Causing grief is not my want
and never will it be.
friendship, just, is what I've sought
there's nothing more to see.
If silence is the price required,
no muse or scribe or ships or crumbs,
that cost serenely borne becomes
the shape of future things.
If wishes' wings could move the air
without running afoul
of things Titanic in the night
then there would be a way to talk
and simply say hello.
But only if the like is mutual.
Sad poems and the bittersweet
just are.
Peace.
slipping into darkness through a dirty blue facade
resistance only makes the failure worse.
best to calmly take the ride deep into the abyss
at least the destination's no surprise
perhaps in several weeks or months they'll grant you a reprieve
and let you wander in the land of light
it is a tease, the cruelest hoax for hope eternal springs
and infinite the times that hope is crushed
so now the realization of return has dawned again
they feed upon your sadness and your grief
while they chitter endlessly and lap up your despair
the emptiness feels strangely like relief.
Inspired by A.J. Bell's _Blue Room_
Absence makes the heart grow fonder
only if the fondness was.
complex is the mathematics
of this unrequited love.
leveraging the nonexistent
no matter what the lever's length
obtained results are insubstantial
save to test our flagging strength
and resolve in our fantasies.
Inspired by the poem Distances by Uma Venkatraman
When, so many years ago,
I walked the town at night in solitude
the loneliness at once a shroud of peace
and desparate cry for human touch, release.
I always hoped that She would wander out the fog
and with head bowed like mine
in hesitance accept my hand in hers
then look me in the eye
and know that we were kindred and well met.
why this kindness
this largesse
when passion denied
shreds your soul?
why not the lion's roar and rage
the taking of desires aim?
'Twould be like taking sculptured smoke
or grasping roughly crystal straws
drawn long and thin and tenuous
glassblower fashioned at his bench
born of fire and of heat and yet ethereal.
Love, true love, is stronger
than the impulse to possess
and it comes from letting go.
Inspired by an Eric Albin g+ post
The ghost of joy is thin and sharp.
she's hot and brittle too.
and like a Siren, begs embrace
the slivers burn in you.
Inspired by an Eric Albin g+ post
Wrap the editor in chains
throw her in a closet
Studded collar, bit, and reins
security deposit
to insure a steady run
for your imagination
hear a scratching at the door?
editorial itch?
scream at that ungodly boor
"There is no getting out, bitch!"
until the brainstorm has gone by
and all the raw, untainted words
lay writhing on the page
innocent and naked in their glory!
Write on!
Inspired by a g+ post by Karie Thoma
Our talents put to other's uses
in exchange for sustenance
faith in leader's motivation
oft justified but sometimes not
rising tide with all ascending?
such we are led to believe.
locks which float the few, the chosen
we the engines of their greed.
And as these Captains sail away
to places distant on the map
the green flash reveals their true nature
peg leg, cross bones, and eye patch
Inspired by Paul Chapman's THE STREETBOY & a conversation with Karie Thoma
It's such a game of telephone
this unrequited love
we lave affections on The One
with nothing in return.
Then she unto another
with a similar reply
The links accrete, the circle grows
ere long unbidden comes
a tap upon the shoulder
garbled words a longing gaze
it all seems so familiar
but an emptiness pervades
That emptiness comes from within
It starts this tortured game.
Inspired by an Eric Albin g+ post
#saturdayscenes #weekendchallenge
(1) Kiss Off
Drumbeats awakened me. Drumbeats that came from inside my head and hurt like the proverbial bastard. Each downbeat cupped my eyes from the inside and threatened to hurl them through my exploding skull. Which would have been a good thing; ending the drumbeats.
I sat up quickly, hoping the change in attitude would put the kaibash on the cranial percussion. Big mistake. A wave of nausea, strongest I had ever experienced, threatened to drown me. I clamped my jaw and bolted for the head; only I had literally gotten up on the wrong side of the bed. I bolted straight into a blank wall.
