Memory (revisited)

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What is a memory but a moment immortalized

In the moonlit mind of a midnight dreamer?
A gem of golden gladness gloriously displayed
or a moment of madness mirshed with misery
standing tall, torturous in one’s mind

Solid and immutable as a diamond by stress formed

Is a memory a gem to be held, polished, and admired?

Or a deadly shard with which to cut oneself
is it so concrete and rooted?
Or rather a bubble of iridescence capturing a fleeting moment

Of sun and reflecting a million rainbows?

Each glance back casting the brilliance of experience

Upon the fragile moment and seeing the subtle nuance

Of the bubble sounds dancing in the breeze of time
a memory moment so fragile and mutable

That the experience of seeing it changes it

And the rainbows dance to a different tune.

So fragile that we grasp it or we try,

Our desire to know invisible hands reaching

For that moment until they have it

Then …“POP”… it is gone forever
A burst of air gone

The moment, the kiss, the words gone
as a bubble bursts and leaves behind air

So the lost moment leaves an aching emptiness

Is memory a river, rapidly running rampart,

It’s riotous rage ripping the bank of the past

And rising to the present
the inundation seeping through everything

And overwhelming now and sweeping everything to the past
Maybe a mountain, an obstacle obstructing openness

And overshadowing opportunities opening up
maybe a memory is a mystery madly made magnificent

 

Or maybe a mirror

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Futility

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Stagger, stumble, lurch

reach, reach, reaaach!

Step after step after bloody step

Sacrifices your stepping stones

You climb, and you climb

You Body: Battered

You Spirit: Shattered

You Soul:

Eyes glazing over

But squinting, you see glinting

in the distance.

The Prize, the goal, the climax of your story

You are brimming with energy

and you are alive

Alive and overflowing with life

Done.

Achieved.

Finished.

The story has reached the climax

and the cover is about to close

You conquered the mountain

and now there is no more

The energy drains

the crown slips from your gray

gray lifeless hands and lies glinting

in the sun

And the throne is too large

and cold

So you get off

and live a life of gray death

waiting in hope for color 

Picture Poem: Melancholy Winter Night

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The Lonely Bench

 

Soft light bathes the blue dark with radiance

The landing of the snow echoing soundlessly 

A whisper wind sighs through the skeleton trees 

forgotten dreams walk the melancholy night

remembering leaves dancing in brighter days

but the night soon swallows the memory of the sun

as the moon fades to nothing

and left is the plastic light muted by feathered wishes

white kisses caressing the cold earth

 

A bench is there under the soft light

casting a shadow that fades to night

its face sprinkled with sky kisses and little girl wishes 

the rough surface scarred by love and hate and desparation

and memories of warmth as lovers lay entwined

or a beggar shivers and presses himself against the bench

hoping to capture the leftover warmth of the lovers embrace

the bench caught dancing leaves dying 

and showered in tears of joy and pain and rain

but now it is empty and forlorn

a faded silhouette being consumed by night

the faded M and R scratched on it’s surface covered

by a blanket of soft coolness and casual distance

 

The bench is alone

stark in the soft light of the winter night

Lonely and longing 

Sleeping and dreaming 

of sunny days when the wind danced with the leaves

But now the bench is alone

on a melancholy winter night

 

 

 

After the Storm

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I wept bitter tears that day,

my grief a jagged blade of flame

that tore at my insides,

my intestines writhing like maddened worms.

And I could do nothing,

nothing but curl up in a ball and wait,

the pain beyond

 

That day he broke your heart

as he battered your body.

The purpled black picture painted

on your face and

mirrored on your daughters.

Each false smile and tentative step

a dance lesson from pain

 

She shattered your life,

torturing you with smiles and gazes

and bleeding you dry.

Slowly, the cuts exquisite, execution flawless

you lose yourself.

A man no longer, but a puppet

on strings of pain

 

Your stomach may ache with

pain as old as the world

and your soul may thirst for just

one happy moment to color the black

and white world of your

biography of pain.

But the pain must end.

