo, haunting, wistful imagery tends to come to mind. I wanted to try finding a silly counterbeat.

Go here to read other poets’ contributions to this prompt.

Day 30 – This Poem is not a Poem

jeremy-bishop-225533

Image source: Unsplash.com

This Poem is not a Poem

This stanza’s not a masterpiece

This stanza’s not a golden fleece

This verse is not a tribute to dead parents who raised me

This verse cannot contribute to treaded paths dreamt amazing

 

This stanza won’t shake Mt. Olympus from its mythos

This stanza won’t make an ambitious bum less vicious

This verse won’t disperse the curses from my broken heart

This verse won’t traverse the forces forcing us apart

 

This stanza’s not a blueprint for earning Osiris’ favor

This stanza’s not a movement for learning from misbehavior

This verse was the penultimate one, earning no solace

This verse is an obstructionist, returning to lawless

 

This stanza is the end of a missive with no fulfillment

Bonanza of fool’s gold, omissive in truth’s distilment

This verse is the penultimate, returned to souls porous

Reversing the discourse can’t be earned with no chorus.

** *

Thanks for hanging with me through this year’s NaPoWriMo. See you next year, same bat-time, same bat-channel.

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Day 29 – Widow’s Bay at Sunset

mUSASHImIYAMOTO

Image source: Google

Widow’s Bay at Sunset

“Turn back, dear heart,”

said the young spear-wielder

to her warrior lover.

The setting sun bathed her in ethereal pastels,

giving her the air of a beautiful archangel,

standing on the path

between the warrior and the bay below.

She continued carefully,

perfectly articulating each of her next words,

hoping to drive them home for effect.

“I must confess; I have deceived you.

I’m no bodyguard; I am an assassin.”

 

“I know,” the warrior replied,

slowly reaching for the hilt to his sword,

sunset enveloping his

tormented countenance in silhouette.

“And I hoped it wouldn’t come to this.

But across the bay lies my lost father,

and answers to questions

that have driven my lifelong ambitions.

You and I have fought side-by-side

and shared much until now.

You’ve seen my heart,

and you know I cannot turn back.

Why betray us now?”

 

“Oh, how I’ve dreaded this moment,

my love,” said the spear-wielder

with a mild quiver in her voice,

deliberately lowering the tip of her weapon

to bear-down on the warrior,

widening her stance for balance. “And yes,

I’ve seen your heart and offered you mine

in quieter moments.

I know you cannot turn back.

But I have a sworn duty to eliminate

anyone who gets too close to the truth.”

 

“Sworn duty?” The warrior’s voice rose

and shook incredulously. “To whom?

Who sent you?”

 

“If you set foot on that cove,

the Syndicate will find out,

and it will be over for you, me,

and everyone else close to me.”

The spear-wielder spat those words

like rancid milk.

“Please,” she hissed,

almost in a shout-whisper. “Turn back.

We can run away together,

start a new life.

No one else has to die,

no one would know- “

 

“I would know!” yelled the outraged warrior,

now in mid-crouch. “Now please! Stand aside!

Forget your bounty, your duty

and I will forget your betrayal!

I promise I will protect you and your family

when this is over.”

 

“You know you cannot!”

the spear-wielder shouted back,

gathering better footing.

Then, much softer,

“You know I cannot.”

 

The air between them slowly faded

from sepia to soft fuchsia as

blackbirds returned to tree lines

to roost for the night.

Even the evening breeze paused to contemplate

the star-crossed combatants’ predicament.

 

“I am most regretful

that it must come to this,

dear heart,”

conceded the warrior,

the grip on his hilt now firm, resolute,

the fire of outrage in his eyes giving way

to misplaced compassion

and the near-perfect serenity

of pre-combat Zen.

 

“As am I, my beloved,”

the spear-wielder wearily replied,

twirling her weapon, brandishing it,

coiling into an attack stance,

she, a reluctant cobra,

preparing to battle the only man

she ever loved enough to die for

to the death.

“Don’t hold back.”

 

“Oh, how I loved you so,”

the warrior lamented,

drawing his sword.

 

“That is a lie,”

the spear-wielder said

with a morbidly-amused sneer.

“You still do.”

 

The calamity of their weapons meeting at near-dusk

roused roosting birds from surrounding tree lines.

** *

Written for imaginary garden with real toads Penultimatums: Voyages’ End (Almost), imagined by Brendan.

Day 28 – Lies of the Boogeyman

dmitry-ratushny-64773

Image source: Unsplash.com

Lies of the Boogeyman

The Boogeyman’s a liar

he taps at windowpanes

the fear that he inspires

are but tree-limbed shadow-veins

 

His thunder rattles senses

his lightning shows me ghosts

his wind-howl rattles fences

but his silence scares the most

 

He waits for me to slumber

pacing my bed at night

at first birdsong of wonder

he vanishes from sight

 

Sunlight breaks his dominion

quite childish, as I look back

for its my adult opinion

he’s with me, in light or black

 

The Boogeyman is real, it seems

the liars, my own eyes,

I find grown-up peace in sleep-filled dreams

the birdsong terrifies

 

The Boogeyman that I despise

indeed, the very light I see

the darkness I surmise, I see

embedded inside me.

** *

Written for imaginary garden with real toads Boogeyman prompt, imagined By Rommy.