I got my bearings and navigated to the head just in the nick of time. The ensuing technicolor prayer service at the altar of the porcelain goddess was spectacular, and reached back to last Tuesday's lunch; but, It did take the nausea with it and quieted the drumbeats to ibuprofin manageable levels.
An extended, hot shower- well it was eventually hot, once I reacquainted myself with the arrangement of the hot and cold valves - gave me the opportunity to gather my wits. I had very little to go on. The details of my immediate situation were pretty fuzzy. I mean I remembered the party celebrating the discovery of the library and the codex, sort of, but how it ended, how I got here, and how long ago it had been, were all lost in the fog.
Shower done I threw on some fresh clothes. I didn't bother shaving, handling a razor in my current condition was not a good idea. Coffee was the next order of business; and the paper.
I ground the beans, Costa Rican medium roast, set the former to brewing and downloaded the latter.
That was when I saw the collection of objects on the kitchen table. A set of keys, a watch, an empty cocktail glass, and a sealed envelope, held down by the glass, with the hand written words I'm sorry on it.
I went right for the envelope. It held a single sheet of unlined eight and half by eleven, unlined paper. Good stuff, heavier than copier paper, one of those off-white colors with a fashion conscious name like ecru or bone, like you would use for a hard-copy resume`. The writing was a clear steady cursive in black ink.
Dirk,
You are brilliant and gorgeous, thoughtful and the kindest man I have ever known. But. You are not mine. That far away gaze you get - I know where you are - in her arms. On bottom with your true love.
I should be able to deal, but the fact that I can't makes it worse, makes me into some kind of clinging demon. I can't be that, especially to you.
Don't come looking. The transfer came through last week and by now I'm off station enroute Nexus.
I will always love you. This is about me not you. Stay strong, I know you will. And by the way, the chandelier bit is getting a little stale.
Karie
There were three spots where the ink was washed out and had run. The cocktail glass wasn't completely dry. I was able to get enough moisture on the tip of my finger to make a fourth spot. Damn OCD.
I read the letter twice. Sat down with it and a cup of coffee, one cream only.
I was stunned; but not for the reason you might think. You see, my name is Rick, not Dirk, and to the best of my knowledge, I've been on my own for the past five years. I don't know anyone named Karie. But the chandelier? I knew exactly what she was talking about.
(2)
So. Where did this leave me? Clearly something monumental had occurred last night. Beyond the discovery celebration. Either the stress of the last few months, let's be honest, years had triggered some strange form of hysterical amnesia, or sometime in the last twenty four hours I had exchanged my world for this world. Not totally farfetched given the work we were doing.
Fundamental structure was the same. Significant details were different, alarmingly different.
ego hubris
delusions of control
the thought that we can make a plan
and watch it all unfold
without modification
and adjustments on the way
to cleave to our myopic view
all others in the way.
and when that seed we've planted
begins to go astray
we dwell upon the failure
instead of taking joy
in the unexpected beauty
that the blossom does reveal
bearing marks of contribution
from us all.
Some call it chaos.
If we embrace each other
it's wonder.
Inspired by the poem Why Is It by Shefali arora
The loneliness of being
has no boundary
is immortal
likes it's weather fair or foul
has no weakness
is impartial
pierces facade mask and cowl
background to each brief encounter
universal undertone
born we live until our passing
fundamentally alone
how can we bear this dismal static
consequence of our design
dwell not upon its omnipresence
constantly reach out and shine
Inspired by the poem Lie with Me by Misslady Rainicorn
mimeo cadence
the aroma mimeo
memory in blue
Inspired by a post by Lynn Paden
though that tunnel beckons
'neath the messianic icon
with messenger and message
intertwined and oft confused
despair trailing behind you
in a barge full of regrets
and no inkling that your burden
will be lifted sometime soon
what better motivation
that it's in your hands to choose
between here and yonder
hellmouth
the attitude you'll use
when confronted with another
in a shape as rough as yours
bludgeoned sobbing to her knees
ignore her or extend a hand and offer up a smile.
If we're all that we have got
Is there really any choice?
Inspired by Philosophical Topography by R.C. deWinter