Though the sting is sharo, now,

it will fade to an ache,

and become a memory.

The pain will pass.

Pathetically Apathetic

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Am I pathetic or apathetic?

Or is it the other way round, am I pathetic in my apathy, do I need therapy?

In my mind ideas blossom like new suns in new universes,

wild, bright, hot, brilliant and hard to capture in these verses

only to be snuffed out like candles by the darkness.

The darkness within that is soft and pervasive, with the likeness

of smoke, if smoke were thick and heavy and suffocating

like a cloud weighing more than a herd of elephants fornicating

in my mind. The apathetic tide drowns out my suns

and purpose and drive for life is lost. Suddenly I am in my hands guns

of laziness and procrastination appear and I am shooting myself.

A captured soldier facing torture I watch as the sharp edge

of the self esteem pendulum swings closer to cutting myself.

I sit still clinging to my shield of denial and wearing the mask of ego

as thoughts stampede through my head like horses,  and from mouth spill

like a stream of wisdom and passion, and for a moment I almost believe

in myself. The sunrise almost peeks through the clouds to illuminate

the dull monotony of my waste but it’s crushed by the weight of fear.

Fear so potent and tangible I can cut a slice and eat it. What once was clear

is clouded by the blood dripping from from the ever swinging pendulum.

To relieve the cuts I bandage my wounds with fantasy,  the sum

total of my life is consumed by the lack of substance and worth,

with the obsessing of superficial matters like weight and girth

though everyday thousands of people die dreadful deaths and millions

more die the quiet death of desperation, blind to the billions

of stars that light the sky and like me blind, to the light within

in their minds that whisper things like “Change. Make the World a Better Place,

Make your Life mean something”.  We get drunk on fear to forget and regress,

our hearts bleed and cry their silents screams for meaning and purpose

but it hurts to admit that we are incomplete and lacking, so I suppose

we just laugh with people we hate and people who hate themselves

and drink ourselves into a stupor so that we can have a one night stand with ourselves

because only when we are drunk on false praise and applause can we handle it.

The fact that we are selling ourselves short of the shadow of our potential, unfit

to handle even the slightest sign that we can achieve and be somebody,

so we hide behind masks of complacency while inside screaming for anybody

to hear and understand that the guns and blade we are using hurt.

This is an honest poem that rips away the covers that we place to hide the pain,

like when an abused child walks around with long sleeves covering the bruises

we walk around with dead eyes to cover the hate, a false smile has its uses.

People know and understand but forget to remember because no one wants to know.

I am perfect and potential, and they understand how life is heavy and slow

and they too met with the cloud of apathy that killed their suns,

their seed and expression and so they finish the suicide with their guns,

each day walking through a life that gets gray and grayer and jumping hoops

illusions of meaning created by society to supplant and supplement, groups

built to contain and tame the desire for reality and like placebo pills

we believe that we are living life though we are only shadows and like oil spills

we only contaminate the world in an attempt to capture green paper and yellow rocks,

spilling red blood and killing our brothers so that we can be baptized in holy water.

We walk through this valley of the shadow of death and dream of a real world

knowing that we only have to wake up from this dream to grasp our desire

but like an addicting nightmare, we are hooked,  our minds wrapped in the deceit

and so we joke about the zombie apocalypse and fail to see the dead within.

I say we when I really mean me because I am alone and I am dying,

I am watching as the life leaves me and I grow gray. I know who the murderer is

but I can’t stop myself because I love myself abusively and I am addicted to this pain.

To the roller coaster of love and hate that is myself, I am so strong and powerful that I cannot

stop myself from killing myself because I am pathetically apathetic.

I know myself the same way a bulimic girl knows her reflection in the mirror,

the goods and bad distorted and contorted and I am unable to decide what to do.

Drown myself in a sea of lust and false life or take the gun and kill myself and hope to resurrect,

to be resuscitated and given the breath of life

breath that will blow like a hurricane and clear the smoke.Image

Instead I sit silently at the shore with my hand on the gun and wait, listening.